The arena is different tonight. Charged with electric energy. This is so much more than it was for the team events.
I sit in the athlete section, elbows on my knees, eyes locked on the tunnel where he’ll come from. Connor is beside me, looking around like he’s trying to find someone that maybe isn’t here. Normally the behavior would make me antsy, but I’m too focused to care about what he’s doing.
When Nico is announced, Canadian flags raise in the stands. Red everywhere. Cameras flash. People cheer. He doesn’t look overwhelmed as he skates onto the ice. He looks calm and ready.
The music starts up a moment later, Nico standing center ice, arms out and posing like a precious doll. It’s quiet and soft, until it starts to pick up—and that’s when he goes. Picking up speed around the boards. Turning and skating backwards, doing his choreography perfectly. Not a single wasted movement. He bends slightly, launching up and spinning more than should be humanly possible. It’s the quad. I know that one now. I’ve been studying and learning.
Four rotations. Fast. Compact. He lands deep, steady; his blades carving a clean arc out and around.
The crowd explodes.
I don’t. I nod once, rubbing my hands together in anticipation. He completed one jump. He has more to go. I don’t doubt he will do perfectly, but mistakes happen and I’m still worried. I want this for him. I want him to win.
Another jump, this one shorter. There’s no wobble with his landing, and he goes straight into another element, some jumpcombo. Two rotations. Back on his feet. Another jump. Three rotations. Seamless. No hesitation. Perfection. Clean.
Nico deserves the gold. He deserves this.
There’s a step sequence next, almost like dance moves. His shoulder movements hit the beats, while his feet confidently move him across the ice. He knows the arena like the back of his hand. I bet he could skate blindly and still win a medal.
His time is coming to an end; I can tell by the way the music is playing. He does his final pass across the ice. One final triple axel. He lands clean, and the crowd goes wild because they know. They know that he just won that damn medal with a performance like that.
The music ends and he hits the final position, chest rising, eyes bright as he looks out at the crowd with that beautiful, bright smile across his face.
Everyone in the arena is on their feet.
I am too this time, even though I don’t remember standing.
Nico looks toward the athlete section. Not searching wildly. Just checking.
Our eyes meet.
He knows.
I know.
Neither of us does anything, we just watch. Look. Share some silent conversation. He drops his arms and skates off the ice, his team roaring with excitement.
The score takes forever. The technical panel is reviewing something. The judges tap at screens, and I am about to scream if they don’t hurry up. I’m on the edge of my seat, holding my breath.
When Nico’s score comes up, it’s high enough that I don’t need to understand the whys or hows.
He’s ahead by a lot.
The commentators are already saying it, and he doesn’t need to hear them. Because he knows too. I see the look on his face. Not surprise but validation.
He’s taking the gold.
I’ve won games that mattered. Never a Stanley, and it’s my first time here, but I’ve won a lot of important games in my life.
This is different.
I see it written all over Nico’s face and I feel it deep in my bones. Not just for him, but for me too. Because if Nico can win the gold. So can I—so can my team.
I’ve watched Nico skate in an empty practice rink and I was enthralled.
I’ve watched him laugh when he fell out of a spin and I couldn’t look away.
I’ve watched him in my bed and felt like it’s where he belonged.
