For a second, there is pure, stunned silence. Then, the applause erupts, a wave of sound that has nothing to do with the quality of my performance. It’s the shock of the reveal. The bruised, bare-faced woman standing under the lights, no longer hiding.
My eyes find Skye in the crowd. I see the slight, sharp intake of her breath. I see her hand go to the gold medal at her chest, her fingers curling around it.
Not a smile, but fierce, blazing pride that cuts through the short distance between us. Her mouth moves, but I can’t quite make out the words.
I don’t bow to the crowd. I give one slow, deliberate nod.
To Skye, to my mother crying somewhere in the VIP box, to Ollie, who is probably already drafting the press release, and I turn to walk off the stage, leaving my mask behind on the polished floor.
My hotel room is a ghost of itself. Suitcases stand by the door, zipped and tagged. The flowers have been given away; the get-well cards are packed carefully between layers of soft sweaters. The only signs of the past three weeks are the medical kit on the bathroom counter and the deep ache that lives in my ribs.
I stand in the middle of the emptied-out space, getting dressed in the loose, comfortable clothes I’d worn here: soft leggings, an oversized hoodie, and my hair in a messy bun on top of my head. Moving slowly, I pull the hoodie over my head and freeze when I hear a knock sound at the door.
“It’s open,” I call, my voice still a little thin after giving everything I had left to my performance on the world’s biggest stage.
Skye steps inside. She’s already in her travel gear. Dark jeans, a simple black tee, and her Team USA jacket unzipped. The gold medal isn’t around her neck, but I know it’s in her bag.
Her presence takes up the whole room, solid and real, where everything else feels foggy.
Her eyes do a quick, tactical sweep of the packed bags, my timid stance, and the wince I can’t fully hide when my hands go over my head. She closes the door behind her.
“How are you?” Not a casual question, but an evaluation.
“Tired. Sore.” I manage to get the hoodie settled, the soft fabric a relief against my skin. “Ready to sleep in my own bed.”
She nods, taking a few steps closer. Her gaze is intent, searching for the things I won’t say. The nightmares that aren’t about hitting bad notes.
“The flight will be rough. You need to keep moving. Walk the aisle.”
“Yes, Captain.” A faint smile touches my lips.
Before she can reply with one of her typical, gruff directives, another knock comes. This one is more rapid, arat-a-tat-tatthat screams “Long Island Ollie is back.”
Ollie doesn’t wait for an answer; she breezes in with a phone in each hand and her tablet tucked under her arm.
“Alright, listen up. We’re on the clock. Wheels-up in three hours, but with the traffic outta this city? Forget about it, we gotta bypass the circus. I’ve got a car waiting downstairs in forty-five. Violet, those pills, did you take ‘em? With food, not just with a sip of water like last time.” She points two fingers and motions from her eyes to mine. “I saw you, don’t think I didn’t see you. I will personally turn this plane around if you get airsick because you’re pulling a diva stunt and—”
“I took it, Ollie. With toast.” I point to the empty plate on the desk.
“Good girl. Usin’ that head for holdin’ up somethin’ besides air.” She finally looks up, her eyes darting between Skye and me before analyzing the room. Ollie misses nothing. “Hey there, Olympian. Thanks for bailing me out even though I didn’t need it.”
Skye huffs a laugh. “Yeah, you looked like you had it completely under control behind those bars.”
Ollie waves a hand at her. “You just caught me in my thought process, doll.” She clears her throat. “And thanks for the added witness statement of them coming at me and me needing to shoot them as self-defense.”
“It was a tough witness statement to write, with the unloading of the clip being self-defense.” Skye rubs a hand over the back of her neck. “But the police weren’t asking any further questions at that moment in time.”
Ollie and Skye share a long look as though they’re having an unspoken conversation.
“I know you’re still plannin’ shit, Toots.” Ollie narrows her eyes at Skye. “And if I didn’t have all this new fame and fortune hitting me and my girl over here, I’d be dippin’ my toe into that pool with you.”
“I’ve got it covered.” The darkness returns to Skye’s eyes, and her jaw sets tight as she clenches her teeth.
The professional mask on Ollie’s face softens just a fraction when she looks back at me. “You feeling okay, kid? And I mean, really. No funny business. No, ‘everything’s fine’ when you’re seein’ double. Spill.”
“Just the usual aches,” I reassure her. “I’m okay.”
Ollie’s gaze lingers on my face, the bruises now only faint shadows under my makeup. “You better be.” A slow, fierce grin spreads across her face. “What you did today, ditchin’ the mask… honey, you lit a fire.” She adjusts her tablet and presses a few buttons on her phone. “The headlines are already writing themselves. ‘Lockwood’s Unmasked Triumph.’ I’ve fielded twelve offers since you walked off that stage.”
