The handlers kept moving. Cameras kept flashing. None of it registered because he was here, in my arena, watching me be the version of myself I'd built for everyone else.
He lifted his chin when he caught me looking. No smile. No wave. Just that small acknowledgment, the same way he'd nodded at me across the rink in New Mexico when we were still pretending this was about ice time.
His phone was already in his hand, and he glanced down at it and then back at me, waiting.
I pulled out my own phone and typed fast.
I found Natalia in the crowd and pulled her close enough to speak without being overheard. "Section seven. Red hair. Give him my room key and make sure no one sees you do it."
She didn't ask questions. She just nodded and disappeared.
I turned toward the media area and let them have their champion.
The medal ceremony was forty-three minutes of standing on a podium with gold around my neck while a teenager from Colorado cried about his bronze.
The national anthem played. I put my hand over my heart and stared at the flag and thought about Red in my hotel room, sitting on my bed, waiting for me to finish being famous.
Press took another hour. I answered the same questions I'd answered a hundred times before, delivered by people who thought they were being original. How does it feel to win Nationals? What's your preparation for the Olympics? Can you talk about your program choice?
I gave them answers that were polished and quotable and utterly empty.
One reporter asked about the wink. "It's become quite the moment online already. Was that planned?"
"Everything is planned," I said, and I smiled in a way that made her blush.
Another asked about my love life, whether the program was about anyone specific.
"Art is open to interpretation. I'd hate to limit anyone's imagination."
By the time they released me, it was nearly eleven. The arena had mostly emptied, and my costume had stiffened where the sweat had dried. The gold medal was still around my neck, and I could smell myself now that the adrenaline had faded: salt and hairspray and the particular staleness of performing for hours under hot lights.
Natalia found me in the hallway outside the media room.
"He's there," she said quietly. "Went up about two hours ago. I told him to order room service if he got hungry." She studied my face with the look she got when she was deciding whether to say something. "Joel."
"Don't."
"I'm just going to say one thing."
"You're going to say it whether I want you to or not."
"Be careful." She paused. "With both of you."
I knew what she meant. I knew exactly what it meant that Red had chosen this, had entered my world instead of waiting for me to crash into his. He'd sat in an arena full of strangers and watched me perform and then gone to my hotel room to wait like it was nothing, like he hadn't just shown up in the most public part of my life.
The hotel was attached to the arena by a sky bridge, which meant I didn't have to go outside and didn't have to risk being photographed looking like this. I walked fast through the empty corridors with my skate bag over my shoulder and the medal bouncing against my chest with every step. The costume scraped against my skin, and the hairspray was making my scalp itch, and I wanted a shower more than I wanted almost anything.
Almost.
I could have taken the medal off. I didn't.
Room 1247 was at the end of the hall. The do-not-disturb sign was already on the door.
I stood there for a moment with the keycard in my hand.
On the other side of that door, he was waiting.
I swiped the card and went in.
