For both of us.
EPILOGUE
Ally - Three Years Later
The world is very loud right now.
The crowd roars like a living thing, a tidal wave of noise reverberating through the Olympic arena as the scoreboard flashes the final numbers.
Great Britain — GOLD.
Allyson Montrose — Women’s Individual Archery Champion.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. Not because I’m overwhelmed…
But because I’m looking directly athim.
Nate is in the stands, standing on his seat, both arms thrown in the air, screaming my name like he’s trying to send it through the stratosphere.
He shouldn’t stand out. He’s bundled in a baseball cap and sunglasses, trying to be discreet out of respect. His National Theatre schedule barely allowed him the trip, much less the shouting and applause.
But he can’t help it. He’s tall. He’s gorgeous. And he’s always been impossible to miss. Especially to me.
The medal ribbon is cold against the back of my neck; the metal itself is warm from the official’s hands. I blink hard, trying not to tear up as the British anthem swells.
We did it.Idid it.
But it was a team effort. It never felt like just me. Team GB welcomed me with open arms, made marvelously mean comments about Josh and Olivia, and promised me they’d use Nate as target practice if he ever followed in Josh’s footsteps and cheated on me, knowing he never would. And when I’m on the podium, none of my team are thinking about whattheywanted individually. They cheer for me as loudly as I’d cheer for them if they were here. Andthatis the difference.
It was fun to watch Olivia valiantly ignoring me. Even more gratifying to see her come last place this time.
Josh wasn’t even in attendance. He lost his place in the team last year. Nothing dramatic; he was simply replaced with better archers.
When the ceremony ends, when the interviews fade into white noise, when I’m ushered into a quiet corner of the athlete village for a breather, I finally get a second to myself.
Or five seconds.
Because then he’s there.
Nate slips inside with a hastily pinned visitor badge, chest still rising like he ran the last hundred meters to get to me. He doesn’t say a word. He just looks at me, and the gold medal, and my trembling hands.
Then he’s kissing me, hard, deep, unapologetic, and unbearably proud. My fingers twist into his shirt, pulling him in until the metal on my chest taps his sternum. “You did it,” he murmurs against my lips. “Ally.You did it.”
“Wedid it,” I say, voice shaking.
His forehead drops to mine, both of us laughing breathlessly.
Three years. Three years of flying across continents to accommodate each other, of early morning practices, of learning how to cook more than just ramen in a tiny London flat, of his Shakespeare rehearsals and my training camps, of jet lag and video calls, of small triumphs and bigger fears.
He kissed me on the banks of the Thames the night I made Team GB officially. He kissed me outside the National Theatre the night his Hamlet opening got a standing ovation that lasted six whole minutes and change. He kissed me this morning, whispering,“Gold suits you. Go get it.”
And he’s kissing me now, gold solid between us, anchoring me to the present.
“I am so proud of you,” he says against my mouth.
“Thank you.” I snuggle closer. “I’m proud of me, too.”
“You should be,” he agrees. “But I knew this would happen.”
