The very interview that I’d been dreading had actually been the perfect epilogue to our time together. Ben had been right; waiting to do it until the end of the week had changed the shape of our relationship as well as the resulting sit-down. If we’d done it earlier I would’ve been guarded. Skeptical. It would’ve hobbled our conversation and translated as me coming across as bitchy. Instead, the interview had felt like the two of us connecting on an even deeper level, with a couple of cameras along for the ride.
I leaned back and considered how far we’d come. Four years prior Ben had promised that he’d be there for me.
Now I finally believed that it was true.
Chapter Thirty-Two
If organized sports and Disney had a baby, it would be the Olympic Village.
The place was a mix of beautiful old and new architecture, cheerful volunteers, and signage so clear that there was no chance of getting lost, despite the scope of the place. The uncanny valley vibe to it all was a reminder that somehow this wasreal.
We’d made it.
I looked at the other athletes around me in their colorful Village uniform jackets. It was day one of our pre-week, and it felt like euphoria had gone airborne and we were all infected. We were enjoying a collective sigh of relief before clocking back into athlete mode.
Or maybe it was just the jet lag.
I thought I’d be the jaded second timer to my teammates Erica Saunders’s and Kayla Ruffini’s wide-eyed newbie status, but I was just as overwhelmed by the Olympic magic as they were. It was about to level up big time since we were heading for the Team USA Welcome Experience building, the first defining moment of our time at the Games, since it was where we’d be fitted for our opening and closing ceremonies wardrobe along with the rest of our gear.
I felt like a senior walking into high school with two freshmen beside me. Erica was just eighteen and Kayla wassixteen, making me crypt keeper–adjacent compared to them. But they looked up to me, and when we were together I doted on them like little sisters.
“I am so ready for the swag,” Kayla said, smoothing her red hair the way she always did when she was trying to calm herself down. “Did you hear we get watches and sunglasses? And a ring?”
“Just wait. We’re going to walk out of here with two suitcases full of stuff,” I said.
I was well aware of just how much merch we’d get thanks to Switzerland. I hadn’t wanted to look at it after what happened, so even the non-Olympic stuff like the razors and body lotion we’d all been gifted were boxed up and put away in my storage facility.
But this time would be different.
We walked into the building behind a group of guys I recognized from the curling team. I didn’t know them by name yet, but we’d probably all be besties by the time we left. It was one of the many surprise joys of being there; there were plenty of opportunities to bond with athletes from around the world over shared meals in the dining hall or stretched out on adjacent tables in the recovery room.
“Ho-lee-shit,” Erica whispered once we were inside the Welcome Experience building. “This is huge!”
The dark navy-walled hallway was punctuated by faceless mannequins every few feet, each with a spotlight on them. I’d seen videos from past welcome events and some of them looked like they took place in hastily Olympic-ified auditoriums. Switzerland had been impressive, but Milan was already raising the bar because it felt like we were walking into a high-end nightclub.
“It’s all the past team gear,” Kayla said with reverence as shepaused in front of the first pair of mannequins. “This is from 2008.” She read the accompanying description. “The first time Ralph Lauren paired with Team USA to do the opening and closing fits.”
“Ours are a billion times better this year,” Erica sniffed as she eyed the mannequin. “That white flat-top hat is peak grandpa cringe.”
We made our way to the sign-in table, where we were handed our checklists by a smiley volunteer.
“Unreal,” Erica said as she skimmed it. “They’re giving us newphones? We’re getting so much stuff!”
An attractive woman in an official white tracksuit appeared. “Hello and welcome, ladies! We’re going to head for the Nike room first for your kits. Right this way, please.”
We followed behind her, pausing to look at images from past Games lining the hallway.
“Quinnnn,” Kayla sang out. She pointed to a large photo. “Yourboyfriend!”
As expected, the gossip about me and Ben had exploded after the show. I was oblivious to how observed we’d been while we were together, because new paparazzi-style photos of the two of us kept appearing online. And yeah, most of them sold the romance narrative. Even ones sneakily taken the first morning we’d met at Eagle Diner looked incriminating.Icould see the fury in my expression, but to the rest of the world my intensity could be misread as me wanting to swallow him whole. And how had I not noticed that Ben’s feet were stretched out beneath the table and nearly touching mine? Somehow our bodies looked like we were in some stage of pre-fucking in every photo.
I joined Kayla in front of the iconic image from Ben’s final Games that had wound up everywhere. It looked like an accidental Renaissance painting, with Ben skating in front of the rest ofthe pack, so low that he was nearly horizontal. His fingertips were grazing the ice, and his gaze was fixed in the distance. Anyone who watched the event knew exactly how strenuous the moment had been for him, but if the photo was cropped around his face it could be used in a cologne ad. OfcourseBen’s intense exertion and focus read as smolder. His expression was at odds with the four-headed Hydra of skaters behind him; one had his mouth in an O of frustration, another was flailing and about to fall, the guy directly behind him was grimacing, and the final was nothing more than a helmet peeking out from behind Ben’s head.
“Not my boyfriend,” I reminded her.
My heart begged to differ. Even a photo of him evoked a tingly Pavlovian response.
“Keep telling yourself that,” Kayla elbowed me.
