I thank them with a voice that is wrecked and watery and carries zero composure but one hundred percent sincerity, and they skate away with the satisfied energy of judges who justdiscovered a competitor they are genuinely excited to watch develop.
Etienne and Cal appear.
They emerge from the tunnel entrance where the team parts to let them through, still in their practice clothes, their hair damp and their faces flushed from the training session that ended an hour ago. Etienne's cedar and pine scent reaches me before he does, warm and grounding, and Cal's ocean salt fragrance follows immediately behind, the two of them approaching across the ice with the purposeful strides of men who have been waiting in the wings and are now allowed to take the stage.
"Fuck yes!" Cal announces, his grin splitting his face as he raises both fists in triumph. "The plan worked! I told you! I told Etienne in the locker room, I said Raph's plan is either going to be genius or a disaster, and look! Genius! The man is a genius and I will deny ever saying that if asked directly!"
I gawk at them.
"You were in on this?" My voice cracks on the question, the disbelief layered over the tears still drying on my cheeks. "Both of you? The entire time? The routine, the judges, the empty rink, all of it?"
Etienne nods, his dark eyes soft with the particular tenderness that he reserves for moments when words are insufficient and presence is the better language.
"We helped coordinate the schedule," he says. "Made sure the rink would be clear at the right time. Cal distracted you with the phone tutorial and the baking plans so you would not question why Raphaël was being vague about tonight's timeline. Sage, Archie, and Jace kept the team in the tunnel so no one would interrupt your performance."
Cal nods.
"Team effort. Literally. Everyone in that tunnel knew what was happening except you, and keeping that secret from a woman who can read a room faster than a speed camera was the most stressful covert operation I have ever participated in. My poker face was working overtime."
They each pull me into a hug.
Etienne first, his arms enveloping me with the gentle thoroughness of a man who holds people like he is afraid they will dissolve if he lets go. His cedar and pine scent fills my lungs, and I press my forehead against his chest and let the last tremors of emotion pass through me into the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
Cal next, his embrace broader and warmer, his chin resting on top of my head as he mutters into my hair, "Sometimes you have to support from the sidelines so the person who gives everyone their all can enjoy the spotlight for once. You spend so much time taking care of this team and this pack that you forget to let someone take care of you. That is our job, Mae. Let us do it."
My throat closes around a fresh wave of tears.
"Thank you," I whisper, the words carrying everything I cannot articulate. Every year of loneliness. Every night in communal housing staring at a ceiling and wondering if anyone would ever see me as more than a designation. Every morning I woke up and chose to keep going despite the persistent, gnawing suspicion that keeping going was all I would ever do. "Thank you for supporting my dream. For believing in it when I forgot how to believe in it myself."
Etienne pulls back enough to meet my eyes.
"We are your Alphas, Mae," he says, the claim spoken with the quiet certainty that I have come to recognize as the cornerstone of everything Etienne Laurent says and means. "Supporting your dream is not a favor. It is the point."
Cal nods.
"We have to support our girl," he adds, his amber eyes bright behind the glasses he has started wearing more often since I told him they give him character. "That is the whole deal. That is the pack. Not just the living arrangement or the deadline or the contractual obligations. It is showing up for each other in the ways that matter. The rest is logistics."
Our girl.
The words settle into my chest like a key fitting a lock that I did not know existed until the mechanism turned and the door opened to reveal a room I have been looking for my entire life.
My tears fall.
Freely. Without apology. Without the instinct to hide them that has governed my emotional displays since childhood, the learned behavior of a girl who understood that visible feelings were liabilities in a world that punished vulnerability. I let them fall because I am surrounded by people who see my tears as evidence of courage rather than weakness, and the freedom of that is so enormous it takes my breath away.
Sage appears at my side, vibrating with an energy that could power a small city.
"We HAVE to celebrate!" she declares, her hands gripping my arm with an excitement that registers on the Richter scale. "Everyone freshen up! Showers! Deodorant! Presentable clothing! We are celebrating our girl getting the golden buzzer into the most hyped, prestigious figure skating competition this university has hosted in a decade! EEEEP!"
The squeal she produces at the end of her sentence is pitched at a frequency that makes Cal wince and Etienne blink rapidly.
"I KNEW SHE WOULD GET IN! AHH!"
The voice booms from the stands, and I look up to see Miss Lizzy, the assistant coach, standing in the upper tier with her hands cupped around her mouth, her red hair blazing under thefluorescent lights, her entire body committed to the act of yelling with the enthusiasm of a woman who has a single volume setting and it is maximum.
"I TOLD EVERYONE! I SAID THAT GIRL HAS MAGIC ON THE ICE AND NOBODY BELIEVED ME! WELL, LOOK AT HER NOW! GOLDEN BUZZER! IN YOUR FACES!"
Miss Phillips, the head figure skating coordinator, sighs from the seat beside her with the bone-deep exhaustion of a woman who has been tolerating Lizzy's volume for what I can only assume is years of professional coexistence.
