Page 189 of Only Ever You

Panting, I fall into a seat and home in on the images flashing before me.

Another skater has just finished, and, according to the commentary, Isla is next. Thank fuck.

I drop my forearms to my knees, chest heaving, sweat still clinging to me beneath my pads. I’ve never been more anxious in my life. Never in my life have I wanted something the way I want her to win gold tonight.

The door opens once, then again. As the seconds tick down, more people file in and sit near me or stand against the wall. I look around, discovering my team is here, supporting me, supporting her as she follows her dreams.

Isla skates to center ice, her light blue dress fucking magnificent, hugging every line and curve of her body. The front of her hair is collected into a braid that wraps around her head like a halo, and the rest is in a high ponytail. The bright pink tips she had dyed specifically for the Olympics look amazing against her dress.

She’s the most stunning girl in the world, and I can’t get enough of her.

When the music starts—“Euclid” by Sleep Token—the room disappears.

It’s our song, the one we chose together, listening to it on repeat as we waited for our turn at the chapel in Vegas.

I rake my hair, tugging at the roots, never looking away. Sweden feels impossibly far away, and yet I swear I feel her presence. It’s like, rather than being on the screen, she’s skating right in front of me.

At just the right moment, she pushes off, carving into the ice with speed that would look reckless if you didn’t know her. I do. I know exactly what that speed means. What it costs.

The first jump comes fast. When she launches herself into the air, the room goes dead silent.

When she lands the quadruple toe loop, someone behind me sucks in a harsh breath. I tug at my hair harder, focus glued to the screen. From that first jump, her program doesn’t slow.

A Triple Lutz follows. She jumps into the air, hands pressed to her chest, then lands, every move clean and precise. Each jump feels like a punch to my gut. My stomach twists so violently, I worry I’ll throw up. But I refuse to. Not until her performance is over, at least.

“Holy shit,” someone mutters beside me.

By the time she hits the step sequence, her breathing is fast, her shoulders rising and falling, but she stays locked in, her eyes glimmering with determination. Tonight, she’s not skating for applause or recognition. She’s skating because this is who she is at her core, when everything else falls away. She owns the ice, and she never gives up. And while there are other figure skaters who are just as dedicated, in my eyes, she’s the only possible winner.

By the time she makes her final jump, my heart is pounding against my rib cage. And when she drops into her ending pose, her arms wrapped around herself, head bowed, the room falls silent. The arena on the screen explodes, and a second later, Asher drops onto the stool beside me, still dressed in his Vipers’ jersey. His blond hair is damp and sticking out in every direction as he leans into me, forcing me to look at him.

“Why is everyone saying Isla’s your wife?”

“Because she is,” I reply. “We got married in Vegas. In August.”

“You did what?” He rears back, his expression going dark. “Thompson, are you fucking insane?”

“Hush,” one of my teammates whispers sharply.

Thankful for the interruption, I fix my focus on the screen, the camera now on Isla. When she smiles at Elena, the tension drains from my muscles.

Her short program score comes up first, at 76.85. Then, her free skate, coming in at 162.40. I try to do the math, but my head is too much of a mess, so I haven’t worked it out before the total score appears, and when it does, my breath hitches. Her score is 239.25.

That means gold.

For a second, the room is silent, like we’re all digesting the news, but then, the people around me break into applause.

I don’t even realize I’m crying until my vision blurs. My chest caves in, making it hard to breathe. With a hand pressed to it, searching for reprieve, I cry and laugh at the same time, my happiness overwhelming me.

She did it.

Isla Walker just made her dreams come true.

My best friend. My first and forever love just won the fucking Olympics.

My wife won gold.

After years and years spent honing her craft. After countless falls and getting up, skating through pain and bruises. After all the sacrifices she’s made. All the times she skipped parties and school events, choosing to skate instead.