Chapter Text
It’s late. Or, it’s not that late actually—not when Mike is still operating on Eastern Standard time. He’s been in Oslo for twenty-four hours now, but his circadian rhythm has yet to catch up to his environment. Hence why he still feels coiled up with unspent energy even after a full day of training and press.
He’s been on the ice for four hours when he finally steps off, heading for a bench and snapping on his blade guards to protect them during the thirty foot trek to the locker rooms. The practice facility isn’t that glamorous—anyone with a trained eye can tell it took less than a day to put the rinks together. The containing wall is flimsy and would probably come crashing down if you ran into it with any real force. The mats around the arena are already thick and bloated with water, and they make squishing noises when he steps. Beyond that, there’s no real viewing area (but that’s okay, since nobody spectates practices anyway). There’s a few benches for breaks, coaches, or assistants. The locker rooms are a little better, at least mirroring a mid-tier American gym in a big city.
All of this is top tier, of course, when compared to the rink Mike practices on at home in Toronto. It’s in a warehouse beside an abandoned factory with no windows and no bleachers. There is no containing wall, so if you’re going to mess up, you’d better brace for impact with the foam flooring that surrounds the perimeter. Don’t even get him started on how infrequently the janitor there refinishes the ice. He’s already dealt with more than his fair share of bumps and bruises due to that negligence. He’s already complained about it enough for a lifetime, too.
It’s 9pm in Oslo, but it’s only 3pm in Mike’s brain. He exchanges his skates for slides and gathers his bag over his shoulder, thinking about what he might order at the cafeteria once he gets back to the Olympic village—or whether it might somehow take less time to order in or something. He wasted an hour and a half this morning in line for a sub-par breakfast burrito, and he doesn’t really feel like eating his dinner at 11 (5) when he’s already running behind. Although, he also doesn’t really know how take-out works in Norway, so that’s probably not his best option, either.
He’s moving through the long, windowless corridor towards the exit when he passes by an opening to another rink and pauses. He hears a peel of girlish laughter, a long-suffering sigh. The two voices start bickering back and forth but there’s no edge to it—even from outside, it sounds to Mike like they’re smiling. He’s not sure why, but the voices draw him in. He changes course and heads into the opening, revealing a practice space only slightly larger and more well lit than the one he came from. There are several people on the ice: one young woman in an Olympic employee vest, skating slowly with a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other; a short but intimidating looking brunette woman with her arms folded and one of the largest, fluffiest winter jackets Mike’s ever seen; a young woman with her shoulder length hair in a tight, high ponytail and hot pink shorts, and a young man in all black spandex. The arguing voices are coming from the last two, as the little woman looks on at them in displeasure.
“Hey! That’s enough, you two. The sooner you take these drills seriously, the sooner you can leave, huh?” The small woman yells. Even her tone isn’t very menacing, though.
The girl in the shorts and the guy in all black look at each other for two seconds before bursting into giggles. Giggles.
Mike takes a seat on one of the benches at the opposite side of the rink so he can go unnoticed.
“Okay, okay, sorry Joyce,” the girl coughs, collecting herself. Her voice is clear and loud, and she has a slight accent Mike can’t place. She lays a gentle hand on the guy’s shoulder and looks at him earnestly. “Twizzles?”
The guy nods once, sharp, and they start spinning. Mike has never seen such coordination between two people with no verbal cue. Somehow, they are perfectly in time with one another. “Leg!” Shouts the small woman, and both skaters raise their left legs at a 90 degree angle, their arms above their heads, fingers clasped. The woman shouts “Speed!” And they spin impossibly faster, bending the outstretched leg in to a sort of tree pose. If Mike weren’t a skater himself, he’d be dizzy just watching. When the woman finally calls “Stop!” the two stop on a dime. The girl has her left toe pointed into the ice in front of her, arms still in the air but shoulder-height, posing. The guy has his left knee bent and arms out to his sides, one behind the girl’s back, although not touching. They’re both smiling wider than Mike could ever hope to.
The small woman, Joyce, says something Mike can’t overhear. The two skaters nod as she exits the ice, and proceed to skate languidly around each other. They maintain eye contact. The guy skates up behind the girl, framing her with his arms, keeping to her pace. She turns to face him and alternately away, and they continue this pattern for a full lap around the ice, expertly dodging the olympic employee. When they finally come together, they hold hands, face to face, and begin to dance.
There’s no music playing, but Mike can almost imagine it in his brain. The girl performs a complex sequence of movements, short spins and expressive arms, which the guy mirrors perfectly, if in a more subdued way. He moves the girl around by the waist, effortlessly guiding her into a minor lift, in which he holds her by the hips and spins her around while also spinning himself. When he releases her, they move into a sequence of coordinated steps and spins. Mike is captivated by their skill and precision, so much so that he briefly forgets this isn’t live competition. He watches the elegant curve of the girl’s neck as she bends back into a jump. He’s mesmerised by the quiet strength of the guy as he grips her hands and spins her around the ice, as if her weight is insubstantial to him. He feels his heart thrum appreciatively when they lock eyes and skate close. They’re beautiful.
The sharp, cold sound of a skate digging deep into the ice shakes him out of the trance, and he realises the girl has stopped skating. The guy continues lazily, circling her. She sighs, crossing her arms and following her partner with only her eyes.
“You want to stop,” she accuses him.
“I can keep going,” he shrugs, executing a little jump for emphasis.
“You’re not putting the full effort into your sequences, and it shows.”
The guy frowns, coming to a stop about a foot in front of her. “I’m kind of hungry. We’ve been here forever.”
“You’re always hungry,” the girl accuses again, but she smiles fondly.
He grins back. “One more lift?”
The pair begin skating again, building up momentum to continue practicing, and Mike gets up to leave. He doesn’t want to be there when they exit the ice and see him, wondering why a singles skater from a different country is watching their drills from across the rink like some kind of creep. He doesn’t want to have to explain himself, and he’s not even sure that he can, except that he’s always been drawn to things that are just out of his reach.
-
Mike is up at 6AM local time for morning ice. His trainer, Steve, doesn’t come to this session. Mike is on his own to work on quads, triples, spins, and whatever other technical elements they decided he needs to work on the previous day. Today, it’s quads—which will be the most important element to master in order to take home gold this year.
The rest of the Canadian national team singles skaters are already on the ice when Mike arrives, and he watches them mill around while he laces up his skates. He doesn’t know any of his teammates very well, having only met them a few days ago when the team was officially announced. It’s Mike’s first Olympics, but the rest of the team is built of veterans. There are two other male singles skaters—Chance and Eddie. There are three female singles skaters whose names Mike doesn’t remember. The pairs teams don’t practice on the same ice as the singles skaters, which is a bummer. Mike is better friends with Max and Lucas, the Canadian front-runner ice dancing pair, than anyone else here.
He steps on the ice and does a few lazy laps before skating over to Chance and Eddie, who greet him tiredly. Eddie is the longer-tenured team member, so he naturally takes the lead when none of the trainers are present.
They take turns lining up for quad jumps, which the other two skaters hang by the wall and observe, offering critique. Eddie goes first, and Mike stands next to Chance and watches as he skates around in wide circles, gearing up for the jump. The scrape of blades on the ice is loud in the large, vaulted space. Mike watches Eddie’s footwork, marvelling at his balance and poise. His movements are so smooth and fluid—something that Mike sometimes feels he has yet to master completely.
Eddie completes his fourth lap and starts gaining momentum, skating and outward-facing arc. His knees start to bend slightly, his right leg lifting back, then swinging upward and out to thrust Eddie’s body into the air. He gets about two to three feet from the ice and completes one, two, three pristine revolutions, but only half of a fourth before his left skate comes back into contact with the ice, and he gracefully stretches his arms wide into the finish.
“That was just a warmup,” he says, skating over to Mike and Chance confidently. “I wasn’t even trying, really.”
“Sure,” Mike smiles. Despite it only being a triple, it was still impressive to him.
“Watch how a real man does it,” Chance teases, breaking into motion as he starts accumulating speed. Eddie settles beside Mike to watch, crossing his arms.
Where Eddie is tall and thin, like Mike, Chance is shorter and broader. His legs are thicker, which gives him a bit more power in his jumps than the other two skaters. When Chance catapults into the air, he easily gets three feet. His revolutions are slow, though, and his fourth spin is barely complete when he slams back down onto the ice, wobbling slightly, before arcing around and skating back to the wall.
“Poor landing,” Eddie smirks, arms still crossed over his chest.
“At least I got four in,” Chance shrugs. “The landing will be better on the next one.”
“We’ll see about that. Mike?”
“Yeah,” Mike responds. He cracks his knuckles twice and shakes out his hands. Then, he glides forward into his laps.
Singles can be isolating, sure, but not always in a bad way. Once Mike is on that ice, everyone else melts away. He can’t even hear any background noise—only the scratch and scrape of his blades on the ice. Even without music, Mike can feel the rhythm of the movement. His arms reach out from his sides, moving in time with his legs, slicing through the cool air as he gains momentum. Once he feels he’s gathered enough speed, he starts his third lap skating backwards. He bends his knees, using the mass of his left hip and his right leg to swing and launch himself skyward, immediately entering his first revolution. He spins once, twice, three times, four times, and lands gracefully back on his left leg, using his right skate to direct himself back and around. Straightening up, he makes his way back to the others. Eddie is clapping. Chance is rolling his eyes.
“Showoff,” Chance spits.
“Always good to have a little healthy competition amongst teammates,” Eddie smiles. “Good job, Mike.”
“Thanks,” Mike breaths. He’s only done one jump and his legs already feel like jelly. His heart is racing. He feels like he’s just run a mile. He’s so tired suddenly.
“Let’s run it again,” Eddie calls, already halfway into his first lap.
“Don’t let it go to your head, Wheeler. I’m just getting started.” Chance says, sneering.
Mike doesn’t look at him, eyes locked firmly on Eddie as he sails into the air once more and begins spinning. This time, he completes all four revolutions without incident. He still doesn’t get as much air as Chance, but his spins are faster, so it works out.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Mike replies.
It’s a little after eight-thirty in the morning when Mike spots Max and Lucas at the edge of the ice. Max is standing up straight, hands on her hips, watching Mike intently. Lucas leans his folded arms on the side of the retaining wall and slumps onto them, smiling. They’ve been practicing quads and triples for two and a half hours now, and Mike has eaten ice twice and completely miffed his quads at least double that amount.
“You look like a baby deer out there, Wheeler,” Max calls out as he approaches them. He places his hands on the retaining wall and sticks his tongue out at his friend.
“If you keep leaning on that thing this whole rink is gonna collapse,” Mike says, ignoring Max’s comment and nudging Lucas’s folded arms.
“Lucas wishes he were that strong,” Max teases.
“Strong enough to lift your ass,” Lucas retorts, removing his arms from the wall.
“Are you inferring I weigh as much as an ice rink?” Max asks.
“Don’t answer that,” Mike interjects.
“Anyway,” Lucas says, smartly changing the subject. “We wanted to see if you were ready to get breakfast. We were gonna head over now.”
“Sure,” Mike says, glancing back at Eddie and Chance, who have apparently challenged each other to see who could spin in place the fastest. Not that either of them will be able to judge the competition, since they’re both spinning so fast they definitely only see the blurry reflection of the ice. He calls over to them to let them know he’s leaving, and Eddie stops spinning to give him a friendly wave of acknowledgement.
He snaps on his blade guards as he exits the rink, and Max and Lucas follow him back to the locker rooms. They wait outside while he changes into his sweats and street shoes, then they all leave the training facility together and head towards the main cafeteria, about half a mile’s walk away.
“You seemed a little out of it back on the ice,” Lucas says, bumping his shoulder against Mike’s as they walk. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I think the jet lag is finally hitting me,” Mike shrugs.
“Ugh, same here,” Lucas admits. He looks teasingly at Max when he says, “Max says she doesn’t get jet lag, but I think she’s a liar.”
“I don’t!” Max retorts. She huddles deeper into her Team Canada puffer jacket, long red curls spilling out from the collar. “It’s not my fault I have superior genetics.”
“Genetics have nothing to do with time zones?” Mike says incredulously.
“Exactly!” Lucas says, waving his arms around dramatically.
“Whatever,” Max shrugs. “You guys are just jealous that my body and mind are functioning at peak level while you’re both asleep on your feet.”
“She’s definitely lying,” Mike says to Lucas.
“Those are false allegations. This is character assassination,” Max replies.
“I’ll remember that when you fall asleep during yoga later,” Lucas laughs.
“Child’s pose is very relaxing,” Mike nods.
“You two are insufferable.” Max complains. “Hurry up, I want to get to the cafeteria so I can have an actual intelligent conversation with actual functioning human beings with talent.”
“Hey!” Lucas protests.
“Who would that be?” Mike asks.
Lucas watches Max speed away from them towards the cafeteria doors in the distance and rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Oh, Max made new friends at the opening ceremonies and told them we’d sit with them today. You’ll like them, their names are—
“Jane Hopper,” says pink shorts girl from yesterday. Although today, she’s in head to toe Team USA gear. She points to the boy beside her. “And this is—”
“Will Byers,” he interrupts. His eyes are startling up close—hazel, Mike thinks. Warm browns and greens. He reaches his hand across the table in Mike’s direction. “Nice to meet you!”
“They’re the American frontrunners,” Max explains.
“You’re having lunch with your fiercest competitors?” Mike questions, taking Will’s outstretched hand and giving it a firm shake. It’s warm and soft, unexpectedly so. Will is smiling at him, also warm and soft—and Mike, not usually very smiley, can’t resist returning the expression as he takes his seat at the table.
“Fiercest?” Jane asks, her tone bewildered. She reaches out and grabs Will’s jaw with her hand, shaking his face back and forth as he scowls. “Look at this face! Does this look fierce to you?”
“Hey!” Will protests.
“Will is very intimidating when he wants to be,” Lucas interjects, peeling the shell off a hard-boiled egg.
“Thank you, Lucas” Will replies, peeling Jane’s hand off of his face as if it’s sticky, like fly-paper.
“Maybe not fierce, but you are our competition,” Max relents, taking a second to swallow a spoonful of oatmeal before continuing. “I mean, how is it that polls are rating your on-ice chemistry with your brother higher than they rate mine with my own boyfriend?”
“Probably because eye-contact is really important, and if Lucas looks you directly in the eyes, he’d turn to stone,” Mike says. Not used to an audience apart from Lucas when he makes jokes like this, he startles when Will barks a bright laugh, which he feebly attempts to stifle into his hand, across the table from him.
“Watch it, Wheeler,” Max warns, pointing at him menacingly with her plastic butter knife. “It’s more likely because the general state of society isn’t ready to publicly embrace the raw sensuality between interracial partners.”
“Raw sensuality,” Mike snorts.
“I’m serious! Meanwhile, Jane and Will represent, like, the American ideal, okay? Jane, you’re like, stunningly beautiful in a girl-next-door sort of way, right? And Will is—a white man.”
“I’m also really talented,” Jane mumbles through a mouthful of toast.
“Will is also objectively nice to look at,” Lucas adds.
“Thank you, Lucas!” Will repeats, reaching all the way across the tabletop to squeeze the aforementioned’s shoulder.
“Oh, great,” Max rolls her eyes. “Now they’re going to say you have more chemistry with Lucas than me.”
Jane reaches out to pat Max’s hand reassuringly. “Don’t blame yourself, Will has chemistry with everyone.”
Mike looks up from his breakfast at that, surprised to find Will already looking at him. His eyes are bright and he’s still smiling that small, unassuming little smile, directed right at Mike, and he can feel it then. A palpable tension, like Will possess his own field of gravity, and it’s pulling at him. His stomach performs a perfect triple axel. He swallows against the lump forming in his throat.
“So,” Will starts, leaning his chin on his right palm, elbow against the tabletop, not breaking eye contact. “Single, huh?”
Mike doesn’t realise he’s choking until Lucas smacks him once, twice, three times on the back—hard. Thankfully, none of his toast comes back up. He takes a sip of water before, “Excuse me?”
“Men’s Singles, that’s what you skate, right?” Will says. The smile has been swiftly replaced by a look of mild concern as Mike continues to clear his throat.
“Oh, yeah. Yes,” he nods. How did he not hear that correctly? Is he even more jet lagged than he thought?
“That’s brave,” Will says next, gentle smile back in full force. “I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have Jane to hide behind out there.”
Jane swats him on the shoulder. “You’re an excellent skater, stop fishing for compliments.”
“I’m being honest! I don’t think I’d be able to carry an entire dance by myself. That’s next-level,” Will responds, eyes returning to Mike.
For some reason, this makes his cheeks feel hot and tingly. “It’s not that different, really.” He says, stirring his oatmeal around in its tiny bowl.
“Oh, don’t start this!” Max shouts from the other end of the table, pointing the butter knife from earlier back and forth from Will to Mike. “No more chemistry between anyone at this table that isn’t me and Lucas.”
Will frowns. “What did I do?”
“He’s literally blushing!” Max accuses.
“I am not!” Mike yells, definitely blushing.
“Okay, okay, calm down everyone. Will, can you please turn off your charm?” Jane says, sounding bizarrely sincere.
“I literally didn’t do anything,” Will laughs. It’s infuriatingly musical.
“Hey,” Lucas says, tone sickly-sweet and low. He reaches out to rub a soothing hand on Max’s back, underneath her long, loose curls. “We have more chemistry off-ice than all of these fools combined, okay?”
Max smiles fondly at him. “Gross,” she says.
“Jeez, get a room already,” Mike grumbles.
Max throws Lucas’s discard eggshell at him.
-
The yoga studio is cool and dimly lit. There’s a soft, woodland soundtrack playing from a boombox in the front right corner beside an artificial candle for, what Mike can only assume is, the ambiance. They’re the only two people in here, having rented out the space for the hour. They’ve placed two mats in the middle of the room, facing the mirrored front wall. Mike moves from a one-legged downward dog into a low plank, then cobra pose. The tender muscles in his lower abdomen stretch and burn, but not unpleasantly. He opens his eyes and catches his own reflection, and it looks tired.
To his left, Steve has been holding a handstand so long that his face is turning purple.
“Are you even breathing?” Mike asks, folding his legs into a pretzel underneath him as he watches his coach.
“Are you even breathing?” Steve mocks, scoffing, but he sounds out of breath. “Very funny Wheeler. Go through your splits and don’t worry about me.”
Mike rolls his eyes, popping up into a standing position in order to lower back down into splits with perfect form. The burn of his inner thighs is comfortable and familiar. “What exactly are you trying to prove, here?” He asks.
Steve grunts, carefully bending his knees, one forward and one slightly back to keep his balance as he comes out of his handstand. Mike can see his abs flex on the way down from where his tank top has ridden up. Steve has only been Mike’s coach for the last two years, but he’s probably been the most athletic, and the youngest, and the coolest, and maybe even Mike’s favorite. But Mike would never, like, tell him that.
“It’s not about proving anything,” Steve says, stretching his arms forward towards his toes. “It’s an exercise in discipline. It’s about pushing past self-imposed limits, like pain or discomfort. Maybe you should try it sometime.”
“Watching that was painful, but I’m still being really casual about it. Does that count?” He teases, pulling his legs back in to a seated position. Before Steve can give him another instruction, he eases down onto his back on the mat and allows his body to relax for a minute.
“The jet lag hasn’t dulled your sense of humour, I see,” Steve muses. He stands up and heads over to the door and grabs some disinfectant wipes to clean their mats, signalling the end of the session. He tosses one at Mike, but it’s not saturated enough, so it flutters awkwardly to the floor about a foot in font of him.
“Letting me off easy today? Not usually your style,” Mike comments, reaching for the wipe, savouring the stretch in his shoulders.
“I thought we’d head to the sauna for a bit,” Steve suggests, eyebrows raised.
“Is that because you think it would be beneficial to me, or because you’re hoping to find other staff to flirt with?” Mike raises his eyebrows right back.
“I’ve had about enough of your sass today, Wheeler.”
“I’ll save my next comment for tomorrow then,” he hums.
They roll up their mats in comfortable silence, and Steve shuts off the boombox and the candle before they exit the little room. The sauna is on the other side of the facility, so they grab their bags from the cubbies outside the door before heading over to the locker rooms to change. They get about ten steps in the right direction when he hears someone call out to him.
“Mike!”
When he turns, he sees Lucas headed towards him, trailed by another guy with light brown hair and, honestly, a very impressive perm. Steve stops too, a few steps ahead.
“Hey Steve,” Lucas greets when they finally reach.
“Sinclair,” Steve nods.
“This is my roommate, Dustin,” Lucas says, gesturing to the shorter guy at his side. “He does curling!”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Dustin says, bowing.
“Nice hair,” Steve comments.
“Ditto, my friend,” Dustin replies, winking.
“Anyway, we just finished a lift, but later we were all gonna hang out in the dorm block and maybe get pizza. Wanna come?” Lucas asks.
Steve clears his throat. “Who is ‘we’?”
“Us, Max, and the ice dancers from team USA,” Lucas shrugs.
“You’re hanging out with your direct competition?” Steve questions, eyebrows disappearing into his very well-manicured hairline.
“That’s what I said!” Mike and Dustin say at the same time.
“As long as none of Mike’s competition is there, I guess it’s okay,” Steve concedes. “But bedtime is still ten, and pizza still has to be balanced out in your macro count.”
“Yes, mom,” Mike sighs. Dustin laughs.
“Cool,” Lucas nods. “Building six. We’ll meet up in the common room around eight.”
Mike checks his watch. Six-thirty. He’ll hit the sauna for half an hour, then have just enough time to head back to his dorm to shower and change. “Perfect,” he nods.
“See you there!” Lucas waves. He and Dustin head off in the other direction, towards the facility exit. Mike follows Steve to the locker room.
“So, you’ve met these team USA kids?” Steve asks casually as they change.
“Yeah, yesterday at breakfast,” Mike says, tugging on a pair of loose basketball shorts. He purposefully doesn’t mention watching them skate two days ago, before he knew their names.
“You think they’re any good?”
“Wouldn’t know,” Mike shrugs, the lie rolling easily off his back. “But Max says they’re the international favourites.”
“And she’s hanging out with them? Instead of, like,” Steve pauses, eyebrows drawing in confusedly. “Plotting to poison them?”
“I wouldn’t actually be able to confirm or deny that she isn’t still doing that,” Mike smiles. “But no, it seems like she actually likes them.”
“You think they’re playing spy?”
“People don’t actually do that,” Mike laughs. When he shuts his locker and looks at Steve, though, the other man’s face is serious—intense. He swallows. “Do they?”
Steve considers this. “I mean, it’s the U.S.,” he says. “I wouldn’t trust them.”
“You don’t trust anyone.”
“And it’s never come back to bite me, either,” Steve says.
“And I’m sure it never will,” Mike rolls his eyes. They head to the sauna.
-
The walk to Lucas’s dorm in building six isn’t long, but it is cold. His conveniently supplied Team Canada puffer jacket is a total game changer and very warm and cozy over his hoodie, but he forgot his mittens back in the dorm and his hands are freezing. He’s hardly been outside two minutes and he swears they already look blue. Also, the jacket doesn’t reach below his hips, so his ass is frozen too. Double also, he can’t feel his toes. By the time he enters the building through the sliding glass double doors, his teeth are chattering.
The layout of the building is the same as his own—large, vaulted ceilings in an open front area with some seating, vending machines, decorative plants, and a bay of elevators in the middle. Mike heads past all of this, behind the elevators, where the hall opens up to a series of walled-off lounge areas. Some have TVs, some have board games or foosball, but they all have a variety of tables and chairs designed for unwinding after hard days of training, prep, and competition. Mike assumes they used to be administrative office buildings, or something. Maybe abandoned warehouses converted into temporary residences. He can tell just by looking that the walls aren’t part of the building’s original design.
He follows the sounds of laughter and arguing, and the smell of something warm and aromatic, to the third lounge from the left. When he rounds the wall, Jane is the first one to notice him.
“Mike!” She calls out, waving to him excitedly. She’s seated on a red velvet couch next to Max, who has Lucas seated on her other side. “Mike is here, guys!”
The group greets him with a variety of hellos. There’s a pile of three pizza boxes with an unrecognisable logo on the coffee table, next to three opaque black plastic bags and a variety of bottled beverages, mostly water. Dustin is sitting in a purple chair shaped kind of like an egg to the left of Jane. Will sits on the floor beneath the couch, one leg crossed beneath him and the other pulled up to his chest, tucked between Jane and Max. Mike sits down on the floor across the coffee table from him, pretzel style.
“Smells good,” he says, tilting his head towards the pizza boxes.
“Ask Dustin what kind he ordered,” Lucas smiles, crossing his arms in challenge.
All eyes turn to Dustin. “As I’ve already explained, Lucas, I am a connoisseur of local cuisines. Really a ‘When in Rome’ type, if you catch my drift. In that spirit, I’ve ordered some very popular local topping combinations,” he flips the lid of the first box open, and Mike is hit with a tidal wave of what smells like fresh seawater. “Mussels and sweet corn,” he says, gesturing.
Mike reaches up and holds his nose closed between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t—,”
“Not your vibe? No worries, we also have,” Dustin closes the first box and switches it with the second one on the stack, brandishing it open with a flourish. “Reindeer meat!”
“Oh, wow, that’s…uh,” Mike babbles.
Will reaches a hand across the table and shuts the box gently. He nudges the box on the bottom towards Mike, like he’s pushing a Jenga block. “We also have Margherita.” He smiles.
Dustin rolls his eyes. “If you want to be boring.”
“Fine, let me have one of the shell pizza, please,” Jane asks, handing over her paper plate.
“It’s not shells, its mussels,” Dustin clarifies, handing her plate back with the requested slice.
She hums, bringing the plate to her nose for an exaggerated sniff. Her face scrunches up in the middle.
“Reindeer meat me,” Max says.
Lucas glances at her, affronted. “Unbelievable.”
“What? My dad used to hunt,” she shrugs.
“Mine too,” Will nods, reluctantly taking a piece of reindeer meat pizza for himself. Jane pokes at her mussels with a plastic fork over his shoulder, frowning.
“I’ll stick to Margherita I think,” Mike says, eyeing Lucas expectantly.
“Me too,” his friend says. Mike passes him a slice.
Dustin visibly deflates. “You guys have no culture. It’s so depressing how un-adventurous you are.”
Mike shrugs, taking a big bite of his slice and closing his eyes. He chews with his mouth open and sighs exaggeratedly. “Oh my god, so good!”
Will laughs, taking a bite of his own slice. He chews thoughtfully and politely for about thirty seconds and swallows. His face stays carefully neutral. “The reindeer meat isn’t bad!” He comments, directing it at Dustin. “Reminds me of roast beef.”
“I can’t believe the Americans are more cultured than you,” Dustin sighs.
“Jane is just moving the mussels around on her plate,” Lucas says, pointing at Jane with his pizza slice.
“Yeah…sorry Dustin, I don’t think I can do it. Can someone pass the Santa Claus pizza?” Even though she asks the room, she hands her plate directly to Will by her legs, and he takes it without complaint to switch out her slice, setting his own plate down on the floor beside him.
They eat, randomly commenting on the pizza or the weather or their training. Lucas complains about Max’s immunity to jet lag, which Will claims he shares. Jane complains about her roommate, whose name is Stacey and who keeps backhand-complimenting all her outfits and hogging the bathroom. Max offers to “accidentally” trip her and break her ankle, and Jane heavily considers it before reluctantly declining after Will smacks her on the shin. Mike tries to make conversation by asking Dustin about how he got into curling, of all sports, and immediately realises his mistake.
“So, curling is basically like chess, but on ice,” Dustin begins, gesturing wildly. He almost smacks Jane upside the head. “You’re not just hurling a rock down the ice like a bowling ball. You have to actually calculate the velocity. You have to account for and adjust the friction. And you have to get your spin just right. See, the ice is pebbled, which creates the friction, and the sweeping smooths it out to improve slide and distance. And that’s not even accounting for the obstacle stones, that’s where the chess aspect comes in.”
“Fascinating,” Max says, drawing out the syllables sarcastically.
Dustin doesn’t pick up on it. “Right??!”
“How’s practice going?” Lucas asks Mike, as Dustin continues enthusiastically explaining rotation and kinetic energy to Max and Jane.
“It’s going,” Mike shrugs, pushing his plate with just the pizza crust further from the table edge. “Still not totally confident with my quads, and I’ve only got one more day to practice the full routine for the short program on Friday. Then a couple more days to fine-tune the free skate, but—I don’t know. It feels like it’s coming up really fast.”
Lucas frowns. “You were nailing your jumps at National’s, though. Hopefully it’s just the jet lag. You’ll feel better about it when you run through the routine tomorrow.”
“Yeah, totally,” he confirms. He decides to change the subject. “What about you guys? You said your free skate was really challenging.”
Lucas shoots a sideways glance at Max, pretending to listen intently to the physics of curling rotation, then back to Mike. “Not challenging physically. I’d say it’s more of a mental battle. Max’s outfit is…daring. I’m nervous about causing a wardrobe malfunction on live television.”
Mike snorts.
“Oh my god, I bet it’s so good though. What’s your song?” Will interjects, leaning closer to Lucas, supporting himself with one hand on the coffee table and one on the couch cushion by Jane’s leg.
“‘I Want to Know What Love Is’” Lucas replies, lifting his eyebrows.
“Stop,” Will breathes, clutching his chest with his couch cushion hand, over where his heart is. “That’s so romantic.”
“It’s sexy,” Jane adds, cutting off Dustin’s rant on surface tension.
“How do you guys even concentrate?” Will asks, sitting back onto his knees. He looks between Lucas and Max imploringly. “Like, how do you not just make out constantly?”
“We’re civilised professionals,” Max says.
“Extremely debatable,” Mike adds.
“I wish I could skate to something romantic,” Will sighs, leaning back against the couch. His posture is boneless and defeated. “It looks so fun.”
“You skate with your sister,” Dustin supplies unhelpfully.
“Obviously with a different partner,” Will huffs. Mike has never seen someone roll their eyes so…politely.
Mike watches Will, looking like a kicked puppy. He frowns. “Well, why don’t you?”
Will cocks his head to the side, inquisitive. The full weight of his gaze makes the back of Mike’s neck stand on end in a series of tiny goosebumps. “Why don’t I….?” Will asks.
“Change partners,” Mike shrugs. Will’s eyes on him make him want to look away. He looks at Jane instead. “You could both change partners, then you’d be able to skate to romantic songs. Expand your portfolio options.”
“I—,” Will begins, but he cuts himself off sharply.
“I’m sure the ladies are lining up to be your partner, Byers,” Dustin says, eyebrows waggling so fiercely Mike thinks they might fly away.
“Well, it’s not—,”
“Will isn’t allowed to leave me,” Jane says, placing a steady hand on her brother’s shoulder. Mike doesn’t miss the way he visibly relaxes. “It’s in his contract. We’re bound for life.”
“Bummer,” Dustin says.
“And I would never want to skate with any other girls,” Will replies, bumping his shoulder lovingly against Jane’s knee. “I’d basically be forfeiting Gold.”
“Yeah, you would,” Jane smirks.
The general mood of the room, which had momentarily become tense and charged, settles back into an easy companionship. Max begins discussing costume design, and she and Jane go back and forth describing their favorite styles and patterns. Lucas and Dustin bicker about the source of an unknown sour smell in their shared dorm room. Will chimes in to both conversations here and there. Mike watches and listens, internally wondering why he suspects Will’s answer to his question about switching partners was going to be different from the explanation Jane provided, and what it even means that he cares so much about it.
-
It’s past eleven when they all say their goodbyes, and Mike finds himself flanked by the Americans as they walk back to their respective dorms, being the only ones who don’t already live in building six. It’s about a zillion degrees colder now than it was on the way there, but Mike doesn’t realise he’s visibly shaking until Will silently nudges him, holding out a pair of Team USA winter gloves.
“I can’t wear USA gear,” Mike chatters.
“It’s like, a five minute walk. I don’t think the paparazzi are going to jump out from behind a tree and question your patriotism,” Jane comments from his other side.
“Fine,” he says, reluctantly putting on the gloves. He tries not to sigh dramatically at the immediate warmth they provide. He looks back to Will, “What about you?”
“I’m not the one turning blue,” Will states.
The conversation dies. The crunch of their boots in the snow is loud and grating to Mike’s ears. He pulls his beanie down to cover them better. “So, what song are you guys dancing to for the free?” He asks.
“‘Don’t You Forget About Me’,” they both answer, perfectly synchronously.
“That’s kind of creepy,” Mike says, and they both laugh.
“What about you?” Will asks.
“Hm?”
“Your free skate song,” he elaborates. “What is it?”
“Oh, that’s confidential, sorry,” Mike smirks.
“Not fair! You have to tell us,” Jane shrieks, grabbing onto his arm and shaking it.
“Says who?”
“Says me,” Jane says, squeezing his forearm menacingly. “Says the covenant of friendship, Mike.”
“Are we friends?” Mike asks.
“Are we not?” Jane replies, eyebrows furrowing. She and Will look a lot alike, Mike thinks. Even though he knows they aren’t really related. Interesting how that works.
“We should probably discuss the status of our relationship,” Mike deflects.
“Sure, but what are the criteria of being friends with Mike Wheeler?” Will asks.
Mike thinks about it for a second, then says, “You have to tell me a secret about you.”
He catches a shared look between Jane and Will. Jane’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, and Will looks like he’s about to be physically ill. Suddenly, she says, “I was raised in a lab.”
Mike bursts out laughing.
“Jane!” Will chastises.
“Normally I’d reject a made up secret, but I think it’s impressive that you had that on hand, so I’m going to give it a pass,” he says. He wraps his arm around Jane’s shoulders and squeezes in a half-hug. “We can be friends.” Jane beams. They both look at Will expectantly.
“Uh,” he starts, scratching the hair at the back of his neck. His face scrunches up in concentration. Mike watches a little too closely. “Okay, how about, I’m really into Madonna?”
“Embarrassing,” Mike nods. “I’ll take it.” He bumps his shoulder into Will’s, and Will smiles.
“And you?”
Mike looks quizzically at Jane. “What about me?”
“You owe us a secret,” she says, folding her arms over her chest. She stops walking.
Mike and Will also stop, glancing at each other. Will shrugs. “It’s only fair,” he says.
“This was my game in the first place,” Mike whines.
“You’re being a bad friend,” Jane pouts.
“Fine, fine,” Mike concedes. He gestures to both of them to come closer. They flank him again, both leaning in until all the clouds of their breath start to mingle in the middle. He can smell Will’s cologne, like cashmere, or something cozy. They stare at him while he lets the dramatic pause marinate. Finally, in a loud whisper, he admits: “I’ve secretly always wanted to skate pairs in ice dancing.”
Mike steps back, crossing his arms in triumph. Will and Jane just stare at him.
“Really?” Jane asks, puzzled.
In a caricature of Mike’s earlier question, Will asks, “Why don’t you?”
Mike frowns. “Well, obviously, I don’t have a partner.” They both raise their eyebrows in question (and?). “And my dad wouldn’t let me,” he shrugs.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Will says.
“That’s stupid.” Jane says.
Mike shrugs. “It’s fine. I love what I do. I’m happy to be doing it for my country. It just looks fun sometimes, to have a partner.”
They all start walking again, falling into step beside each other. Suddenly, a wide smile breaks over Jane’s face. It makes her look years younger. “I know!” She yelps. “Why don’t you just come skate with us?”
“We’re at the Olympics, Jane, we don’t really have extra time to mess around on the ice. We have a job to do,” Will says. He sounds apologetic.
“So?” Jane replies, not apologetic at all. “We can make time. Like tonight! Mike, do you think you could squeeze us into your busy schedule?”
“I wouldn’t want to take time away from your training,” Mike offers. “Won’t you get in trouble?”
“Our coach is Will’s mom, and our trainer is my dad,” Jane explains. “I think if we both do puppy face, we could make it work.”
“Puppy face?” Mike asks. “You mean, like—,”
Jane immediately sticks out her bottoms lip, eyes huge and wide and round. Her lip wobbles slightly, and her eyes glisten as if teary. She did it in literally two seconds. It makes Mike want to wrap her up in a blanket and hold her close.
“Oh, that’s actually really good,” he says, shaking himself out of it.
“Will’s good at it too, show him Will!” Jane says.
“No,” Mike and Will both say. They glance at one another suspiciously.
“Fine. Anyway, come meet us at the rink after your practice tomorrow. We’ll bring lunch so we don’t have to leave, and we’ll just use our lunch break to do some fun skating for once. Yes?” Jane asks.
Still under the spell of the puppy face, Mike concedes. “Okay, I can do that.”
Jane looks pointedly at her brother.
“Yeah, sure, fine,” Will sighs. “I want a meatball sub.”
“Done,” Jane says, looking smug. She and Will reach their hands across him to shake on it.
They get to Will and Jane’s building first, building two, and Mike says goodbye, promising to try and meet them at their rink tomorrow during lunch. He starts to remove the Team USA gloves to return them, but Will’s hand on his wrist stops him.
“You can give them back tomorrow,” he says.
“But I’m right across the—,” Mike starts, but Will and Jane are already disappearing through the front doors of their dorm. He looks down at his hands and flexes his fingers in the gloves, frowning. Okay, he thinks. Tomorrow.