It was healing.
After that came the cold plunge.
Which I would like officially noted is barbaric.
We stood at the edge of the sunken stone pool in robes and silence while icy water reflected the low amber light and steam from the sauna drifted nearby in what I can only describe as active mockery.
“I don’t want to,” I said.
Tristan tied his robe tighter around his waist and looked down into the freezing black-blue water.
“Same.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
I looked at him.
He looked back.
Then he held out his hand.
“Three?”
I slipped my fingers into his.
“Why are all athlete rituals just weirdly expensive forms of self-harm?”
He smiled.
“Because performance is a cult.”
“Good answer.”
We counted down together.
On one we both still looked at the water with hatred.
On two I nearly bolted.
On three he squeezed my hand and we stepped in.
The cold was immediate violence.
I made a sound I have never made in my life and hope never to make again.
“Oh my God?—”
“Breathe,” he said through clenched teeth.
“I hate this!”
“I know.”
It climbed our legs like punishment, then our hips, then our ribs, and by the time we sank low enough to let the water hit where it was supposed to hit, I was clinging to his forearm with enough force to leave marks.
He was breathing hard too, jaw tight, eyes narrowed, body tense under the shock.
