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The Olympic Village looked like a corporate advertisement for world peace.

Flags snapped in the sharp February wind. Snow was packed into neat, obedient lines along walkways that had clearly been shoveled every hour. Athletes moved in bright clusters. Matching jackets. Matching hats. Matching exhaustion. Enid Sinclair stepped off the shuttle bus and immediately slipped on a patch of black ice. She windmilled her arms, hockey duffel swinging like a wrecking ball, and barely caught herself on a railing. Behind her, someone made a soft choking sound that was definitely a laugh.

Enid turned.

Yoko Tanaka stood there with one eyebrow raised, hands buried in her Team USA parka pockets.

“Day one,” Yoko said. “Impressive.”

“I stuck the landing,” Enid said, straightening. “Very Olympic of me.”

Divina stepped off the bus next, slow and careful, like she expected the ground to betray her personally. She adjusted her scarf, dark eyes scanning everything at once.

“It is colder than I thought,” Divina said.

“It is Italy in winter,” Yoko said.

“It is mountain winter,” Enid corrected. “That is different. Mountain winter bites.”

Divina nodded like she was cataloging that information for later anxiety.

More Team USA athletes spilled off the bus behind them. Someone shouted about missing luggage. Someone else yelled about protein bars. Somewhere nearby, a camera shutter rattled like machine gun fire.

Enid inhaled.

Cold air. Metal. Snow. Coffee. Nerves.

Olympics.

She grinned so wide her cheeks hurt.

“I cannot believe we are here,” she said.

“You say that every ten minutes,” Yoko said.

“I will say it every ten minutes until I die or we win gold.”

“Or both,” Yoko said.

Enid laughed and slung her bag higher on her shoulder. “Okay. Village check in. Room unpack. Find food. Find practice rink. Try not to get canceled internationally in the first forty eight hours.”

“Ambitious,” Yoko said.

They started toward the main complex. The Olympic Village was bigger up close. Glass buildings curved around open courtyards. Flags from every country hung in long ribbons. Security moved everywhere but never looked rushed. Athletes passed them speaking at least ten different languages. Enid felt like her skin was too tight for her body. Divina slowed as they approached the main entrance.

“Figure skating dorms are separate,” she said quietly. “I think.”

“Yeah,” Enid said. “You ditching us already?”

“No. I just. Logistics.”

Yoko nudged Divina forward. “You are still eating with us tonight. Non negotiable.”

Divina gave a small smile.

Inside, the lobby buzzed with motion. Volunteers in bright jackets directed traffic. A massive digital board displayed schedules, weather alerts, transportation updates, and a rotating feed of athlete arrivals.

Enid was halfway to the check in desk when she saw her.

Black.

Not just clothing. Presence.

Standing off to the side of the lobby, near a column, was the most intensely still person Enid had ever seen.

Short. Tiny, actually. Maybe barely brushing five feet. Black hair in two long braids. Black coat that looked tailored instead of issued. Gloves. Boots that looked like they could survive a war. She was reading something with absolute focus.

People flowed around her like water around stone.

Enid slowed.

Yoko followed her gaze.

“Oh,” Yoko said softly. “That is her.”

“Who,” Enid said.

“Wednesday Addams.”

Enid blinked. “The figure skater?”

“The figure skater.”

Enid stared.

Wednesday Addams did not look like an Olympic athlete. She looked like someone who had been personally insulted by the concept of sunlight.

Then Wednesday moved. Not big. Not dramatic. Just a shift of weight.

But it was precise in a way Enid recognized immediately. Balance. Control. Centered gravity like a blade.

Athlete.

Divina followed their line of sight and went very still.

“Oh my God,” she breathed.

Enid glanced at her. “You okay?”

“That is the woman who can land two quads like she is stepping off a curb.”

“Only woman ever to do it consistently in routine,” Yoko added.

Enid looked back. Wednesday glanced up.

Their eyes met.

It was not dramatic. No music swell. No cinematic slow motion.

Just eye contact.

Cold. Sharp. Assessing.

Enid felt like she had been x rayed.

Wednesday’s gaze flicked over her jacket. The Team USA patch. The hockey logo. The duffel bag. The scuffed boots. The height difference.

Her expression did not change.

Then she went back to her book.

Enid stood there for another second.

“Well,” she said quietly. “She is terrifying.”

Yoko smirked. “She is four foot eleven.”

Enid brightened immediately. “Oh my God. Really.”

Divina elbowed her. “Do not.”

“I am not saying anything mean. I am just saying. I could put her on a high shelf.”

“Enid.”

“I could help her reach cereal.”

“Enid.”

“I could carry her like a backpack.”

Yoko lost the fight and laughed.

Divina covered her face. Enid adjusted her duffel and marched toward the check in desk. She got halfway there.

Stopped.

Turned.

Walked directly toward Wednesday. Yoko made a strangled noise behind her. Divina whispered something that sounded like a prayer. Wednesday did not look up until Enid stopped directly in front of her. Up close, she was even smaller. And even more intense. Her eyes lifted slowly.

Dark. Flat. Intelligent in a way that made Enid feel like she had forgotten how to spell her own name.

“Yes,” Wednesday said.

Not a question.

Just acknowledgment.

Enid grinned automatically. “Hi. Team USA. Hockey.”

“I am aware,” Wednesday said.

Her voice was low. Even. Slightly accented in a way Enid could not place immediately. Not fully American. Not fully anything else.

Enid stuck out her hand.

“I am Enid.”

Wednesday looked at her hand like it might be a trap.

“Again, I am aware. Ive seen your face plastered on several advertisements.”She paused a moment.

“Wednesday Addams,” she added.

Enid glanced down automatically.

Yep. Still short.

The joke slipped out before she could stop it.

“Wow,” Enid said. “You are tiny.”

Silence. Behind her, Yoko made the noise of someone accepting death. Wednesday stared at her.

Expression unchanged.

“I am,” Wednesday said finally, “exactly the height I was born t be.” 

Enid blinked.

Then laughed.

“You are excessively tall for someone who voluntarily skates into violence,” Wednesday adds

Enid put a hand over her heart. “It is called hockey and it is beautiful.”

“It is chaos with sticks,” Wednesday said.

“It is strategy with body checking.”

“It is barbarism on ice.”

“It is fun.”

Wednesday considered her.

“You smile too much,” she said.

“You frown too much,” Enid shot back.

Another pause. Not hostile. Not friendly.

Something sharp. Curious. Electric in a quiet way.

A volunteer called Wednesday’s name from across the lobby.

Wednesday glanced over, then back at Enid.

“You will lose in semifinals,” she said calmly.

Enid gasped. “Excuse you.”

“Statistically,” Wednesday said. “Your defensive line is inconsistent under pressure.”

Enid narrowed her eyes. “You watch hockey?”

“I study competitors,” Wednesday said.

Enid leaned down slightly, conspiratorial. “Okay. Well. Statistically. You are going to be very annoying.”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed just a fraction.

Interesting.

“I already am,” she said.

Then she turned and walked away.

Enid watched her go.

Watched the precise steps. The straight spine. The absolute certainty in every movement.

Yoko came up beside her.

“You just insulted the scariest woman in figure skating.”

“I complimented her rotational efficiency,” Enid said.

Divina looked like she might faint.

Enid grinned.

“Also,” she said, watching Wednesday disappear into the athlete corridor, “I think she hates me.”

Yoko snorted. “Probably.”

Enid picked up her duffel again with a chuckle and walks away.

The dining hall was louder than any hockey arena Enid had ever played in.

Not because of noise.

Because of energy.

Languages overlapped. Trays clattered. Chairs scraped. Television screens mounted along the walls replayed highlight reels from training sessions and arrival footage. Every few seconds someone would recognize someone else and there would be shouting and hugs and the sharp pop of camera flashes from the press section behind the glass barrier.

Enid loved it immediately.

She loaded her tray like she had not eaten in three years. Pasta. Chicken. Vegetables she would probably forget to touch. Two desserts because she was an Olympian and therefore spiritually entitled to unlimited chocolate mousse.

Yoko grabbed balanced, efficient portions.

Divina picked at options like each one might be a trick.

They found a table near the middle, surrounded by other Team USA athletes. Snowboarders at one table. Speed skaters at another. Curlers arguing about something that sounded extremely serious and probably involved ice friction.

Enid was halfway through her second bite when she felt it.

That weird instinct.

Like someone had turned the temperature down around her spine.

She looked up.

Corner table.

Wednesday.

Alone.

No team. No coaches. No country cluster. No phones out for selfies. No conversation.

Just a tray.

Enid frowned slightly.

The tray had a small portion of grilled chicken. Some plain rice. Water.

That was it. Not even sauce. Not even bread. Not even dessert.

It looked less like dinner and more like something someone would eat if they were being punished. Wednesday sat perfectly straight, eating slowly, mechanically, like it was simply another required task.

She did not look at anyone. Did not acknowledge anyone who passed. Did not react when two athletes at the next table got loud enough that people turned to stare. She existed like a shadow that had decided to become solid.

Enid chewed slowly, watching.

Yoko noticed immediately.

“Stop staring,” Yoko said quietly.

“I am not staring,” Enid said, still staring.

“You are.”

“I am observing.”

“You are observing with judgment.”

Enid scoffed and took another bite of pasta.

“I just think,” she said, lowering her voice, “If you here maybe dont sit alone like you are better than everyone else.” Yoko did not answer right away.

“Or,” Yoko said eventually, “maybe she just doesent like people.”

“That is not an excuse to act like you are above people,” Enid said.

Across the table, Divina shifted uncomfortably.

“I dont think she thinks she is above people,” Divina said softly.

Enid gestured subtly with her fork. “She doesent even sit with her team.”

Divina hesitated. “Mexico’s winter delegation is small.”

“Still,” Enid said. “You could at least pretend to be social for like fifteen minutes.”

Yoko opened her mouth to respond.

Then someone dropped heavily into the chair beside Enid.

“Miss me?”

Enid turned and immediately grinned. “Ajax.”

Ajax Petropolus looked like he had walked straight out of a snowboard commercial. Messy brown hair poking out of his seemingly permanent beanie, slight smirk, USA jacket half zipped like he had forgotten halfway through.

He bumped his shoulder into hers. “Hockey superstar. How is village life.”

“Cold. Loud. Amazing,” Enid said. “How is throwing yourself down mountains.”

“Spiritual,” Ajax said.

He stole one of her fries without asking. She smacked his arm.

Yoko rolled her eyes but smiled slightly.

Divina relaxed a little.

Ajax leaned back in his chair, scanning the room.

“Met some of the Mexico crew earlier,” he said casually.

Enid’s eyes flicked, automatically, toward the corner table.

Wednesday was still eating. Same pace. Same posture. Same isolation.

“Oh yeah,” Enid said, trying to sound neutral. “How are they.”

“Chill,” Ajax said. “THey actually got a snowboarder this year, seems pretty chill. IS gonna be their flag bearer this year. Heard them talking about addams.”

Enid stabbed a noodle. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Apparently she was offered flag bearer for opening ceremony.”

Enid paused.

“Okay,” she said. “And.”

Ajax shrugged, grabbing another fry. “She said no.”

Enid blinked. “What?”

“Yeah. Said it was, and I quote, annoyingly pointless and turned it down. THats how he got it. Shes not well liked among them. DOesent acknowledge them at all. THey say something abut how she moved to america when she was a tween or something, evens aid shes ashamed of where she comes from.”

The world went a little quiet around the edges.

Yoko exhaled slowly.

Divina stared down at her tray.

Enid felt something sharp twist in her chest.

Flag bearer.

The absolute peak of trust. Pride. Representation.

Walking in front of your country. Carrying everything they believed in into the stadium with you.

Enid had dreamed about that since she was eight years old and watching opening ceremonies wrapped in blankets on her parents’ couch.

“I would kill for that,” she said quietly.

Ajax looked at her, surprised by the tone.

“Yeah,” he said. “I figured.”

Enid’s jaw tightened.

Across the room, Wednesday finished her water.

Did not look around.

Did not linger.

Just stood, picked up her tray, and walked it to the return station.

Like she had not just rejected something people spent their entire lives hoping for.

Enid watched her go.

Watched the calm. The precision. The absolute lack of visible doubt.

“She thinks she is better than everyone,” Enid said.

Yoko sighed. “Enid.”

“No,” Enid said, louder now. “That is insane. That is the Olympics. That is your country. That is people believing in you enough to literally put you in front of them.”

Divina spoke very quietly.

“Maybe it was pressure.”

Enid shook her head. “You do not call it pointless unless you think you are above it.”

Ajax shifted, suddenly aware he might have stepped into something.

Across the dining hall, Wednesday returned her tray.

Then turned.

And for one second, across thirty feet of noise and movement and Olympic chaos, her eyes landed directly on Enid.

Like she had heard.

Like she always heard.

Enid did not look away.

Something cold passed across Wednesday’s expression.

Not anger.

Something quieter. Older. Tired in a way that did not belong on a twenty year old face.

Then it was gone.

She turned.

And walked out of the dining hall alone.

Enid’s fork clinked against her plate.

“I cant stand her,” she said.

But she was still staring at the doorway long after Wednesday disappeared through it.

The air inside the staging tunnel buzzed.

Not loud. Not chaotic.

Electric.

Thousands of athletes packed into country blocks. Flags rising. Fabric shimmering. Announcers’ voices echoing from inside the stadium like distant thunder. The roar of the crowd leaking through concrete and steel.

Enid could feel it in her teeth.

She bounced on the balls of her feet, USA scarf looped twice around her neck, Team USA ceremonial coat fitted perfectly over her broad shoulders. Red, white, blue everywhere. Gloves. Beanie. The works.

“Stop vibrating,” Yoko muttered beside her.

“I cannot,” Enid whispered back, eyes wide. “This is the opening ceremony.”

Yoko adjusted her gloves calmly. “Yes. That is why we are here.”

Divina stood on Enid’s other side, clutching her small USA flag like it might float away if she loosened her grip.

Enid peeked around shoulders and banners, trying to see down the tunnel.

Countries lined up in alphabetical order. Massive delegations. Tiny ones. Some with dozens. Some with only a handful.

Her heart kicked harder when she spotted the Mexican delegation.

This year, there were eight.

Eight.

It was not the biggest winter presence, but it was more than last time. One Snowboarder. One cross country skier. A skeleton athlete. Three people she did not know And Wednesday.

The flag bearer stood at the front.

Tall. Broad shouldered. The snowboarder Ajax had mentioned.

He held the green, white, and red high, proud.

Enid swallowed.

That could have been her. Her eyes searched the small group.

She found Wednesday immediately.

Not because she was in front.

Because she was not.

Wednesday stood slightly off to the side of the group, speaking to two figures who did not match the team uniform at all.

A short, round man in a black pinstripe suit, hands animated even in quiet conversation. His hair slicked back, mustache sharp, eyes alive with dramatic intensity.

Beside him stood a tall woman in a long, elegant black coat that seemed to move like smoke when she shifted. Her hair was midnight, falling in a sleek cascade down her back. Pale skin. Striking features. Composed and devastatingly beautiful.

She looked like Wednesday, if Wednesday had been carved into something softer and more dangerous at the same time.

Enid stared.

“Are those her parents,” she murmured.

Yoko followed her gaze.

“Oh,” Yoko said softly. “That has to be them.”

The resemblance was undeniable.

Wednesday herself was not wearing the full Mexican ceremonial kit.

The rest of the delegation wore matching white jackets with green and red detailing. Coordinated scarves. Coordinated hats.

Wednesday wore black.

Black coat. Black trousers. Black boots.

The official team jacket was on her, technically.

But it was thrown over her shoulders like an afterthought, unzipped, hanging loose, as if someone had reminded her five minutes ago that she was contractually obligated to acknowledge it.

Even in a sea of color and coordinated patriotism, she looked like a deliberate shadow.

Enid’s jaw tightened slightly.

Does she really care that little.

The pinstripe man reached up and adjusted Wednesday’s collar gently. The elegant woman touched Wednesday’s cheek, thumb brushing just beneath her eye.

Wednesday did not pull away.

Her posture shifted almost imperceptibly. Less rigid. Less carved from stone.

Then the announcer’s voice boomed.

“ Mexico.”

The tunnel erupted in applause from nearby delegations.

The snowboarder lifted the flag higher.

The eight of them stepped forward.

Wednesday turned from her parents without hesitation and joined the line.

The elegant woman watched her go with something unreadable in her expression. Pride. Worry. Both.

The pinstripe man clasped his hands together like he was sending her into battle.

Enid watched Wednesday as they began to move.

The stadium lights spilled into the tunnel ahead. White and gold and blinding.

As Mexico emerged into the arena, the roar became something physical.

Seventy thousand people.

Music swelling.

Cameras flashing.

The giant screens catching each face in sequence.

The Mexican flag rippled enormous across the screens.

The snowboarder smiled wide, waving.

The skeleton athlete pumped a fist.

One of the skiers nearly cried.

Wednesday walked.

Not stiff.

Not reluctant.

Just steady.

Her face was composed. Calm. Almost serene.

But she did not wave.

She did not play to the cameras.

She did not reach for the attention that flooded toward her like heat.

The crowd recognized her anyway.

There was a visible surge in noise when her face hit the screen.

The prodigy.

Gold at sixteen.

History maker.

She did not change expression.

Enid felt something complicated twist in her chest.

The rest of the countries went and close to last finally her country as called

“United States of America.”

The tunnel exploded.

Nearly three hundred athletes surged forward in red, white, and blue.

Enid’s breath caught.

This was it.

She stepped into the light and the sound hit her like a wave.

Deafening.

Flags everywhere. Fireworks bursting above the stadium roof. The massive American flag carried at the front, rippling like a living thing.

She grinned without meaning to.

Waved immediately.

The screens caught her face.

She knew the angle by now. The cameras loved her left side.

Her brothers had already texted her about it.

Her phone had nearly melted earlier from notifications.

Youngest Olympic hockey star. Power forward with a smile. America’s new ice princess.

She spotted them in the stands almost instantly.

Five huge men in matching USA hoodies, waving like they were trying to direct air traffic.

Her brothers.

All five.

The ones who had put skates on her before she could spell her own name.

The ones who had shoved her into frozen ponds and told her to get back up when she fell.

Her parents stood beside them, crying openly.

Enid’s chest ached.

She waved harder.

Blew a kiss.

The screen zoomed in.

The roar increased.

Even in a delegation of nearly three hundred, the cameras lingered on her.

She felt it. The weight of it. The attention. The expectation. She loved it. Thrived in it. It made her stand taller. Her name echoed somewhere in the noise.

She laughed and pointed toward her brothers. Yoko shook her head fondly but waved too.

Divina looked overwhelmed but radiant.

They circled the stadium, soaking in light and sound and history.

As they completed their loop, Enid glanced across the field.

Mexico had gathered in their section.

The eight of them.

Wednesday stood slightly apart again.

Not distant enough to be rude.

Just enough.

The black against white jackets was striking even from far away.

She was not waving.

She was watching.

Her gaze moved across the stadium, calculating, absorbing.

For a split second, her eyes found Enid.

Across thousands of bodies.

Across two flags.

Across blinding lights.

Enid smiled instinctively.

Bright. Open. Unfiltered.

Wednesday’s expression did not shift.

But she did not look away.

The moment stretched.

Then fireworks erupted overhead.

Gold and green and red and blue cascading across the sky.

The crowd screamed.

The sound swallowed everything.

When Enid looked again, Wednesday had turned her face upward to the fireworks, black braids falling down her shoulders, the light reflecting in her dark eyes like distant stars.

She looked small.

Not fragile.

Just small.

And very, very alone.

Enid’s smile faded slightly.

She did not understand her.

Not the refusal.

Not the detachment.

Not the almost deliberate distance from everything that felt sacred to Enid.

But as the ceremony reached its crescendo and music shook the stadium, Enid realized something uncomfortable. Even standing in a sea of three hundred teammates. Even with cameras loving her.

Even with her family screaming her name.

Her eyes kept drifting back to the girl in black.

By the third night in the Village, Enid had been invited to five different parties.

She only said yes to one.

Bruno’s.

The message had come mid afternoon.

Village Block C. Tonight. Bring chaos.

Classic Bruno.

Enid changed three times before settling on dark jeans, a cropped Team USA hoodie, and boots that were technically not regulation anything but looked incredible.  She dyed her hair to be even more vibrant than usual. Streaks of pink and blue now took up the majority of the blonde. 

Music was already vibrating through the hallway when she got to Block C.

The door was open.

Inside, the apartment was packed.

Snowboarders. Skiers. A couple speed skaters. At least one bobsled athlete who looked like he could bench press a truck. Someone had dragged in extra speakers. Someone else had already started a drink station on the kitchen counter.

The air smelled like perfume, sweat, citrus alcohol, and adrenaline.

Enid grinned immediately.

“Sinclair!”

Bruno cut through the crowd like he owned oxygen.

He pulled her into a hug before she could even speak, lifting her slightly off her feet and spinning once.

“Missed you,” he said into her hair.

“Missed you too,” she said automatically.

Bruno Yuson was chaos in human form. Dark hair falling into his eyes. Sharp grin. Confidence that bordered on reckless but never quite crossed into arrogance. When they had met three years ago at a training exchange, they had clicked instantly.

Fast friendship.

Fast flirting.

Faster everything.

He grabbed her hand and dragged her deeper into the party.

“You have to meet like six new people,” he said. “Also someone brought Filipino snacks and I almost cried.”

Enid laughed and let herself be pulled along.

She loved this part.

The mingling. The energy. The shared insanity of being people who willingly hurled themselves down mountains or into blades on ice or into other people at full speed.

She talked to a Swedish skier about weather patterns.

A Canadian hockey player she had played against two seasons ago.

Two Italian figure skaters who kept saying Wednesday’s name in hushed, reverent tones.

She drank something citrus and strong.

Then something pink and sweeter.

Music got louder.

People started dancing in the tiny living room.

At some point Ajax appeared beside her like he had been summoned by the concept of competition.

“Well,” he said, handing her another drink, “if it is not America’s favorite forward.”

Enid snorted. “Do not start.”

Bruno appeared on her other side almost instantly. “She was my friend first.”

“You met at a training exchange,” Ajax said. “That barely counts.”

“We shared protein bars and mutual emotional damage,” Bruno said. “It counts.”

Enid rolled her eyes but smiled, heat buzzing under her skin from the alcohol and the music and the attention.

They both hovered close all night.

Ajax pulling her into loud group conversations. Bruno tugging her into smaller, closer circles. Ajax daring her into stupid party games. Bruno teaching her a few words in Tagalog between songs.

It was familiar.

Comfortable.

Easy.

By midnight, the apartment was chaos. Someone was singing. Someone had turned the lights down. The balcony doors were open to let cold air cut through the heat of bodies and movement.

Enid stepped outside to breathe.

Snow dusted the railings. The Village lights glowed gold and white across the complex.

The door slid open behind her.

Bruno stepped out, closing it halfway so the music became muffled bass.

“You okay,” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just. Needed air.”

He leaned beside her, shoulder brushing hers.

“You always do that,” he said.

“Do what.”

“Step away right before you get overwhelmed.”

She smiled faintly. “You notice everything.”

“I notice you,” he said easily.

He turned toward her.

Close now. Warm. Familiar.

She had kissed him before.

He touched her cheek.

“Hey,” he said softly.

And she let him kiss her.

It was gentle at first. Then deeper. Familiar hands at her waist. Familiar warmth. Familiar rhythm.

She kissed him back automatically.

Because this was what they did.

Because this was normal. Because this was safe. Because this was expected.

But halfway through, something in her chest twisted.

Not pain.

Wrongness.

Like wearing someone else’s jersey.

She pulled back first.

Bruno blinked slightly. “Hey. You good.”

“Yeah,” she said quickly. “Yeah. I just. I am tired.”

He studied her face, searching.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Walk you back.”

“You do not have to.”

“I want to.”

They walked back through the cold, quieter now, Village lights reflecting off packed snow.

At her building, he squeezed her hand.

“Big weeks coming,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Get sleep.”

“I will.”

He kissed her forehead.

Then headed back toward the party.

Enid watched him go.

Then went inside.

Her room was dark and quiet. Yoko was already asleep, headphones in. The hum of heating vents filled the space. Enid changed. Crawled into bed. Pulled blankets up to her chin.

She closed her eyes.

And dreamed.

Ice.

Dark rink. Empty. No crowd. No cameras.

Just sound of blades carving.

Wednesday skating.

Not in costume.

Not in competition gear.

Just black training clothes.

Faster than Enid had ever seen.

She landed one. Two. Three jumps chained together like physics was a suggestion.

Then she stopped.

Looked straight at Enid.

In the dream, Enid stood at center ice in boots. No skates. No gear. Just watching.

“You are loud,” Wednesday said.

Enid laughed. “You are small.”

Wednesday stepped closer.

Close enough Enid could see frost on her lashes.

“You kissed him,” Wednesday said.

Enid swallowed. “Yeah.”

Wednesday tilted her head.

“Did you want to.”

Enid opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

Wednesday reached out. Not touching. Just hovering near her jaw.

“You are lying to yourself,” she said quietly.

The rink lights flickered.

The ice cracked somewhere deep below.

Enid woke up, heart racing.

Dark room. Heater humming. Distant Village noise through the window.

She stared at the ceiling.

And knew, with a sudden, horrible clarity.

Something was changing.

And it had nothing to do with hockey.

Enid woke up feeling like her skull had been lightly sanded.

Not horrible.

Not great.

The kind of hangover that lived behind the eyes and pulsed politely every time she blinked too hard.

She groaned into her pillow, then rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

Practice.

Always practice.

It was muscle memory at this point. Bad game. Good game. Party. Fight. Stress. Nerves. Celebration.

Ice fixed things.

She dragged herself out of bed before her brain could argue, pulled on thermal layers, practice gear, hoodie, thick socks. Her body moved on instinct, autopilot built from years of early mornings and colder rinks than this one.

By the time she finished lacing her boots and slinging her hockey bag over her shoulder, she already felt better.

Movement helped.

Purpose helped.

The walk to the practice rink cut through pale early morning light. The Village was quieter. Not empty, but softer. Athletes moving slow. Coffee cups clutched like lifelines. Snow crunching under boots.

Her breath fogged in front of her as she pushed through the rink doors.

Cold hit her instantly.

Comfortable cold.

Home cold.

The rink lights were already on.

And someone was on the ice.

Enid stepped through the tunnel entrance and stopped.

Wednesday.

She was alone at center ice, dressed in all black training gear, sleeves pushed just slightly past her wrists. Hair braided tight. No makeup. No costume. Just pure athlete.

She moved.

Enid forgot to breathe.

Wednesday launched into a jump combination without warning. Fast entry edge. Snap rotation. Perfect landing, blade biting into ice with a sound Enid felt in her bones.

She flowed directly into footwork. Turns so fast they blurred. Edges so deep they carved pale ribbons into the surface.

Another jump.

Higher this time.

Quad.

Clean.

Enid’s mouth went dry.

Wednesday did not celebrate. Did not react. She just reset and did it again. And again. Like repetition was oxygen.

There were three other people at rink side.

The short man in the black pinstripe suit paced slowly, hands clasped behind his back, watching like a hawk.

The tall elegant woman stood perfectly still, arms folded, eyes never leaving Wednesday’s body alignment.

On the ice, near the boards, a red haired girl skated backward while holding a phone mounted on a stabilizer rig, tracking Wednesday’s movement with practiced precision.

She could not have been older than sixteen.

Freckles. Sharp eyes. Messy ponytail. Determined focus.

She did not look anything like Wednesday.

But she watched Wednesday like gravity depended on it.

Wednesday landed another quad and slid into a controlled stop, breathing hard but face composed.

The elegant woman called something in Spanish. Low. Precise. Correctional, not critical.

Wednesday nodded once.

Adjusted her starting position.

Reset.

The pinstripe man clapped once sharply. Encouraging. Dramatic even in quiet.

Enid stood there, hockey bag sliding slowly off her shoulder, completely transfixed.

She had seen footage.

Seen competitions.

Seen slow motion analysis videos online.

None of it felt like this.

None of it felt like watching someone casually break physics in real time.

Wednesday pushed off again.

The red haired girl tracked her perfectly, skating smooth arcs to keep her framed.

Wednesday landed another quad and this time, when she came out of it, her eyes flicked toward the tunnel.

Toward Enid.

She did not stop.

But she had noticed.

Of course she had.

Enid swallowed, suddenly hyper aware of herself. Of her messy bun. Of last night’s party still lingering faintly on her skin. Of the hockey bag digging into her shoulder.

She stepped fully into the rink seating area.

The pinstripe man noticed first.

He turned, eyes lighting up immediately, expression warm and curious all at once.

“Ah,” he said, voice rich and theatrical even at normal volume. “Visitor.”

The elegant woman turned next.

Her gaze was sharp. Assessing. Not unfriendly. Just deeply observant.

Enid suddenly felt like she was at a job interview she had not prepared for.

She shifted her bag and walked closer to the boards.

“Hi,” she said, suddenly aware she was talking to the parents of someone who could probably land a quad in her sleep. “I am Enid. Team USA hockey.”

The pinstripe man smiled like she had just told him excellent news.

“Gomez,” he said, offering his hand. “And this is Morticia.”

Morticia inclined her head slightly. Graceful. Controlled. Elegant in a way that made the rink lighting look cheap by comparison.

“Enid,” Morticia said. “Yes. We have heard your name recently.”

Enid blinked. “You have.”

Gomez smiled wider. “You hit people with admirable commitment.”

Enid laughed automatically. “Thank you. I think.”

Morticia’s dark eyes studied her face carefully, like she was reading subtext off Enid’s bones.

“And you are here early,” Morticia said.

“I always feel better after practice,” Enid said. “Even if I regret existing for the first fifteen minutes.”

Gomez chuckled softly.

On the ice, Wednesday launched into another pass.

The red haired girl skated toward the boards and stepped off carefully, still checking footage on her phone.

Up close, she looked even younger.

But her eyes were sharp. Focused. Protective in a way Enid did not expect.

She looked up at Enid.

“You are the hockey girl,” she said bluntly.

“Yeah,” Enid said. “I am the hockey girl.”

The girl nodded once, satisfied.

“Im Agnes,” she said.

Enid smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

Agnes glanced back toward Wednesday, who was resetting again at center ice.

“She likes the rink when it is empty,” Agnes said quietly.

Enid followed her gaze.

“Yeah,” Enid said. “I can see that.”

Wednesday pushed off again, black against white ice, small and lethal and precise.

Enid felt that same strange pull in her chest.

Admiration.

Annoyance.

Curiosity.

Something deeper she was not ready to name.

Behind her, Gomez leaned casually against the boards.

“You watch like an athlete,” he said conversationally.

Enid swallowed. “She is incredible.”

“Yes,” Morticia said softly.

On the ice, Wednesday landed another quad and this time, she did stop.

She stood still for a moment, breathing visible in the cold air.

Then she turned.

And skated toward them.

Slow. Controlled. Direct.

Enid’s stomach flipped for absolutely no good reason.

Wednesday stepped off the ice without breaking eye contact.

Up close, she looked flushed from exertion. Hairline damp. Eyes sharper than ever.

“You are early,” Wednesday said.

Enid shrugged. “Hangover cure.”

Wednesday’s eyes flicked over her once. Assessing. Not judging. Just cataloging.

Then she looked at her parents.

Then at Agnes.

Then back to Enid.

“This is my family,” she said simply.

Enid nodded. “I figured.”

Wednesday tilted her head slightly.

“You smell like citrus alcohol and regret,” she said.

Enid groaned. “Please do not say that in front of your parents.”

Gomez laughed out loud.

Morticia’s lips curved just slightly.

Agnes looked delighted.

Wednesday just watched Enid like she was trying to solve a puzzle she was not sure she wanted to finish.

And Enid realized, standing there in the cold rink air, hockey bag at her feet, hangover fading under adrenaline and something warmer and more dangerous,

She had not stopped thinking about this girl once.

The air between them shifted.

Subtle.

But real.

Enid bent to unzip her hockey bag, pulling out her skates. The familiar weight of them in her hands grounded her, steadied the strange flutter still living under her ribs from watching Wednesday skate.

“I can set up on the other side,” Enid said, nodding toward the far zone. “You can keep running programs. I will stay out of your way.”

Simple. Respectful. Athlete to athlete.

Wednesday did not even look at the far end of the rink.

“No,” she said.

Just that.

Enid blinked. “No like no thanks or no like you are done for the morning.”

Wednesday stepped past her toward the bench area and reached for her skate guards.

“No,” she said again. “I am finished.”

Gomez and Morticia exchanged a look Enid could not read.

Agnes’s shoulders tensed slightly.

Enid frowned. “You do not have to stop on my account.”

Wednesday sat and started unlacing her skates with fast, efficient movements.

“I do,” she said calmly.

Something cold slid into Enid’s stomach.

“Why,” Enid asked.

Wednesday pulled one skate off. Set it carefully in her bag. Reached for the other.

“I do not practice in sight of anyone else,” she said.

Not defensive.

Not embarrassed.

Just fact.

Gomez stepped forward slightly. “Querida, we can clear the rink if you prefer.”

Wednesday shook her head once. “No. I am done.”

Morticia studied Wednesday’s profile like she was reading a language no one else spoke.

Agnes stopped pretending to check footage and just watched Wednesday directly now.

Enid shifted her weight, irritation starting to spark.

“Okay,” she said. “But you do not have to leave.”

Wednesday stood, fully geared down now except for her gloves, and zipped her bag.

“Yes,” she said. “I do.”

She slung the bag over her shoulder and nodded once to her parents.

They moved immediately, like a unit.

Like this was routine.

Like this happened often.

They started toward the exit.

Enid’s chest tightened.

“Are you serious,” she said, sharper now.

Wednesday stopped.

Turned back.

“Yes,” she said.

Enid stepped closer without thinking. “You are really going to leave an entire Olympic practice rink because I walked in.”

Wednesday met her eyes.

“I am,” she said.

Enid huffed a disbelieving laugh. “That is insane.”

Wednesday’s jaw tightened just slightly.

Then she said it.

“I do not want to be seen with you.”

The words hit like a body check Enid never saw coming.

The rink suddenly felt too quiet.

Too big.

“What is that supposed to mean,” Enid said, voice dropping.

Behind Wednesday, Gomez went very still.

Morticia’s eyes flicked between them, sharp, alert.

Agnes looked like she wanted to disappear into the ice.

Wednesday held Enid’s gaze.

“It means,” she said evenly, “that it does not matter what it means.”

Enid stared at her. “That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one that matters,” Wednesday said.

Enid felt heat crawl up her neck.

“Okay,” she said. “Try again.”

Wednesday shifted the strap of her bag on her shoulder.

“The media,” she said, voice flat, controlled, “will turn anything into a story.”

Enid scoffed. “So.”

“So,” Wednesday said, “I am not interested in being part of yours.”

The words landed harder than Enid expected.

“Oh,” Enid said. “So that is what this is. You think I am some headline waiting to happen.”

“You are,” Wednesday said immediately.

“Wow.”

“You are new. You are photogenic. You are charismatic. You are already trending in three countries,” Wednesday said. “You are exactly the type of person they attach narratives to.”

“And you are not,” Enid shot back.

“I am,” Wednesday said. “And I have spent four years dismantling it.”

Enid’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

“So you just,” she said, voice shaking now, “avoid everyone. All the time. Forever.”

“Yes,” Wednesday said.

“That sounds miserable.”

“It is effective.”

Enid laughed again, but there was no humor in it.

“God,” she said. “You really do think you are better than everyone.”

Wednesday’s eyes flashed.

“I think,” she said, quieter now, more dangerous, “that I have sacrificed more than you can currently comprehend to be where I am”

The words hung there.

Heavy.

Sharp.

Enid stepped closer.

“You think I havent” she replied

“I think,” Wednesday said, “that you still enjoy this.”

She gestured vaguely. The rink. The Olympics. The spotlight. Everything.

Enid swallowed hard.

“Yeah,” she said. “I do.”

Wednesday’s expression did not soften.

“Idont,” she said.

The honesty of it landed like a punch.

Silence stretched between them.

Cold air. Quiet rink. The faint hum of overhead lights.

Enid’s voice dropped, softer now, hurt leaking through anger.

“Then whya er you even here?”

Wednesday’s gaze flicked over her face. Something unreadable moving behind her eyes.

Then she looked away first.

“It is safer,” she said quietly.

“For who,” Enid asked.

Wednesday did not answer.

She turned.

“Come,” she said to her family.

Agnes hesitated. Looked at Enid. Looked at Wednesday. Then followed.

Gomez gave Enid a small, apologetic nod as he passed.

Morticia held Enid’s gaze for one long, assessing second.

Then she followed her daughter out.

The rink doors closed behind them.

The sound echoed.

Enid stood there alone.

Skates still in her hands.

Chest tight.

Hangover completely gone, replaced by something sharper and heavier and infinitely more complicated.

She swallowed hard.

Then sat down heavily on the bench.

“Cool,” she muttered to the empty rink. “That was cool. Love that for me.”

But when she laced up her skates and stepped onto the ice, her edges felt just slightly off.

Enid skated until her lungs burned.

Hard stops. Fast transitions. Shot drills without a puck just to feel the motion. Crossovers sharp enough to spray snow across the boards.

She did not let herself think.

Thinking meant Wednesday’s voice replaying in her head.

I do not want to be seen with you.

She pushed harder.

By the time the rest of Team USA filtered in, she was drenched in sweat and running purely on stubbornness.

“Jesus,” Yoko said, stepping onto the ice beside her. “Did you sleep here.”

“Basically,” Enid muttered, skating another tight circle.

Yoko fell into stride beside her easily. “You look like you are trying to fight the ice.”

“Maybe I am,” Enid said.

Yoko glanced at her sideways. “What happened.”

Enid did not answer for a full lap.

Then it spilled out.

“She is so infuriating,” Enid said, breath sharp, angry energy buzzing under every word. “If she hates it so much, why even be here. Why compete. Why train like that if you hate the Olympics, hate the media, hate people. What is the point.”

Yoko let her ramble. The blonde clearly needed it/

“I mean seriously,” Enid continued, skating harder. “Do you know how many people would kill to be here. To carry their flag. To even qualify. And she just acts like it is all beneath her.”

“She refused flag bearer. She will not sit with her team. She will not practice if someone else is there. She literally said she does not want to be seen with me.”

Yoko slowed slightly. “She said that.”

“Yes,” Enid said. “Because apparently I am too much of a headline risk.”

Yoko winced. “Okay. That is… rough.”

Enid skated another lap, jaw tight.

“I just do not get it,” she said. “If you hate it so much. If it is so miserable. Why keep doing it.”

Yoko did not answer right away.

Finally, she said quietly, “Sometimes you dont get to just stop.”

Enid frowned but did not push it.

They finished practice in a blur.

By the time Enid made it back to the locker room, the adrenaline had burned off, leaving behind exhaustion and a lingering ache in her chest she refused to name.

The shower water was almost painfully hot.

She stood under it longer than usual, letting heat loosen muscles and quiet her head.

Steam filled the room. Teammates came and went. Lockers slammed. Someone laughed about breakfast options.

Eventually, Enid turned the water off and stepped out, wrapping a towel around herself, hair dripping down her back.

She padded toward the benches, bag half open, digging for clean clothes.

“Hey.”

Enid jumped.

Agnes stood just inside the locker room doorway, hovering awkwardly like she was not sure she was allowed to be there.

She had changed into jeans and an oversized hoodie. Her red hair was pulled into a messy bun now.

Enid blinked. “Uh. Hi.”

Agnes shoved her hands into her hoodie pocket. “I made sure no one else was coming in.”

Enid nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Silence stretched for a second.

Then Agnes said, very fast, “I want to apologize on Wednesday’s behalf.”

Enid froze slightly.

“You dont have to do that,” Enid said.

“I know,” Agnes said. “But I want to.”

Enid sat down slowly on the bench, towel still wrapped around her, suddenly very aware of how raw and human she felt standing in front of this kid.

Agnes stepped closer, nervous energy radiating off her.

“She is bad with people,” Agnes said bluntly.

Enid huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I noticed.”

“She is not trying to be mean,” Agnes said. “She is trying to be… safe.”

Enid looked up at her. “From me.”

Agnes shook her head hard. “From everything.”

She shifted, clearly choosing her words carefully.

“You asked why she even does this if she hates it,” Agnes said quietly.

Enid swallowed. “Yeah.”

Agnes leaned against the lockers across from her.

“Because she doesent get to stop,” Agnes said.

The same words Yoko had used.

Enid’s stomach tightened.

Agnes continued.

“She won gold at sixteen,” she said. “Everyone decided who she was after that. Sponsors. Media. National committees. Everyone.”

Enid listened, silent now.

“She tried to quit once,” Agnes said.

Enid blinked. “What.”

“After she turned eighteen,” Agnes said. “She was burned out. She could barely eat. Could barely sleep. Cameras followed her everywhere. Reporters camped outside her training rink.”

Enid caught that.

Agnes did not seem to notice.

“She told the federation she was done,” Agnes said. “They told her she could leave. But the funding for junior programs tied to her sponsorships would go with her.”

Enid’s chest tightened.

“So she stayed. THey already werent happy when a young upstart immigrated to the us when she was 12. But they found a way to make it work.” Agnes said simply.

Silence filled the locker room.

“She hates the media,” Agnes said. “Because they made her life into content before she was even an adult.”

Enid stared at the floor.

Agnes pushed off the lockers and stepped closer.

“She does not think she is better than you,” Agnes said quietly. “She thinks you are… bright.”

Enid looked up, startled.

“And she is scared the media will latch onto that,” Agnes said. “And ruin you. Or ruin her. Or both.”

Enid swallowed hard.

Agnes hesitated.

Then added softly, “She also does not know what to do with people she… notices.”

The words hung there.

Heavy.

Careful.

Enid’s pulse thudded in her ears.

Agnes shoved her hands deeper into her hoodie.

“My family,” she said, voice smaller now, “is weird. We are loyal. We protect each other. We are loving and open, but Wednesday… she has never much liked that last part.”

Enid nodded slowly.

“But Wednesday let me close,” Agnes said. “When I had nobody. When everyone else thought I was weird or annoying or too much. SHe took me in. WE started out just as friends, she would look ut for me and her younger brother pugsley. Soon I would spend all day with her and the family. My parents died when I was little and I had been in foster care ever since, invisible. Forgotten. But she saw me. About a year or so ago my adoption paoperwork finally went through. Im an addams now.”

She gave Enid a small, crooked smile.

“She might be pushing you away,” Agnes said. “Because she doesent know how not to. She found you interesting and that scared her.”

Enid sat there, damp hair dripping onto her shoulders, heart doing something uncomfortable and complicated.

“I still think she is infuriating,” she said quietly.

Agnes nodded. “Yeah. She is.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Agnes said, softer, “But she does not hate being here.”

Enid looked up.

“She just hates what comes with it,” Agnes said.

She pushed off the bench.

“I should go,” she said. “If she finds out I trauma dumped in a locker room she will pretend to disown me for like a week.”

Enid huffed a small laugh.

Agnes paused at the door.

Then added, without turning around, “She noticed you before you noticed her.”

Then she left.

Enid sat there alone.

Water still dripping from her hair.

Heart heavy.

Anger still there.

But now tangled with something else.

Something harder to hold onto.

The next stretch of days blurred into a compilation of moments Enid couldn’t quite separate from one another. She hadn’t seen much of Wednesday since that morning at the rink.

Between games, practices, press obligations, and spending time with teammates who actually wanted to be next to her, Enid barely had time to breathe — let alone hunt down one very small, very stubborn goth. Still, Wednesday lingered in the back of her mind like a song she couldn’t turn off.

It was stupid.
It was distracting.
It was constant.

Enid caught herself searching Wednesday online more times than she wanted to admit. Old skate programs. Old interviews. The medal ceremony from four years ago,  Wednesday standing stiff and unmoved while the crowd roared around her, like she existed in a different gravity than everyone else.

Enid watched that clip more than once.

Maybe more than five times.

She told herself it was curiosity.
Research.
Competitive scouting.

Not… whatever else it was.

She ran into Wednesday’s parents a few times in passing — hotel lobby, practice viewing stands, once outside the athlete dining hall. Every time, they treated her warmly. Morticia with her soft, knowing smile. Gomez with his booming enthusiasm, like Enid was a long time family friend.

It made the knot in Enid’s chest worse.

So she took it out on the ice.

Every shift was sharper. Faster. Harder. She scored relentlessly. Checked harder than she usually would. Fought for every puck like it had personally insulted her.

And it worked.

Team USA stormed through the preliminaries.

Win after win after win.

Five straight victories.

By the time they hit quarterfinals, commentators were calling them unstoppable. Calling Enid the heart of the offense. Calling her “feral in the best way.”

She didn’t feel feral.

She felt… loud inside. Like static.

And then she realized.

Today.

Today was the women’s short skate.

The realization hit her in the middle of warmups, stealing the air from her lungs for half a second.

Across the locker room, Divina was practically vibrating with nerves, fingers twisting the hem of her jacket.

“I’m going to throw up,” Divina muttered.

“You are not,” Yoko said calmly, sitting beside her and bumping their shoulders together. “You landed the combo clean yesterday.”

“That was practice. This is people watching me.”

“You like people watching you.”

“Not when they’re judging me.”

Yoko huffed softly. “You’ll be fine.”

Enid laced her skates slower than usual, trying not to think about what rink Wednesday would be warming up in right now. Trying not to picture her all black lines and precision and sharp edges  cutting silent arcs into perfect ice.

Trying not to wonder if Wednesday was thinking about her too.

She tied the last knot too tight.

“Easy, killer,” Yoko said, glancing over.

Enid forced a grin. “Just ready to play.”

But her stomach twisted anyway.

Because somewhere, in this same building, Wednesday Addams was about to step onto the ice.

And Enid didn’t know if she was more excited to watch her…

Or terrified of what would happen if they made eye contact again.

Enid told herself she was there for Divina.

And she was.
Of course she was.

But there was also a smaller, quieter part of her that wanted — needed — to see one very annoying, very infuriating little goth skate.

The arena lights dimmed slightly as the next skater was announced.

Wednesday stepped onto the ice like she belonged to it. Like the rink had been carved specifically for her edges.

Black costume. Sharp lines. No wasted movement.

No expression.

The music began.

And Wednesday moved.

Every jump — perfect.
Every landing — silent, controlled, absolute.
Every spin — centered like she was pinned to the axis of the world.

There wasn’t a flicker of hesitation. Not a single visible mistake. Not even a shaky edge.

And her face—

Blank.

Not cold.
Not nervous.
Not proud.

Nothing.

She looked like a machine executing code. Like something built for one purpose and one purpose only.

Precision.

Control.

Perfection.

Enid found herself gripping the railing harder and harder as the program went on, heart racing in a way she refused to examine.

When Wednesday hit her final pose, the arena erupted.

Wednesday didn’t react.

She just stood there, breathing slow and steady, waiting for the music to end like it was an inconvenience.

Her score flashed.

Incredibly high.

The kind of score that sucked the air out of the competition.

One by one, skaters followed.

One by one, they fell short.

A missed combo here.
A step-out there.
A fall.
Another fall.

No one even came close.

And then…

“Next to skate, representing the United States…”

Divina.

Enid straightened immediately, shouting with the rest of Team USA as Divina stepped onto the ice.

The program started strong.

Clean opening jump.
Beautiful spin.
Solid step sequence.

Enid felt hope bloom in her chest.

Then…

Divina’s blade caught wrong on the takeoff.

She fell hard.

The sound of it echoed.

She got up fast, shaking it off, pushing forward.

She made it through another pass.

Then the second fall came.

Worse.

Slower to get up this time. Enid felt her stomach drop. By the time Divina hit her final pose, the arena applause felt softer. Sympathetic. Not celebratory.

The score came up.

Lower.

Lower.

Lower.

23rd.

Enough to qualify for the free skate.

But nowhere near the podium.

Not even close.

The math was brutal. She would need a perfect free skate and half the field would need to collapse for a medal shot.

It was over.

Divina made it off the ice before she broke.

By the time Enid and Yoko reached her in the tunnel, she was already crying.

“I messed it up,” Divina choked. “I messed everything up. I failed you guys. I failed the team. I failed—”

“Hey,” Yoko said firmly, grabbing her shoulders. “Stop.”

Enid pulled her into a hug from the side, squeezing tight.

“You didn’t fail anyone,” Enid said, voice softer than she expected. “You qualified. You’re still in this.”

“I was supposed to medal,” Divina sobbed. “I was supposed to help us sweep. I was supposed to—”

“You’re human,” Yoko said. “Humans fall.”

Divina shook her head violently. “Not twice. Not when it matters.”

Enid pressed her cheek against Divina’s hair.

“You get back out there for the free skate,” she said quietly. “And you remind everyone why you’re here. Not for medals. Not for press. Because you love this.”

Divina’s hands fisted in Enid’s jacket.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be,” Enid said.

But as she said it, her mind betrayed her.

Flawless edges.
Perfect jumps.
Blank face.
Machine precision.

Wednesday.

Enid squeezed Divina tighter, like she could physically crush the comparison out of existence.

Divina didn’t speak the entire walk back to the locker room.

Her eyes were red. Mascara smudged. Shoulders curled inward like she was trying to make herself smaller, invisible.

Yoko walked ahead, jaw tight, scanning for press.
Enid stayed glued to Divina’s side, arm wrapped around her shoulders like a shield.

Reporters clustered near the hallway turn, cameras already lifting.

“Divina! Divina, how do you feel about the short program?”
“Do you think the fall cost you podium chances?”
“Was it nerves? Was it pressure?”

Yoko stepped forward immediately. “Not now.”

Enid pulled Divina closer. The rest of the girls closed ranks, forming a moving wall of team jackets and angry glares.

They got her into the locker room.

The second the door shut, Divina broke again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, over and over, like it was the only sentence she knew anymore.

“Hey,” Enid said, guiding her toward the showers. “Shower. Warm water. Reset. Okay?”

Divina nodded, hollow-eyed, and disappeared behind the frosted glass.

The rest of them lingered nearby, talking low, protective, angry.

Time passed.

Water shut off.

Divina came out changed, hair damp, face scrubbed raw pink. She looked exhausted. Fragile.

They moved out together again, carefully, checking corners for press like prey animals learning predator patterns.

The hallway near the service corridor was quiet.

Hidden.

Safe.

Mostly.

Enid was saying something soft to Divina when she felt it — that prickling sensation of being watched.

She looked up.

Wednesday stood at the far end of the hallway.

Hands folded behind her back.
Posture perfect.
Face neutral.

Watching.

Not smug.
Not cold.

Just… observing.

Like a scientist watching an experiment.

Yoko saw her a second later.

Her body went rigid.

“What do you want?” Yoko asked, stepping slightly in front of Divina.

Wednesday blinked once, like she hadn’t expected hostility.

She stepped closer, slow, deliberate.

Her eyes landed on Divina.

Her head tilted.

Like a cat hearing a strange noise.

“Why are you crying?”

The hallway went silent.

Enid stared at her.

“You did not just ask that.” Enid said, voice sharp with disbelief.

Wednesday frowned slightly, confusion pulling faintly at her brows.

“She qualified,” Wednesday said matter-of-factly. “She fell twice. That lowers technical and component scores. The outcome is statistically consistent with the mistakes made.”

Divina’s breathing hitched.

Enid felt heat rush into her chest.

“That’s not—” Enid stopped herself, then tried again. “She’s upset because this matters to her.”

“Of course it does, shes here, but the performance given was below standards and thus she received a lower score.”

Yoko stepped forward. “You need to stop talking.”

Wednesday looked between them, genuinely perplexed.

“She is responsible for her own performance,” Wednesday said calmly. “If she is distressed, the cause is internal. Not external.”

Divina made a small, wounded sound.

That did it.

“Are you seriously blaming her?” Enid snapped. “Are you that—”

“I am stating observable fact,” Wednesday said. “Emotional responses do not alter objective results.”

Enid took a step forward.

“So what, you think you’re better than everyone because you skate like a robot?”

Wednesday didn’t react to the insult.

“I am better at controlling variables,” she said simply.

Yoko laughed — sharp, humorless.

“You are unbelievable.”

“If you are attempting intimidation,” Wednesday said evenly, “you should be aware I am not easily…”

“Shut. Up.” Yoko’s voice dropped low and dangerous.

Enid’s hands had balled into fists.

“Maybe you should try feeling something,” Enid said. “Just once.”

Wednesday studied her face like she was trying to solve a math problem.

“I dont understand,” she said quietly.

There was no defensiveness in it.

Just… confusion

It somehow made it worse.

Tension coiled tight, ready to snap.

And then…

“Wednesday.”

Agnes.

She appeared from the side hallway, moving fast, eyes already assessing the situation.

She grabbed Wednesday lightly but firmly by the arm.

“We need to go.”

“I am in the middle of a conversation,” Wednesday said.

“No,” Agnes said under her breath. “You are in the middle of starting an international incident.”

Wednesday allowed herself to be turned, though she looked back once more at Divina, still confused.

Then she was gone.

Silence hung heavy in the hallway.

Yoko exhaled slowly.

“I swear to god,” she muttered, “if she says one more thing like that—”

“I know,” Enid said.

But her anger felt… tangled.

Because Wednesday hadn’t looked cruel.

She’d looked lost.

And Enid hated that almost as much.

Enid did something she knew was petty.

And she did it anyway.

Curled up on her bed in the dark, Olympic Village lights glowing faintly through the curtains, she opened her phone and typed:

Wednesday Addams controversy
Wednesday Addams rude interview
Why do people hate Wednesday Addams

She told herself it was curiosity.

It wasn’t.

The first article loaded fast.

Figure Skating Prodigy or Ice Queen?

Photos of Wednesday — mid spin, mid jump, mid stare — all sharp lines and blank expression. The article quoted an old press conference.

“I do not skate for the audience. Their presence is incidental.”

Enid grimaced.

“Okay,” she muttered. “Yeah. That’s… not great.”

She kept scrolling.

Forum threads.
Fan blogs.
Sports commentary panels.
Anonymous message boards.

She refused to smile for Make-A-Wish kids
She called the opening ceremony ‘a logistical waste of time’
She doesn’t congratulate other skaters
She walked out of an interview when they asked about inspiration

Someone had clipped a video from Beijing.

A reporter: “What does this gold medal mean to you?”
Sixteen-year-old Wednesday, barely taller than the mic stand.
“It means I executed my program successfully.”

The comments were brutal.

emotionless freak
thinks she’s better than everyone
no respect for the sport

Enid swallowed.

It was too easy to believe it.

Too easy to slot Wednesday into the villain role.

And yet…

She remembered the hallway.

The way Wednesday had tilted her head.

The confusion, not cruelty.

Enid locked her phone and tossed it onto the mattress.

“Whatever,” she whispered into the dark.

But sleep didn’t come easily.

Two nights later, Yoko dragged both Enid and Divina out of the Village.

“You two are getting real food,” Yoko declared. “And wine. And atmosphere. And absolutely zero sports journalists.”

The restaurant was small. Warm. Candlelit. Italian family place tucked into a side street in Cortina.

Divina looked overwhelmed in the best way.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, staring at the pasta menu like it was sacred text.

“You deserve carbs,” Enid said firmly.

They were halfway through appetizers when Enid felt it again.

That sensation.

Being watched.

She looked up.

Across the restaurant.

Corner table.

The Addams family.

Morticia, elegant as a painting, long black hair cascading over one shoulder.
Gomez, compact and intense, gesturing animatedly while talking.
Agnes, bright red hair pulled into a messy ponytail, laughing at something Gomez said.

And Wednesday.

Black sweater.
Black skirt.
Team Mexico jacket draped over her chair like she’d forgotten it existed.

She was eating slowly, methodically. Precise bites.

And she was already looking at Enid.

Their eyes met.

Enid felt her stomach flip — violently, annoyingly.

Wednesday didn’t smile.

Didn’t frown.

Just held eye contact like it meant nothing.

Like Enid was just another object in the room.

Enid looked away first, suddenly very interested in her risotto.

Across the room, Agnes definitely noticed.

It was almost an hour later when Enid stepped outside for air.

Cold mountain night.
Streetlights glowing in soft halos.
Distant laughter from other restaurants.

“Hey.”

Enid turned.

Agnes stood a few feet away, hands stuffed into her jacket pockets.

“Hi,” Enid said, cautious.

Agnes shifted awkwardly.

“I wanted to… apologize again. For earlier today.”

“You don’t have to keep doing that,” Enid said. “You didn’t do anything.”

Agnes shook her head.

“Yeah. But I know how she comes across.”

They stood in silence for a moment, breath fogging the air.

“She’s not a robot,” Agnes said finally. “I know people say that.”

Enid didn’t respond.

“She just…” Agnes searched for words. “She doesn’t process emotions the way most people do. She feels things. Deeply. Just… differently. She has never said she loves me or anyone. But we know she does. Through her actions and the little things she does. I swear she slow blinks at us like a cat when she thinsk we arent looking.”

Enid watched her carefully.

“She didn’t mean to hurt Divina,” Agnes added quietly. “She genuinely didn’t understand why she was crying. In her head it was like… cause and effect. Mistake equals lower score. Lower score equals disappointment. End of equation.”

Enid exhaled slowly.

“That sounds really lonely,” she said before she could stop herself.

Agnes’s expression softened.

“Yeah,” she said. “It is. We all help her out best we can but, its not easy.”

The question sat in Enid’s chest, heavy. All of this pounded familiar, so many tiktoks, articles and things she seen.

She hesitated.

Then…

“Is she… autistic?”

Agnes froze.

The street noise felt suddenly too loud. Too close.

“I don’t know if I should answer that,” Agnes said slowly.

“I wouldn’t tell anyone,” Enid said immediately. “I swear. I just— I want to understand.”

Agnes studied her face for a long moment.

Then sighed.

“…Yes,” she said quietly. “She was diagnosed when she was younger.”

Enid swallowed.

“But you can’t tell anyone,” Agnes said quickly. “And you can’t tell her I told you. She doesn’t hide it, exactly. But she doesn’t… advertise it. Because people either infantilize her or weaponize it. She would prefer if no one ever knew. I think sometimes deep down shes ashamed of it. Ashamed she doesent understand.”

“I won’t,” Enid said. “I promise.”

Agnes nodded.

“She’s not cold,” Agnes said. “She just experiences the world at like… ten thousand percent intensity and also zero percent at the same time. And she never learned how to translate that into something most people recognize.”

Enid thought of Wednesday skating.

Perfect. Controlled. Untouchable.

“Does she know people hate her?” Enid asked quietly.

Agnes gave a sad little smile.

“She knows,” she said. “She just decided a long time ago that being misunderstood hurts less than pretending to be someone she’s not.”

They stood there in the cold for a while.

When Enid finally went back inside, she didn’t look at Wednesday again.

But she felt her presence anyway.

Like gravity.

The quarterfinal game against Sweden started wrong. Enid knew it the second her skates hit the ice.

The arena was deafening.
Flags everywhere.
Spotlights sweeping.
Camera drones buzzing like mechanical insects.

Normally, she fed off it.

Tonight, it felt like static inside her skull.

“Sinclair, you good?” Yoko asked quietly during warmups.

“Yeah,” Enid said automatically.

She wasn’t.

Her passes were half a second late.
Her turns were too wide.
Her reaction time felt like she was skating through syrup.

The whistle blew.

Game on.

First period — she missed an open lane.
Second period — she whiffed a clean shot opportunity.
Third period — she tripped trying to pivot and nearly handed Sweden a breakaway.

Coach benched her halfway through the third.

Not permanently.
Not angrily.

But long enough to make the message clear.

Sit. Reset. Stop hurting the team.

She sat on the bench, helmet still on, chest heaving, watching the game happen without her.

Sweden tied it.

Then took the lead.

USA clawed one back with six minutes left.

Overtime.

Enid’s name got called again.

She pushed off the bench and forced herself back into the game, legs screaming.

And she played… fine.

Not great.
Not terrible.
Invisible.

Luckily the team captain scored the overtime winner.

4–3.

USA advanced.

The team piled onto the ice in celebration.

Enid skated in slower.

Relief washed through her.

Then dread. Because she already knew what was coming.

The media zone was worse than usual.

“Enid, what happened tonight?”
“Do you think the pressure is getting to you?”
“Is Team USA too reliant on you?”
“Are you distracted by off-ice drama?”

Flashbulbs popped nonstop. Microphones shoved closer. She answered automatically.

“Sweden played a strong game.”
“We’ll review tape and improve.”
“I trust my team.”

Meat answers. Safe answers. Dead answers.

Inside, she felt like she was shrinking.

Like she was being carved into marketable pieces.

Face for ads.
Smile for sponsors.
Goals for highlight reels.

Bad game?

Now she was content.

Failure content.

She finally got through the press tunnel and made it back into the athlete corridors, shoulders tight, throat burning.

She told herself she was used to this.

She wasn’t.

Not like this.

Not when it felt like the entire world had been waiting for her to mess up.

The headlines hit fast.

USA STAR STUMBLES IN QUARTERFINAL SCARE
IS SINCLAIR BURNING OUT?

She shouldn’t have checked.

She did anyway.

By the time she got back to the Village, she felt hollowed out.

The next morning, a reporter cornered Wednesday outside the practice rink.

It was supposed to be about the short program scores.

“Do you have any thoughts on any of the m,any other competitions so far beyond your own?”

Wednesday paused.

The reporter leaned in.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Wednesday spoke.

“Everyone has off days.”

The reporter blinked.

“I think you all are being too hard on Enid Sinclair. She is statistically one of the most dominant players in modern women’s hockey,” Wednesday continued, voice flat, precise. “Attempting to discredit her value based on one suboptimal performance is intellectually lazy.”

The reporter tried to recover. “Some analysts are saying she looked distracted—”

“Then those analysts should review longitudinal data instead of emotional narratives,” Wednesday said. “Or choose a different profession.”

She stepped past the microphones.

Conversation over.

Enid didn’t see the clip until Yoko shoved her phone into her face at breakfast.

“Dude,” Yoko said. “Your goth menace just committed murder.”

The video played.

Wednesday, small, severe, unbothered.

Defending her.

Publicly.

Without hesitation.

Enid’s chest tightened.

“Why would she do that?” Enid whispered.

Yoko shrugged. “Maybe she’s not a total asshole.”

Enid stared at the screen.

Wednesday looked exactly the same as always.

Emotionless.

Controlled.

But Enid thought about Agnes’s words.

She feels things. Just differently.

Enid locked her phone.

And for the first time since the quarterfinal game—

She felt something warm push through the hurt.

It took Enid almost an hour to work up the nerve.

She checked the common lounge.
The gym.
The outdoor courtyard.

Finally, she found Wednesday exactly where she should have expected—

At the far practice rink.

Alone.

Lights dimmed. Ice empty. No music.

Wednesday sat on the boards, skates unlaced, notebook open on her lap. She was writing something — probably jump ratios, edge corrections, some kind of mechanical poetry only she understood.

Enid hovered for a second.

Then cleared her throat.

Wednesday looked up immediately.

Direct eye contact.

No flinch.

No surprise.

“Yes?”

Enid stuffed her hands into her hoodie pocket.

“I saw the interview.”

Wednesday blinked once.

“Which one?”

“The one where you… verbally dismembered that reporter.”

A pause.

“Oh.”

Enid shifted awkwardly. “I just wanted to say thanks.”

Wednesday studied her face carefully, like she was trying to determine whether gratitude required a specific response protocol.

“You may think nothing of it,” Wednesday said. “I find the media intolerable. Their logic is inconsistent.”

Enid huffed a quiet laugh despite herself.

“Yeah. They kind of tore me apart.”

“They overcorrected,” Wednesday replied. “The narrative required tension. You provided a convenient variable.”

“You make it sound like I’m a lab rat.”

“You are,” Wednesday said simply. “So am I.”

That caught Enid off guard.

She sat down on the boards a few feet away.

“For what it’s worth,” Enid said, “it still meant a lot.”

Wednesday looked at her skates instead of at Enid.

“That was not my intention.”

Enid smirked faintly. “You’re bad at this.”

“At what?”

“Feelings.”

Wednesday considered that.

Enid swallowed.

“You didn’t understand why Divina was crying,” Enid said gently.

“No,” Wednesday admitted. “I understood the cause. I did not understand the magnitude of the reaction.”

“She’s scared,” Enid said. “This is her whole life.”

“It is mine as well.”

The words weren’t sharp. Just factual.

Enid glanced at her. “You don’t seem scared.”

Wednesday was quiet for a long moment.

Then…

“I am terrified constantly.”

Enid blinked.

Wednesday’s fingers tightened slightly around her notebook.

“If I do not execute perfectly, I am reduced to spectacle. If I execute perfectly, I am still reduced to spectacle. The margin between control and humiliation is… narrow.”

Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“I prefer control.”

Enid’s chest softened.

“Oh,” she said quietly.

They sat in silence for a moment.

The rink hummed faintly around them.

“So,” Wednesday said after a beat, “why were you distracted yesterday?”

Enid groaned softly. “You really just— okay.”

“I am asking sincerely.”

Enid hesitated.

“You,” she admitted.

Wednesday’s head tilted slightly.

“Elaborate.”

“I was mad at you. And confused. And I kept thinking about what you said in the hallway. And then I saw all the stuff people say about you online and—”

“You searched my name.”

Enid winced. “Maybe.”

“That was unwise.”

“No kidding.”

A faint pause.

“I am aware of the commentary,” Wednesday said evenly. “It is inefficient but predictable.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

Wednesday didn’t answer immediately.

“It is… unpleasant,” she said at last. “But pretending to be someone else would be more so.”

Enid looked at her fully then.

“You don’t hate me, do you?”

Wednesday frowned slightly.

“No.”

“But you act like you do.”

“I act the same way toward everyone.”

“That’s not comforting.”

A faint flicker passed across Wednesday’s face — not quite a smile, but something close.

“You are… louder than most,” she said. “More emotionally transparent. It is difficult to calibrate around you.”

Enid laughed softly.

“You make me sound like a neon sign.”

“You are.”

They fell into an easier quiet after that.

Not tense.

Just… present.

“Do you hate me?” Wednesday asked suddenly.

Enid thought about it.

About the hallway.
About the flawless skate.
About the interview defense.

“No,” Enid said finally. “I don’t think I do.”

Wednesday nodded once, like that solved something.

“That is statistically preferable.”

Enid rolled her eyes.

“You are impossible.”

“That has been suggested.”

They sat there a little longer.

Close enough that Enid could hear Wednesday’s breathing.

Steady.

Human.

Not a machine.

Not a monster.

Just a girl who felt things differently.

And maybe—

Maybe Enid didn’t actually hate her at all.

They sat in comfortable silence long enough that Enid almost talked herself out of it.

Almost.

She bumped her shoulder lightly against Wednesday’s.

“Hey.”

“Yes?”

“Do you… want to go do something?”

Wednesday turned her head slowly.

“Define something.”

“Like hanging out. Exploring. Getting out of the Village before I lose my mind and start body-checking furniture.”

Wednesday stared at her.

“Why?”

Enid blinked.

Then she chuckled, shaking her head.

“Because… we’re friends now. Aren’t we?”

That did it.

Wednesday went completely still.

Like someone had unplugged her.

“I…” Wednesday stopped. Recalibrated. “I do not believe I have ever been categorized as someone’s friend. Agnes was always more like a sister to me than she ever was a friend.”

Enid’s chest pinched.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “That tracks.”

Wednesday looked down at her hands.

“I have… acquaintances. Teammates. Competitors. Family.”

She hesitated.

“I am unsure what the operational difference is.”

Enid stood, then stepped closer, offering a hand.

“You’re gonna learn,” she said.

Wednesday stared at the offered hand like it might be a trap.

Enid wiggled her fingers.

“Come on, my blackc at princess.”

Wednesday raised one eyebrow.

“And what precisely does that make you?”

Enid grinned.

“Your emotional support golden retriever.”

Wednesday considered that.

“…Acceptable.”

She took Enid’s hand.

Her grip was cool. Firm. Grounding.

Milan at night felt like stepping into a movie set.

Warm yellow lights.
Stone streets.
Scooters buzzing past like chaotic fireflies.

They walked side by side, Team jackets swapped for normal coats, hats pulled low.

Wednesday moved with quiet certainty, like she already had the city mapped in her head.

“You’ve been here before?” Enid asked.

“Twice,” Wednesday said.  

She gestured subtly as they walked.

“That building is from the late 1800s. It survived multiple wars. The bakery two streets over makes acceptable cannoli but inferior espresso.”

Enid laughed.

“You’re like a haunted city tour guide.”

“I prefer ‘well-informed.’”

They stopped at a small bridge overlooking a canal.

Water reflected the lights like broken gold.

Enid leaned on the railing.

“This is… really nice.”

“Yes,” Wednesday said quietly.

They stood there, shoulders brushing occasionally when people passed behind them.

“So,” Enid said, “if you don’t have friends… what do you do when you’re not skating?”

“I read,” Wednesday said. “I fence. I write, I practice cello. I catalog historical crime cases. I spend time with Agnes and my brothers.”

“That’s the most you answer I’ve ever heard.”

“I am expanding my social scripts.”

Enid smiled to herself.

“You’re doing good, you know.”

“I am aware I am attempting.”

A group of tourists passed behind them.

Phones out.

Laughing.

One paused.

Looked again.

Whispered to another.

A camera lifted.

Click.

Another.

Click.

But Enid and Wednesday didn’t notice.

They were too busy existing in the same space without tension for the first time.

They drifted into a quieter side street, away from the tourist clusters and restaurant noise.

The city felt softer here.

Just footsteps.
Distant traffic.
The hum of night.

A streetlamp cast warm light across Wednesday’s face as she paused to look at an old church facade.

Enid found herself… staring.

Really staring.

Not the intimidating competition version of Wednesday.
Not the flawless skating machine.

Just her.

The slope of her nose.
The sharp cut of her cheekbones.

And—

Freckles.

Faint. Dusting across the bridge of her nose and high on her cheeks, almost invisible unless the light hit just right.

How had she never noticed those before?

They were…

God, they were adorable.

Wednesday turned slightly, catching her looking.

Enid didn’t look away fast enough.

Wednesday held her gaze.

And for a moment—

Wednesday forgot how to speak.

Enid’s eyes were bright even in low light. Blue, but not flat blue. Layered. Like ocean water where the sun hits differently in every ripple.

Wednesday cataloged details automatically.

Dilated pupils.
Relaxed facial muscles.
No threat posture.

And yet—

Her chest felt tight.

Not fear.

Something else. Something louder. Stranger. Harder to process.

Enid stepped a little closer without thinking.

Close enough Wednesday could see the tiny scar near her eyebrow. The faint pink from cold across her nose.

Enid reached forward—

And took Wednesday’s hand.

Wednesday flinched hard.

Not violent.

But immediate. Reflexive.

Like touching a live wire.

Enid dropped her hand instantly.

“Oh shit  sorry  I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Wednesday was breathing slightly faster now, eyes wide for just a second before she forced herself back into stillness.

“It is… fine,” she said automatically.

But it wasn’t.

Enid could tell.

“Do you not like being touched?” Enid asked gently.

Wednesday shook her head once.

“I do not like unexpected touch,” she corrected. “It is… overwhelming. My brain does not filter sensation the way most people’s do.”

Enid nodded slowly.

“Okay. Yeah. That makes sense.”

Wednesday watched her carefully, like she was waiting for the moment Enid decided she was too much work.

“I should have asked,” Enid said. “That’s on me.”

Wednesday blinked.

“You are not… upset?”

“No,” Enid said immediately. “I just want to know what’s okay and what’s not.”

Silence.

City noise distant around them.

“May I ask something?” Wednesday said.

“Yeah. Anything.”

“Why did you want to hold my hand?”

Enid flushed slightly.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just… felt like it.”

Wednesday absorbed that.

Filed it somewhere deep.

“…You may,” she said after a moment. “If you ask first.”

Enid smiled softly.

“Okay.”

They started walking again.

Not touching.

But closer than before.

And Wednesday didn’t move away.

They walked until the cold started biting through their coats.

On the way back, Enid bumped her shoulder into Wednesday’s again.

“You don’t hate me,” Enid said.

“No.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Correct.”

Enid smiled.

“Good.”

Wednesday hesitated.

Then, very quietly—

“I… enjoyed this.”

Enid’s heart did something stupid and dramatic.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

They kept walking.

Closer now.

Enids heart jumepd when felt it, a smaller skinnier pinky interlock with hers. It was ntfully holding hands. But it was connection. Wednesday didnt acknowledge it. SO she didnt either. But it made enids heart beat faster than it ever has. Even faster than going full speed down the ice.

Someone had been watching.

Across the street.

Behind a café window.

A paparazzi photographer lowered his camera.

Already uploading.

Back at the Village, neither of them checked their phones before bed.

If they had…

They would have seen the photos already spreading.

USA HOCKEY STAR AND MEXICO SKATING PRODIGY SPOTTED TOGETHER IN MILAN

Enid was dreaming about blue light on water.

About freckles.

About almost touching.

And then…

She hit the floor.

Hard.

“What the—”

“Wake up,” Yoko snapped.

Enid groaned, tangled in blankets half off the bed.

“Assault is illegal in italy too ya know.”

“Shut up and look.”

Yoko shoved her phone directly into Enid’s face.

The screen was already open.

Already scrolling.

Already exploding.

Photos.

High-resolution.

Crystal clear.

Enid and Wednesday on the bridge.
Walking side by side, pinkines interlocked.
Standing too close under the streetlamp.
Enid staring at Wednesday like she’d forgotten how oxygen worked.

Another angle…

Wednesday looking back.

Not blank.

Soft.

That one was worse.

Headlines screamed beneath them.

OLYMPIC RIVALS SPOTTED IN SECRET MILAN DATE?
USA HOCKEY STAR AND MEXICO’S ICE QUEEN: FRIENDS OR MORE?
DISTRACTION EXPLAINS QUARTERFINAL SLUMP?

Enid sat up slowly.

“Oh.”

“That’s it?” Yoko demanded. “‘Oh’?”

Enid scrolled.

More images.
Zoomed crops.
Comment threads moving faster than she could read.

Speculation.
Shipping hashtags.
Conspiracy theories about “strategic alliance narratives.”

“She looks at you like you’re a math problem she actually wants to solve,” Yoko muttered.

Enid’s stomach flipped.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what? True?”

Enid kept scrolling.

There it was.

A side-by-side comparison.

Quarterfinal “distracted” Enid.

And then the Milan photo.

IS SINCLAIR’S FOCUS COMPROMISED?

Her jaw tightened.

“Of course they’d twist it,” she muttered.

“They’re already calling it a rivalry-turned-romance arc,” Yoko said. “Which is insane. You guys talked for like… what? Two hours?”

“Three,” Enid said automatically.

Yoko stared at her.

“…Shut up.”

Enid dropped back onto the mattress, phone still in her hand.

Her heart wasn’t racing from embarrassment.

It was racing because…

She didn’t regret it.

Not a second of it.

That scared her more than the headlines.

Across the Village, in a quieter room, Wednesday was also awake.

Not because she’d been shoved.

Because Agnes had knocked.

Once.

Then opened the door without waiting.

“You need to see this,” Agnes said carefully.

Wednesday took the phone.

Scrolled.

Paused on the bridge photo.

Analyzed it.

Angles. Distance. Lighting.

Narrative framing.

“I see,” she said.

Agnes watched her closely.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

Pause.

“…No.”

Agnes softened.

“Are you upset?”

“I am… uncertain.”

She zoomed in slightly on one image.

Enid looking at her like she was something fragile and brilliant at the same time.

Wednesday’s pulse ticked faster.

“That expression,” she murmured.

Agnes leaned closer.

“Yours or hers?”

Wednesday didn’t answer.

Instead she scrolled further.

The commentary grew uglier.

Media stunt.
Strategic PR move.
Sinclair using Addams for headlines.

Wednesday’s jaw tightened.

“That is statistically improbable,” she muttered.

Agnes exhaled slowly.

“It’s going to get louder before it gets quieter.”

Wednesday handed the phone back.

“They are incorrect,” she said.

“About what part?”

Wednesday hesitated.

“…It was not strategic.”

Agnes smiled slightly.

“No,” she agreed. “It didn’t look strategic.”

Back in Enid’s room, her phone buzzed again.

Text from Divina.

ARE YOU DATING THE ICE QUEEN???

Another from her publicist.

We need to talk immediately.

Enid closed her eyes.

“Well,” Yoko said dryly. “Congrats. You survived Sweden. Now you get to survive the internet.”

Enid stared at the ceiling.

“Do you think she’s freaking out?” she asked quietly.

Yoko studied her.

“You don’t look freaked out.”

“I’m not.”

That was the problem.

And somewhere in Milan, media vans were already repositioning.

Because now?

It wasn’t just about medals.

It was about the story.

And Enid Sinclair and Wednesday Addams had just become one.

Enid expected silence.

That was the thing.

She expected Wednesday to disappear.

Hide in practice rinks.
Ignore messages.
Pretend the Milan night never happened.

That was what Wednesday did with everything else.

But by late morning, the narrative shifted.

Hard.

Enid was in the team lounge when Yoko’s phone buzzed.

Then Divina’s.

Then three other teammates’.

Then Enid’s.

“Uh,” Divina said slowly. “Guys?”

Yoko opened the clip first.

“Oh,” she said. Then louder: “Oh.”

Enid grabbed her own phone.

Hit play.

Wednesday stood outside the figure skating practice entrance. Reporters clustered like vultures. Microphones out. Questions already flying.

“Wednesday, are you and Enid Sinclair romantically involved?”
“Is this affecting your training?”
“Is this an Olympic distraction?”

Wednesday waited until they were done. Then spoke.

“Is it truly so unacceptable,” she said evenly, “for two people to spend time together?”

The reporters went silent.

“We do not compete against each other,” she continued. “We participate in entirely separate sports. The narrative you are attempting to construct is both illogical and invasive.”

Someone tried to interrupt. Wednesday talked over them.

“It is not the responsibility of athletes to perform emotional theater for public consumption. Privacy is not suspicious behavior. It is a basic boundary.”

A reporter tried again. “So you’re confirming you and Sinclair ar....”

“I am confirming,” Wednesday said, “that you are behaving like underdeveloped vultures.”

Someone choked on a laugh.

Cameras kept rolling.

“If that is all,” Wednesday finished, “I have training.”

She walked away.

Unbothered.

Untouchable.

Absolute chaos erupted behind her.

The lounge was dead silent when the video ended.

Then Yoko said, very quietly:

“…She just declared war on sports media.”

Divina looked stunned. Enid just stared at the screen. Heart pounding. Chest tight. Warm. Terrified.

“Holy shit,” she whispered.

By lunch, it was worse.

Better.

Louder.

Every sports channel replaying the clip.
Think pieces already forming.
Comment sections split between outrage and admiration.

Enid grabbed a tray in the cafeteria, barely tasting anything she put on it.

Eyes everywhere. Whispers everywhere. She sat at her team table. Tried to act normal. Failed. And then—

The room shifted.

Not loudly.

Just… subtly.

Like a pressure drop.

Enid looked up.

Wednesday stood at the cafeteria entrance.

Hands folded behind her back.

She scanned the room once.Then walked straight toward Enid. Not fast. Not slow. Deliberate. People stared. Phones lifted. No one stopped her. She stopped at the edge of Enid’s table. Enid’s teammates went completely silent.

Wednesday looked directly at Enid.

“May I sit with you,” she asked calmly, “alone?”

The cafeteria might as well have exploded.

Enid blinked.

“Uh.”

Yoko kicked her under the table.

“OW— Yes,” Enid said quickly. “Yeah. Yes.”

Wednesday nodded once.

Then looked at the rest of Team USA.

“Thank you for your cooperation.”

It wasn’t rude.

It wasn’t warm.

It was… formal.

Yoko stared at her like she was a particularly interesting wild animal.

Then slowly stood.

“Let’s go, girls,” Yoko said.

The team filed out.

Not because they had to.

But because something about Wednesday made it feel inevitable.

Within thirty seconds, it was just the two of them.

And about fifty athletes pretending not to stare.

Wednesday sat across from Enid.

Carefully.

Composed.

But her fingers tapped once against the table — fast, nervous.

“You look distressed,” she said.

Enid let out a breathless laugh.

“You just told the entire global sports media to go to hell.”

“They were already there.”

Enid leaned forward slightly.

“Why did you do that?”

Wednesday held her gaze.

“Because they were incorrect.”

“And?”

“And because,” Wednesday said carefully, “you did not deserve to be treated as disposable narrative material. I am accustome to the feeling. It is not…pleasent.”

Enid’s throat tightened.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Wednesday said simply. “I did.”

Silence. Heavy. Important.

And then Wednesday added, quieter:

“I would prefer if you did not regret spending time with me.”

Enid felt her heart absolutely shatter and rebuild at the same time.

“I don’t,” she said immediately. “I don’t regret it at all.”

Wednesday nodded once.

Like she’d needed to hear exactly that.

Around them, the cafeteria buzzed with quiet, shocked whispers.

But at their table…

It felt strangely calm.
“Im hated not just by the media here, but my own team, by the media from mexico. When I moved to the us with my family When i was 12 they saw it as a betrayal. That I was jumping ship. Even though I ekopt representing mexico they saw me as a sell-out. My parents are wealthy, absurdly so, the saw me as a spoiled rich princess who immigrated for free. They ahte that I win, because it invalidaters their small town hero stories.”

Enid paused for a moment thinking on this. “Yeah that is rough id imagine, but I dont think your so abd after all addams. Although you re kinda a princess.”

“ I am not.” WEdnesday responded quickly.

“You absolutely are, I asaw how your father treats you, definitely daddys little princess.” Enid chuckles.

WEdnesday huffs,clearly annoyed but doesent comment on it further.

The semifinal game felt like coming back to life.

The arena roared the second Enid stepped onto the ice.

But this time…

The noise didn’t drown her.

It sharpened her.

She felt fast.
Focused.
Grounded.

Like all the static from the last week had burned away.

Czechia came out aggressive. Physical. Fast.

Didn’t matter.

First period — Enid stole a pass at center ice, cut inside, snapped a shot top shelf.

1–0 USA.

Second period — power play. Yoko fed her cross-ice. One-timer.

2–1 USA.

Third period — breakaway after a brutal neutral zone hit that sent a Czech defender spinning.

Enid deked left. Pulled right. Slid it five-hole.

3–2 USA.

The bench exploded.

USA added two more late goals.

Final.

5–2.

They were going to the gold medal game.

Postgame media tried to spin it into redemption narrative gold.

SINCLAIR SILENCES CRITICS
FROM QUARTERFINAL STRUGGLE TO SEMIFINAL DOMINANCE

Enid smiled. Said the right things.

But inside?

She felt… steady.

Not invincible.

Just… like herself again.

That night, celebration spilled into one of the athlete lounges.

Music too loud.
Lights too bright.
Medal energy everywhere.

Yoko had an arm slung around Divina’s shoulders, already tipsy and loudly declaring Divina would “absolutely murder the free skate.”

Ajax was holding court with three snowboarders and gesturing wildly with a drink.

Enid laughed. Let herself relax.

For the first time all Games.

And then—

“Hey”

Bruno.

He walked up beside her, smelling like expensive cologne and way too much alcohol.

“Hell of a game,” he said, grin easy, familiar.

“Thanks,” Enid said carefully.

They had history.

A few years.
Off and on.
One night, once, that had blurred into something neither of them really talked about.

He stepped closer.

“You look like you could use… celebrating.”

Enid shifted back half a step.

“I am celebrating.”

“With me,” he said, reaching for her waist.

She caught his wrist before he could.

“Bruno.”

“Come on,” he said, voice low, insistent. “You and me, we had fun last time.”

“I said no.”

He laughed like she was joking.

“You’re stressed. I get it. But you don’t have to…”

“I said no,” she repeated, firmer.

He leaned closer anyway.

Clearly drunk.
Clearly not reading the room.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t like it last time…”

“Step away from her.”

The voice cut through the music like glass.

Bruno blinked.

Turned.

Wednesday stood a few feet away.

Still.
Silent.
Eyes locked on him with surgical precision.

Bruno scoffed. “You her bodyguard now?”

“No,” Wednesday said calmly. “I am someone who understands consent.”

The air shifted.

Bruno rolled his eyes, muttered something under his breath, and backed off.

“Whatever,” he said, stumbling away toward the bar.

Enid let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Wednesday turned to her.

“You appeared uncomfortable,” she said.

“I was,” Enid admitted.

“Would you like to leave?”

God, yes.

“Yeah,” Enid said. “Yeah, I would.”

They walked back to the Village mostly in silence.

Not awkward.

Just… decompressing.

Inside Enid’s room, the noise of the Games felt far away.

Enid flopped onto her bed, groaning.

“I think I’m socially exhausted.”

Wednesday sat carefully in the desk chair.

“That is understandable.”

Enid rolled onto her side, facing her.

“Thanks. For… that.”

“You said no,” Wednesday said simply. “He did not stop. That is unacceptable.”

Enid smiled softly.

“You’re kind of terrifying when you’re protective.”

“I am always terrifying,” Wednesday corrected.

Enid laughed.

They talked.

About hockey systems.
About jump rotations.
About growing up different.
About Agnes.
About Enid’s brothers.
About pressure.
About fear.

Hours slipped by without either noticing.

At one point, Enid asked softly:

“Are you excited for free skate?”

Wednesday thought for a long moment.

“I am prepared,” she said.

Which, for her, meant everything.

Eventually, they were both sitting on the floor, backs against the bed, knees almost touching.

Comfortable.

Easy.

Real.

“The 19th,” Enid said quietly.

“Yes.”

“Free skate.”

“And your gold medal game.”

Enid nodded.

“Big day.”

“Yes,” Wednesday said.

A pause.

Then, softer:

“I would like to watch your game.”

Enid’s chest warmed.

“I want to watch you skate.”

Wednesday nodded once.

Agreement.
Promise.

Over the next several days, something shifts so gradually neither of them can point to when it started.

It isn’t one moment.
It isn’t one conversation.
It’s a hundred tiny ones.

Breakfast trays pushed together without asking.
Silent walks between venues where Enid hums under her breath and Wednesday doesn’t tell her to stop.
Late-night texts that start as logistics and end as… something softer. Stranger. Warmer.

At first, it’s practical.

They run into each other after practice.
They sit together because every other table is full.
They walk out together because the hallway is crowded and loud and it’s easier to move as one unit.

Then it stops being practical.

Enid starts automatically scanning rooms for black braids and pale eyes before she even realizes she’s doing it.
Wednesday starts adjusting her schedule — minutely, invisibly — so she “happens” to be near Enid’s rink exit when practice ends.

Neither of them mentions it.

They become a pattern.

If Enid isn’t at training or competing, she’s with Wednesday.
If Wednesday isn’t training or competing, she’s with Enid.

Study rooms.
Hallways.
Cafeteria corners.
Outside on concrete steps in the cold, shoulders almost touching but not quite.

At first people stare because it’s strange.

Then people stare because it’s constant.

By day three, teammates start making comments.

“Didn’t you two hate each other?”
Enid laughs too loudly and changes the subject.

By day four, reporters start asking questions again.

Wednesday answers them directly, eyes sharp and voice flat:

“Is it illegal to have a conversation with another athlete?”

By day five, the media stops pretending it’s casual interest and starts calling it a storyline.

Rivalry turned friendship.
Friendship turned… something else?

They don’t talk about it.

Not the headlines.
Not the whispers.
Not the cameras that linger too long.

Because when they’re together, everything else feels… distant. Muted. Unimportant.

One afternoon, Enid ends up in Wednesday’s practice gym, sitting cross-legged on cold flooring while Wednesday retapes her fingers.

“You know people think we’re dating now,” Enid says lightly.

Wednesday doesn’t look up.
“People think many incorrect things.”

Enid grins. “You didn’t say no.”

Wednesday pauses.

Just for a second.

“…I didn’t say yes either.”

And somehow that feels heavier.

They learn each other in fragments.

Wednesday learns Enid hates silence when she’s nervous.
Enid learns Wednesday memorizes exit routes in every building they enter.
Wednesday learns Enid stress-eats sour candy before competitions.
Enid learns Wednesday rereads the same poetry books when she can’t sleep.

They don’t call it bonding.
They don’t call it friendship.

But they start moving through space like two magnets that stopped resisting.

People notice.

Athletes start giving them space automatically at meals.
Coaches exchange looks.
Commentators start using phrases like unlikely duo and inseparable off the ice.

Media outlets absolutely lose their minds.

Photos.
Clips.
Speculation threads.

Side-by-side shots of them walking.
Slow-motion footage of Enid laughing at something Wednesday said.
Freeze frames of Wednesday looking at Enid like she forgot other people exist.

They don’t care.

Not really.

Because the world shrinks when they’re together.

Noise fades.
Pressure fades.
Expectations fade.

It becomes:

Enid’s bright voice.
Wednesday’s low, dry replies.
Shared glances.
Almost-touching hands that neither of them comments on.

One night, they end up sitting on the floor of Enid’s room, backs against the bed, sharing a box of takeout neither of them is really eating.

They’re not talking.

Not really.

Just existing in the same space.

And it feels—

Easy.

Too easy.

Dangerously easy.

By the time the 19th is close enough to feel real, neither of them remembers what it felt like to not look for the other in every room.

They started as rivals.
Then annoyances.
Then reluctant allies.

Now?

Now they’re just…
Together.

Any time they can be.

And for the first time, neither of them is trying to pull away.

Two girls sat quietly on the edge of the biggest days of their lives.

And neither of them felt quite so alone anymore.

The Village was quiet, shadows stretching long across the hallways.
Wednesday sat cross-legged on her bed, notebook open but blank.

Agnes perched on the edge of the desk. “You’ve been quiet all evening. More than usual.”

Wednesday glanced at her. “I have been observing Sinclair’s behavior patterns and our interactions. Something… irregular is occurring in my chest cavity.”

Agnes raised an eyebrow. “Chest cavity? You mean your heart?”

Wednesday tilted her head. “Yes. It is… fluttering.”

Agnes blinked. “Fluttering?”

“Yes,” Wednesday said carefully. “When Sinclair smiles, when she laughs, when she speaks casually… my heart… skips, or accelerates. I cannot reconcile this reaction with previous models of interpersonal connection. It is… uncomfortable. And distracting.”

Agnes grinned softly. “You’re saying she makes your heart stutter.”

Wednesday paused, considering it like a chess move. “I suppose… that is an accurate assessment.”

“You’ve never felt this way about anyone before,” Agnes pressed gently. “Maybe you… like her?”

Wednesday’s frown deepened. “Like her? That is an illogical concept. I do not indulge in emotional attachment.”

“Maybe this is different,” Agnes said. “Maybe it’s… not something you can control. Something new.”

Wednesday stayed silent. Her gaze lingered on the floor for a long moment. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, she nodded. “Perhaps… this is indeed new. Perhaps I… care more than is customary. Perhaps I… have developed feelings for Sinclair.”

Agnes smiled knowingly. “There it is. Welcome to chaos.”

Wednesday exhaled slowly, a strange mix of calculation and something else entirely. Something… unfamiliar.

“Yes,” she said finally. “Chaos.”

Across the Village, in a different building, Enid sat on the balcony with Divina and Yoko. The Milan lights stretched across the night. The quiet was rare, a pause before the storm of the 19th.

“You’ve been acting… weirdly distracted,” Yoko said, nudging her lightly.

Enid laughed nervously. “You think? Between skating, hockey, media… I don’t know how I’m supposed to focus.”

Divina leaned back. “It’s more than that, isn’t it?”

“I… don’t know,” Enid admitted, staring out over the rooftops. “I keep thinking about… Wednesday.”

Yoko blinked. “Addams?”

“Obviously,” Enid said. “I can’t stop thinking about her. The way she looks at things, the way she… doesn’t care about anything except what matters to her. I don’t know when it happened, but I feel… like I want to be around her. And I don’t just mean hanging out. It’s…”

Divina’s eyes softened. “It sounds like you’re saying… you’ve started falling for her.”

Enid laughed nervously, hiding her face in her hands. “That’s terrifying. I’ve never felt like this about anyone. I don’t even know if she… feels the same.”

Yoko shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You can’t control that. But yes. You’re definitely falling.”

Enid peeked up, taking in the city lights again. “It’s… scary. But it also feels right. Like… I can’t explain it.”

Divina smiled gently. “Then maybe that’s the point.”

Enid exhaled, letting it sink in. “Yeah. Maybe it is.”

Both girls, in separate rooms, stared at the night sky.

Wednesday, aware of her heartbeat in a way she never had been.
Enid, aware of her thoughts, her chest, her mind replaying moments together.

Both wondering.
Both realizing.
For the first time in their lives… they were falling for each other.

The 19th loomed.
But for once, it didn’t feel terrifying.
It felt… inevitable.

The morning comes too fast.

It’s still dark when Enid’s alarm goes off.

For a split second she doesn’t remember where she is.

Then it crashes back in.

Gold medal game.
Canada.
The 19th.

Go time.

The hockey team moves through the olympic village duffel bags slung over shoulders, headphones in, jaws tight. There’s laughter, but it’s thin. Controlled.

Enid laces her skates with steady hands.

She feels… calm.

Not because it isn’t important.

Because it is.

And because she knows something else is waiting on the other side of it.

The hallway outside the rink smells like ice and adrenaline.

The team gathers near the tunnel entrance, sticks tapping lightly against the floor. The muffled roar of the crowd seeps through the walls.

Canada’s already on the ice warming up.

Enid bounces lightly on her skates, trying to bleed off nervous energy.

Then…

A shift in the air.

She feels it before she sees it.

Enid turns.

And there she is.

Wednesday.

Dressed in her free skate costume — black fabric sharp and elegant against her pale skin, braids perfectly set tied at the back of her head with a dark ribbon. accentuated with a dark liner accentuating eyes that look… focused.

Severe.

Beautiful.

Composed.

She shouldn’t be here.

Her event is hours from now.

She qualified first in the short program — which means she skates last tonight.

The final performance.

The one everyone waits for.

And yet.

She’s here.

Enid blinks. “What are you doing here?”

Wednesday steps closer, ignoring the curious glances from teammates.

“I came to wish you good luck,” she says evenly.

Enid’s mouth tilts. “You don’t believe in luck.”

“I don’t,” Wednesday agrees. “But statistically speaking, morale can improve performance by up to eight percent.”

Enid laughs softly. “So I’m a science experiment?”

“You are,” Wednesday says. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

The noise of the arena fades into a low hum.

They’re standing too close now.

Close enough that Enid can see the faint shimmer of makeup on Wednesday’s eyelids. Close enough to notice the way Wednesday’s normally rigid posture softens — just slightly — when their eyes lock.

“You’re going to win,” Wednesday says quietly.

It isn’t encouragement.

It’s certainty.

Enid’s heart stutters.

“And then,” Wednesday continues, voice lower, “I expect you to attend my free skate.”

Enid swallows. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

They’re closer now.

Almost without realizing it.

Enid leans in first — just a fraction.

Wednesday doesn’t step back.

Their faces hover inches apart.

Enid can feel Wednesday’s breath.

Cool. Steady.

Wednesday’s eyes drop to Enid’s mouth.

It would be so easy.

Just a little closer.

Just—

“Sinclair!”

The sharp bark of her coach’s voice slices through the moment.

Enid jerks slightly, reality snapping back into place.

Her team is lining up.

It’s time.

She turns halfway toward the tunnel — then looks back.

Wednesday hasn’t moved.

Hasn’t blinked.

Enid skates backward a step, grin spreading despite the adrenaline roaring in her veins.

“Win first,” she says softly. “Then watch me win.”

Wednesday tilts her head.

“I already did.”

Of course she did.

Enid laughs breathlessly. “Show-off.”

She turns fully now, gliding toward the ice entrance.

Then she calls back over her shoulder:

“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll see you after we beat Canada.”

Wednesday’s expression shifts — something sharp and private and almost vulnerable.

“I’ll be watching,” she says.

The tunnel lights flare.

The crowd explodes as the team bursts onto the ice.

Enid doesn’t look back again.

She doesn’t need to.

Because somewhere in the stands, dressed in black and waiting for her own moment hours from now, Wednesday Addams is watching.

And for the first time in her life, Wednesday feels something dangerously close to hope.

Backstage, the energy is different from the brutality of the rink earlier.

Less chaos.
More quiet terror.

Divina sits on a folding chair near the warm-up area, shoulders stiff beneath a pale lavender costume that catches the light when she moves.

She scored low in the short program.

A stumble on her combination jump.
A shaky landing.

It put her near the bottom of the standings.

Which means tonight—

She skates early.

Before the crowd is fully settled.
Before the tension peaks.

Before Wednesday.

Divina adjusts the crystals at her wrist, jaw tight.

She doesn’t look up when footsteps approach.

But she feels them.

Measured. Familiar.

She sighs softly. “If you’re here to gloat, do it quickly.”

Silence.

Then…

“I am not here to gloat.”

Divina blinks and looks up.

Wednesday stands in full costume now, black fabric absorbing the light, expression unreadable as ever.

For a second, neither of them speaks.

The air between them still holds weeks of rivalry. Sharp edges. Pride. Competition.

Wednesday steps closer.

“I owe you an apology,” she says.

Divina’s brows lift.

That… she wasn’t expecting.

“For?” Divina asks cautiously.

“For what I said… after the short” Wednesday replies. “And for assuming your performance in the short was reflective of your ability.”

Divina searches her face for sarcasm.

Finds none.

Wednesday continues, voice even but quieter now.

“You are technically precise. Your edges are clean. Your extension is superior to most of the field.”

Divina stares.

“…Are you complimenting me?”

“Yes.”

The word is immediate. Flat. Undeniable.

A beat passes.

Then Wednesday adds, almost stiffly:

“You will skate well tonight.”

Divina lets out a short breath through her nose. “That’s optimistic.”

“It is statistical,” Wednesday replies. “You respond well under pressure.”

Divina studies her more carefully now.

There’s no mockery. No hidden blade.

Just blunt sincerity.

“And why do you care?” Divina asks, softer.

Wednesday hesitates,  barely noticeable.

“Because Enid believes in you.”

That lands.

Divina’s posture shifts slightly.

“She mentioned,” Wednesday continues, almost clinical in her phrasing, “that she admires your resilience. And your spins.”

Divina huffs a quiet laugh despite herself.

“Of course she did.”

Silence stretches again … but it’s different now. Less sharp.

Less defensive.

Wednesday clears her throat lightly.

“I do not enjoy unresolved tension,” she says. “It is inefficient.”

Divina’s lips twitch.

“That your version of making peace?”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

Divina exhales slowly, tension easing from her shoulders.

“You’re really bad at this,” she says gently.

“At what?”

“Being… human.”

Wednesday tilts her head. “I am demonstrably human.”

Divina smiles faintly.

“No,” she says. “You’re being sincere. You just don’t know how to package it.”

That earns the faintest narrowing of Wednesday’s eyes  not offended. Thinking.

Divina stands.

She is over a head taller than wednesday

“For what it’s worth,” Divina says, voice steady, “I know you mean it.”

Wednesday doesn’t respond verbally.

But something in her shoulders relaxes a fraction.

“I hope you skate clean,” Wednesday says finally.

Divina nods once.

“And I hope,” she replies carefully, “you skate the way you’re capable of.”

There’s weight in that.

Respect. Real, earned respect. An announcement echoes through the corridor:

“Divina you’re on deck.”

Divina takes a slow breath.

Then she looks back at Wednesday.

“Tell Enid I didn’t fall apart.”

Wednesday’s gaze sharpens slightly.

“You will not.”

It isn’t reassurance.

It’s a statement of fact.

Divina smiles once more  small, but genuine  and heads toward the tunnel.

As she disappears toward the ice, Wednesday remains still for a moment.

Watching.

Acknowledging.

For the first time, the rivalry doesn’t feel like war.

It feels like something sharper.

Mutual recognition.

Enid slams shoulder-first into a Canadian defender, teeth rattling as the boards shake.

The puck squirts loose.

She lunges, stick scraping ice, muscles screaming.

Get it. Get it. Get it.

A whistle screams somewhere  or maybe that’s just blood roaring in her ears.

The crowd is a living thing now. Screaming. Stomping. Hungry.

Score tied.

Late second period.

Every shift feels like it could decide everything.

Across the city, in a locker room that smells faintly of leather and cold air

Wednesday sits alone.

Silence wraps around her like a second skin.

Her skates rest in front of her, blades freshly sharpened, gleaming under fluorescent light.

She runs a cloth slowly along the metal.

Methodical.

Precise.

Breath in.
Breath out.

The world narrows to routine.

Back on the ice

Enid takes a stick to the ribs.

Hard.

Pain blooms white-hot, but she doesn’t slow.

She can’t slow.

Not now.

Not today.

Not with gold this close.

She rips the puck off the boards and cuts center, weaving between two defenders, skates digging deep grooves into the ice.

“Sinclair, pass!”

She doesn’t.

She shoots.

Post.

The metallic clang echoes like a gunshot.

She snarls under her breath and keeps moving.

Wednesday stands.

Slips one skate on.

Tightens the laces.

Pulls.
Crosses.
Pulls again.

Perfect tension.

She flexes her ankle once.

Testing.

Satisfied.

The quiet is absolute. Sacred.

She closes her eyes.

And visualizes.

Every edge.
Every step sequence.
Every jump.

She feels them before she performs them.

Overtime.

4–4.

Bodies are slower now.

Sloppier.

Desperate.

Enid’s lungs burn like fire.

Her colroful hair is half falling out of small briad it is in.

There’s blood on her lip.

She tastes iron and victory and fear.

Coach grabs her shoulder at the bench. “You good?”

She nods once.

Because she has to be.

Because she promised.

Wednesday adjusts the small clasp at the back of her costume.

Black fabric settles perfectly along her shoulders.

She stands in front of the mirror.

Studies herself like a specimen.

Heart rate: elevated.
Hands: steady.
Mind: clear.

But there’s something else there too.

A flicker.

Warm.

Dangerous.

Blue eyes.

Golden hair.

A laugh that makes her chest feel too tight.

She blinks once.

Focus returns.

Overtime, minute six.

Canada breaks out.

Two-on-one.

Enid backchecks like her life depends on it.

Maybe it does.

She dives.

Full extension.

Stick outstretched.

She clips the puck just enough.

It deflects wide.

Crowd explodes.

She crashes into the boards and scrambles back up like a feral thing.

No time to hurt.

Only time to win.

Wednesday steps onto the empty practice ice.

Just for a moment.

Just to feel it.

The cold slides under her blades like glass.

She glides once across center.

Silent.

Effortless.

Stops.

Leaves.

Enough.

Save it for later.

Overtime, minute nine.

Breakaway.

Enid.

Alone.

The entire world shrinks to thirty feet of ice and one goalie.

The roar fades into static.

She hears only her own breathing.

Left.
Right.
Pull back.
Fake shot.
Forehand.

The goalie bites.

Enid snaps it high glove side.

Net ripples.

Red light.

The arena detonates.

Her teammates swarm her, screaming, sobbing, slamming into her from every direction.

Gold.

Gold.

Gold.

Wednesday sits again in the locker room.

Hands folded.

Still.

Waiting.

Listening to distant echoes of celebration from TVs and hallways and phones vibrating with news alerts.

She doesn’t smile.

But something inside her settles.

Of course Enid won.

There was never another acceptable outcome.

Back on the ice—

Enid is buried under teammates.

Helmet knocked loose.

Laughing. Crying. Shouting.

Exhausted.

Alive.

And somewhere under the chaos—

One thought.

She has to see me win.

The lights dim.

A name echoes across the arena.

Divina Fowler 

She exhales once.

Then steps onto the ice.

At first, her edges are careful.

Measured.

The opening notes of her music ripple outward, soft but dramatic, and she lets it guide her instead of fighting it.

No overthinking.

No chasing redemption.

Just skating.

Her first jump—

Triple Lutz.

The takeoff is strong.

The landing wobbles slightly, blade scratching deeper than she’d like—

But she saves it.

No fall.

The crowd responds immediately.

Not explosive.

But supportive.

Encouraging.

Backstage, Wednesday stands near the monitor, arms folded.

She doesn’t blink during the step sequence.

Divina’s edges are deep.

Confident.

Her turns are sharp, musical.

Her spins snap into position with controlled aggression.

There’s something different tonight.

Less tension.

More ownership.

Second pass.

Triple–double combination.

The second jump lands a touch under-rotated.

Not perfect.

Not textbook.

But controlled.

And she flows out of it without hesitation.

That’s the difference.

She doesn’t shrink.

The crowd feels it now.

They lean forward.

Because this isn’t a desperate skate.

It’s a proud one.

Divina attacks the choreography like she belongs here — like the short program didn’t define her.

Her spiral stretches long across the ice, free leg extended high and unwavering.

Her final spin centers perfectly.

Faster.

Faster.

Faster…

Music cuts.

She stops on the final note, chest heaving, chin lifted.

Silence.

Then…

The arena erupts.

Divina blinks against the lights.

She didn’t fall.

She didn’t crumble.

It wasn’t flawless.

But it was hers.

She bows once, small and controlled, and skates off.

Backstage, she finally lets the breath leave her body.

Her coach grabs her shoulders.

“That’s it. That’s what you can do.”

Divina nods, eyes shining but refusing to spill over.

She knows.

She knows it wasn’t gold.

She knows it won’t podium.

But it might be the best free skate she’s ever delivered under pressure.

And that counts.

Scores flash.

Technical score: strong.
Program components: higher than expected.

Total: enough to put her in first place — for now.

The early leader.

The one everyone else now has to chase.

Divina stares at the numbers.

A slow, almost disbelieving smile spreads across her face.

She did that.

Not perfect.

But powerful.

One by one, skaters perform.

It takes overhalf way through for someone to beat her score but finally the skater in 10th after the short does. Soon after others do.

Some don’t.

She drops to second.

Then third.

She hovers near the top as it heads toward the final group.

And she knows — logically — she won’t stay there.

The short program deficit was too big.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because she didn’t skate for medals tonight.

She skated for herself.

For pride.

For proof.

Only the final skaters remain now.

The arena shifts.

The tension tightens.

And last to skate

Wednesday Addams.

Enid nearly trips twice sprinting across the Olympic complex.

Her medal is still around her neck.
Her hair is still damp with sweat.
Her lungs burn in the freezing air as she cuts across lit walkways and security barriers and clusters of athletes who turn when they recognize her.

“Sinclair!”

“Enid!”

“USA!”

She doesn’t slow.

Not tonight.

By the time she reaches the figure skating arena, the doors are already closed for competition security.

She flashes credentials.
Someone recognizes her.
Someone lets her through.

The inside is darker. Quieter.
Colder in a different way.

Elegant.

Focused.

The sound of blades carving ice echoes like glass being cut.

She checks the screen.

Divina — already skated.

Enid’s chest tightens.

“Shit…”

But there’s no time to dwell.

Because the final group is warming up.

And Wednesday’s name is still there.

Still waiting.

She climbs the stands two at a time, scanning.

Black hair. Pale skin. Pinstripe suit.

There.

“Gomez!”

He turns immediately, face lighting up.

“Ah! Our victorious gladiator!”

Agnes spins around too, red braid whipping.

“You made it!”

Enid bends forward, hands on knees, breathing hard.
“I… missed… Divina…”

“She was magnificent,” Gomez says warmly. “Truly.”

Agnes nods. “Like… goosebumps magnificent.”

Enid smiles weakly. Relief mixed with regret.

Then—

“Morticia?” Enid asks.

“Backstage,” Gomez says, gesturing vaguely toward the tunnel. “With Wednesday.”

Of course she is.

Enid drops into the empty seat beside Agnes.

Below them, the next skater begins.

The arena lights shift to performance mode — spotlight following movement, the rest falling into darkness.

Enid barely registers the program.

Her knee bounces.

Her fingers tap the railing.

Her brain is doing math she doesn’t understand.

Score requirements flash on screen.

Current leader is a girl from Japan with a score absurdly high.

To win gold

Wednesday needs a 171.

Normally?

That’s fantasy territory.

A perfect storm.

A once-in-a-generation skate.

The kind commentators say “if she does everything perfectly…” about.

Enid exhales slowly.

For anyone else, it would be impossible.

For Wednesday…

It feels like a formality.

And that’s what scares her.

Because Wednesday doesn’t chase moments.

She executes them.

Another skater finishes.

Huge applause.

Huge score.

Still below what Wednesday needs.

Time is running out.

Divina ahs dropped to fifth but shes still content. She did bette rthan anyone said she would. She can be proud.

Enids heart is still halfway in a hockey arena, still pounding from body checks and overtime adrenaline.

But now…

Now it’s different.

Quieter.

Sharper.

More fragile.

The lights dim further.

The announcer’s voice lowers.

“Next to skate… representing Mexico…”

Enid’s entire body goes still.

“Wednesday Addams.”

The arena hums.

Not explosive cheering.

Not roaring.

Just anticipation.

Respect.

Fear, maybe.

Wednesday steps onto the ice like she’s stepping into a quiet room.

Black costume absorbing the light.

Team jacket gone now.

Hair braided tight.

Face blank framed ebautifully by her bangs.

Perfectly, eerily calm.

Enid swallows.

God, she’s small.

So small out there.

Four foot eleven of pure precision.

And somehow…

She fills the entire rink.

Down below, Wednesday glides once around the perimeter, testing edges.

Morticia appears briefly at the tunnel, hand resting over her heart.

Gomez stands.

Agnes grips the railing.

The score requirement flashes again.

171 to win.

For most skaters, it would feel crushing.

For Wednesday…

She doesn’t even look at it.

She skates to center ice.

Music waits.

Arena holds its breath.

Enid leans forward, whispering under her breath:

“Come on, princess of darkness…”

The music begins.

And Wednesday moves like gravity is optional.

The opening cello note cuts through the arena like a blade through silk.

Low.
Heavy.
Haunting.

Nothing Else Matters.

Not the original.

The Apocalyptica cover — strings instead of voice, raw and aching and vast.

It fills the rink.

It fills Enid’s chest.

And Wednesday moves.

She doesn’t rush the opening.

She never does.

Every push is deliberate. Every edge carved like calligraphy into fresh ice.

The choreography is understated at first — controlled arms, sharp lines, slow turns that match the drawn bow of the cello.

Like she’s listening to the music instead of performing to it.

Then she builds speed.

Crossovers that are almost lazy in appearance, but the ice screams under her blades.

Enid leans forward instinctively.

Because she knows what’s coming.

Quad Lutz.

Opening pass.

Just because she can.

The takeoff is violent in its precision.

Four and a half rotations in the air — tight, fast, impossible to track with the naked eye.

Landing.

Clean.

Deep knee bend.

Flow straight into choreography.

No hesitation.

No correction.

Like gravity asked permission first.

The crowd loses their minds.

And she’s barely started.

Triple Flip.

Triple Axel .

Combination Triple Lutz–Double axel, double toe.

Each one lands with that same terrifying certainty.

Not just clean.

Owned.

Her transitions are seamless — no empty skating, no wasted movement. Every step feeds into the next jump, every arm movement timed to the swell of strings.

Her artistry is clinical perfection. SOmbre, rigid but beautiful. She moves like a shadow stark against the white ice. Its her usual rigid, stiff perfection.

But tonight

Tonight it’s… softer.

There’s weight in it.

Story.

Enid can’t breathe.

She forgets the score.

Forgets the medal around her neck.

Forgets everything except the tiny, terrifying girl seemingly rewriting physics in front of her.

Mid-program step sequence.

Edges so deep her body nearly skims the ice.

Turns stacked on turns on turns.

Twizzles that accelerate with the music.

Her arms cut through air like she’s conducting the orchestra herself.

Second quad.

Toe loop.

The entry is hidden inside footwork.

No dramatic setup.

No telegraphing.

She just does it.

Up.

Rotate.

Rotate.

Rotate.

Rotate.

Down.

Perfect.

The arena goes feral.

People are standing now.

Phones up.

Commentators screaming somewhere far away.

Enid’s hands grip the railing so hard her knuckles go white.

“Holy shit,” she whispers.

The program builds toward the final third.

Most skaters would be exhausted.

Wednesday looks like she just started.

Then—

The backflip.

Technically pointless for scoring. No longer illegal, but not its own score like main jumps. 

No excess points.

Risky.

Unnecessary.

Completely, unmistakably Wednesday Addams.

She skates backward, eyes scanning…

And then they find Enid.

Across thousands of people.

Across lights and distance and noise.

She finds her.

And holds her gaze.

Then she flips backwards in a  flash.

Clean. Tight. Effortless.

Landing like she just stepped off a curb.

The crowd SCREAMS.

Not applause.

Screaming.

Because it’s audacious.

Because it’s art.

Because it’s her.

Final jump pass.

Music swelling.

Everything building.

Quad Flip.

Not required.

Not safe. Not smart strategically. But a statement.

A signature.

A declaration.

I am Wednesday Addams.

No one else is doing this.

She launches.

Four rotations.

Higher than the others.

Like the music lifted her.

Landing is dead silent.

No scratch.

No wobble.

Just glide.

The final spin hits center ice.

Faster.

Faster.

Dress fabric blurring black around the top of her legs.

Music climbing.

Cello screaming now.

Final pose.

Music ends.

Silence.

One heartbeat.

Two.

The arena detonates.

People are on their feet.

Clapping. Screaming. Crying.

But Enid barely hears it.

Because she’s looking at Wednesday’s face.

And for the first time…

There’s emotion there.

Not big.

Not obvious.

But real.

Eyes softer.

Mouth not neutral.

Something fragile and terrifying and honest.

And it’s aimed directly at her.

Enid’s chest aches.

Because it wasn’t just perfect skating.

It wasn’t just historic.

It was… vulnerable.

For Wednesday Addams, that might be louder than any scream in the arena.

Down on the ice, Wednesday breathes hard for the first time. And she doesn’t look at the judges. She doesn’t look at the crowd. She looks at Enid. Like she already knows the only reaction she actually cares about. The wait is unbearable.

Wednesday sits in the kiss and cry area,  posture perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap like she’s waiting for a lecture instead of making history.

Morticia sits beside her, elegant and composed, one gloved hand resting lightly over Wednesday’s wrist.

Gomez stands behind them, pacing once, then forcing himself still.

Agnes is vibrating in her seat.

The arena buzzes.

Commentators talk in hushed, frantic tones.

Because they all know.

They just don’t know how much.

“Technical review in progress.”

The words flash across the screen. They’re checking the quads. Checking rotations. Checking edge calls. Checking everything.

Because if it’s clean…

If it’s really clean…

Enid grips the railing so hard her hands hurt.

“Come on,” she whispers. “Come on, come on…”

She doesn’t even know who she’s talking to.

The judges.

The universe.

Wednesday.

Down below, Wednesday doesn’t move.

Doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t look at the screen. She looks straight ahead.

Like she already decided the outcome was irrelevant.

Then…

The scores appear.

One by one.

Technical score.

Massive.

Higher than expected.

Program components.

Higher.

Higher.

Higher.

Total Free Skate Score:

187.

The arena loses it.

People scream.

Commentators shout over each other.

Because that number is absurd.

Unheard of.

Ridiculous.

Then…

Overall Total Score flashes.

270.

For a moment, there is pure, stunned silence.

Because no woman has ever touched that number at the Olympics.

Not even close.

Then the sound hits.

A physical wave of noise.

Standing ovation.

Flags waving.

People crying.

History just happened.

Agnes is sobbing.

Gomez laughs out loud, hands in his hair. Morticia closes her eyes for just a moment, like a prayer answered.

And Wednesday…

Doesn’t scream.

Doesn’t jump.

Doesn’t smile.

She nods once.

Small.

Contained.

Like she confirmed a math equation.

Then she stands.

And turns.

And looks into the crowd.

And finds Enid immediately.

Like she was never going to look anywhere else.

The noise fades. Not actually. But for them, it does. Because suddenly it feels like there are only two people in the entire world.

Enid’s eyes are wet and she doesn’t even realize when it happened.

Her chest feels too tight.

Too full.

Too everything.

Wednesday just looks at her. Eyes steady. Unblinking. And there’s something there. Something unmistakable. Not a smile.

Not joy.

Not relief.

Something deeper.

Quieter.

More dangerous.

Like she’s saying:

I did this.

I survived this.

I stood in front of the world and let them see me.

For you.

Enid presses her fist to her mouth, trying to hold herself together. Because no one has ever looked at her like that before. Like she mattered more than history.

Down below, officials try to guide Wednesday toward interviews. Toward cameras. Toward the podium prep area. But she keeps looking at Enid until she physically can’t anymore.

Until a handler gently redirects her.

Until the moment breaks.

But it’s already done.

Something changed.

Something permanent.

Something neither of them can pretend away now.

Because Wednesday Addams just made Olympic history.

And the only person she wanted to see afterward…

Was Enid Sinclair. She had decided on something. That moment she finished her skate she had decided. The course of action she would take, hat was going to change her life forever, for better or worse? She did not know. The medal ceremony feels unreal.

Too bright.
Too loud.
Too historic.

Wednesday stands on the highest step of the podium. Gold medal resting against black fabric. Spotlights reflecting off metal and ice and tears in the crowd.

The Mexican flag rises.

Green.
White.
Red.

A golden eagle in the middle.

Slow. Steady. Proud.

The anthem begins. The arena quiets. And Wednesday stands perfectly still. Chin lifted. Eyes forward. But not empty. Not tonight.

Somewhere in the stands, Enid presses her palm flat over her own gold medal, feeling the weight of it. Feeling the reality of it.

Team USA.
Olympic champions.

And yet…

Her eyes never leave Wednesday.

The final note of the anthem fades. Applause rises again.

The other medalists step down. Officials gesture. Photographers swarm the boards. Cameras zoom in.

Wednesday steps off the podium.

Gold resting against her sternum.

She adjusts it once, absently.

Like it’s secondary.

Like something else matters more.

Across the ice-level walkway, Enid moves before she can second guess it.

Boots hitting rubber matting.

Heart pounding like she’s stepping onto the ice for overtime again.

She reaches Wednesday.

Stops just short.

Breathless.

Overwhelmed.

Happy. Terrified. Alive.

She expects, well she doesent know what to expect.

A nod.

Maybe a quiet word.

Maybe, if she’s lucky, a shoulder bump.

A side hug at absolute most.

Because she knows.

Wednesday doesn’t like being touched.

But Wednesday is already moving.

Faster than Enid has ever seen her move off ice.

She grabs Enid’s face.

Both hands.

Cold fingers. Steady. Certain.

And kisses her.

No hesitation.

No build up.

No asking.

Just truth.

Right there.

In the middle of an Olympic arena. In front of cameras broadcasting across continents.

Across countries where it’s normal.

Across countries where it’s debated.

Across countries where two women kissing is still whispered about.

Or banned.

Or dangerous.

Wednesday doesn’t care. Enid makes a small, shocked sound into the kiss before melting into it completely. Because she’s wanted this. God, she’s wanted this. The crowd noise fractures. Some screaming. Some gasping. Some cheering louder than anything else tonight.

Photographers lose their minds.

Flashes explode like fireworks.

Officials freeze mid-step.

Commentators go dead silent for three whole seconds before scrambling to find words.

And Wednesday just…

Holds her there.

Like the world can wait.

Like history can wait.

Like rules and expectations and headlines don’t matter.

Their gold medals knock together between them.

Soft. Metal on metal. A quiet chime.

Harmony.

When Wednesday finally pulls back, she doesn’t look embarrassed. Doesn’t look panicked. Doesn’t look like she regrets it. She just looks at Enid like she solved something complicated.Like she reached the logical conclusion of an equation.

Enid laughs breathlessly, eyes glassy.

“You hate touching people,” she whispers.

Wednesday’s thumbs rest just below her ears.

“You are an exception.”

Somewhere, the world keeps spinning.

News cycles begin rewriting themselves. Social media detonates. Olympic officials panic. Publicists scream.

But inside that moment…

None of it exists. Just two Olympic champions. Two gold medals. Clinking softly together. And Wednesday Addams kissing Enid Sinclair like nothing else has ever mattered more.

The first shout comes from a reporter.

“Wednesday! Over here!”

Then another.

“Enid! What does this mean?!”

Flashbulbs explode like strobe lightning. Security starts moving. Officials look like they’re deciding whether to intervene or capitalize. Wednesday doesn’t even turn her head. She slides one hand down from Enid’s jaw and catches her wrist instead. Firm. Certain. She guides Enid’s arm around her shoulders.

Not tentative. Not accidental. Deliberate. Possessive in the calmest, most terrifying way.

The crowd noise swells.

Questions fly like thrown blades.

“Is this official?!”
“Are you together?!”
“How long has this been going on?!”
“History in more ways than one tonight!”

Wednesday walks.

Straight-backed. Controlled.

Leading Enid through the chaos like she’s cutting through fog.

Enid is half-laughing, half-shaking. Her smile is blinding. Wider than when she scored the overtime goal. Wider than when the medal was placed around her neck.

She looks like a golden retriever who just discovered the meaning of life and it’s standing two inches to her left.

She squeezes Wednesday’s arm unconsciously.

“Did you just…” she breathes.

“Yes.”

“You hate…”

“Yes.”

Enid beams even harder.

Cameras keep flashing. They want the drama. The statement. The controversy. The explanation. But Wednesday doesn’t give them one. For the first time in her life, she doesn’t care about optics. Or expectations. Or consequences. For the first time…

She lets herself feel something publicly.

And she’s smiling. Not wide. Not grinning. But unmistakable. A soft, quiet smirk. Subtle. Real. Visible. Wednesday Addams is smiling in front of the world.

The arena sees it. The commentators see it. Millions watching at home see it.And it’s more shocking than the quads. More unbelievable than the 270.

Enid notices it last.

Because she’s too busy staring at Wednesday like she just hung the moon.

“You’re smiling,” Enid whispers.

“I am aware.”

“You’re, like… actually smiling.”

Wednesday’s eyes flick toward her.

“That is your fault.”

Enid laughs — loud and unrestrained and completely un-Olympic-ceremony appropriate.

She doesn’t care.

Neither does Wednesday.

Their medals clink around their necks in harmony.

Two golds.

Different events.

Different battles.

Same ending.

Security opens a path toward the tunnel. Reporters shout final desperate questions.

“Are you making a statement?”
“Do you realize what this means?”
“Wednesday!”

She pauses once. Just once. Turns slightly toward the cameras.\ Still holding Enid’s arm.Still smiling faintly.

And says, evenly:

“It means I won.”

Then she keeps walking.

Enid nearly trips laughing.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Correct.”

They disappear into the tunnel.

Into quieter air.

Into a moment that belongs only to them.

Behind them, the world erupts.

In front of them—

Something new begins.

The Olympic Village is louder than usual that night.

Music thumps through distant walls.
Laughter spills down hallways.  Medalists are being lifted onto shoulders.  Champagne is being smuggled into rooms that definitely aren’t supposed to have it. Hockey players are always the roudiest.

They’re both invited.

Several times.

They don’t go.

Instead, Wednesday’s room is quiet.

The lights are low.
The curtains half-drawn against the Milan skyline.
Two gold medals rest on the small desk beside the window.

Side by side.

Not for cameras.

Just there.

Enid sits cross-legged on the edge of the bed,in a pair of shorts and a oversized shirt. She looks giddy. Shocked. Overstimulated. Radiant. Wednesday stands by the desk for a moment longer, finishing her surprisingly extensive hair routine. No performance face now.

Just her.

For a few seconds, neither speaks. Because what do you say after rewriting Olympic history and detonating the internet in the same hour?

Enid breaks first.

“You kissed me,” she says, like she’s still verifying it.

“Yes.”

“In front of the entire planet.”

“Yes.”

“In front of  places where that’s, like… controversial.”

Wednesday turns to face her fully.

“I am aware.”

Enid lets out a small, incredulous laugh and rubs her hands over her face.

“I thought maybe I hallucinated it.”

“You did not.”

Silence again.

But softer.

Less charged.

More curious.

Wednesday steps closer, stopping just within Enid’s reach.

“I have never been in a relationship before,” she says evenly.

Enid’s head tilts.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Not even…”

“No.”

Enid’s grin fades into something gentler.

“Oh.”

Wednesday folds her hands behind her back ,  an old habit when discussing something vulnerable.

“I do not experience attachment easily,” she continues. “Or frequently.”

Enid watches her carefully now.

“But,” Wednesday adds, quieter, “what I feel for you is consistent with documented descriptions of romantic attachment.”

Enid blinks.

“…That might be the most Wednesday way anyone has ever confessed feelings.”

Wednesday inclines her head slightly. “I am not inclined toward poetic exaggeration.”

“But you kissed me.”

“Yes.”

Enid’s smile turns soft again. “You hate touch.”

“I dislike unnecessary touch,” Wednesday corrects. “Half measures. Sugarcoating. Waiting for circumstances to become ideal. I realized my feelings for you, so I executed accordingly. It was the fastest an d most pleasurable decision.”

She steps closer still.

Close enough that Enid can feel the warmth of her through the thin air between them.

“I do not hate you,” Wednesday says. “Therefore I do not hate touching you.”

Enid’s heart does something dangerous in her chest.

“I gambled,” Wednesday continues. “By kissing you.”

Enid’s brows lift. “You call that a gamble?”

“Yes. You could have rejected me. Publicly.”

“As if,” Enid breathes.

“I prefer direct action,” Wednesday says calmly. “It was the most efficient method of conveying that my feelings for you extend beyond rivalry. Or friendship.”

Enid smiles, eyes bright.

“So that was your grand romantic gesture?”

“Yes.”

“No flowers? No speech?”

“I executed an additional quad for you.

Enid laughs so hard she has to brace herself on the bed.

“God, you’re ridiculous.”

The laughter fades into something quieter.

More real.

Enid looks at her. Really looks at her.

“I was surprised,” she admits softly. “I didn’t think you’d ever… do something like that. Especially because you hate people touching you.”

Wednesday’s expression softens — just a fraction.

“You are not ‘people,’” she says simply.

And that does it.

That undoes Enid completely.

They sit beside each other on the bed now.

Not touching. Just close.Comfortable.

The noise of distant celebration hums through the walls like a reminder that the world is still out there.

But it feels far away.

“So what does this mean?” Enid asks after a while.

“It means,” Wednesday says thoughtfully, “that I would like to pursue this deliberately.”

Enid perks up. “Deliberately?”

“Yes. Structured time together. Intentional outings. Data collection.”

Enid grins. “You mean… dates?”

“Yes.”

The word sounds foreign in her mouth.

But not unwelcome.

“We’re in Milan,” Enid says slowly, smile growing. “Like. Fashion capital. Romantic architecture. Pasta.”

Wednesday nods once. “The 22nd is the closing ceremony.”

“And we fly home on the 23rd.”

“Yes.”

Enid’s grin turns mischievous.

“So we’ve got… what. Three days?”

Wednesday tilts her head slightly.

“Three days,” she agrees.

Enid leans back on her hands.

“Then I guess we better use them.”

Wednesday’s lips curve  that soft, private smirk.

“Agreed.”

They sit in silence again.

Not awkward.

Just full.Gold medals glinting in the corner.

History already sealed.

But somehow…

This feels bigger.

More terrifying.

More intimate.

Wednesday finally reaches out.

Not dramatic.

Not urgent.

She takes Enid’s hand.

Slowly.

Like she’s testing something fragile.Enid doesn’t tease her this time. Doesn’t joke. She just laces their fingers together.

Careful.

Warm.

Certain.

“Three days,” Enid whispers.

Wednesday squeezes her hand once.

“Three days,” she repeats.

And for once…

Wednesday Addams isn’t thinking about winning.

Or records.

Or reputation.

She’s thinking about tomorrow.

And the day after.

And spending every remaining second in Milan beside the girl who made her gamble everything, And win.

The three days pass like a stolen dream.

Too fast.
Too bright.
Too private for something so public.

They ignore everything. Phones buzz constantly. Notifications stack by the thousands. Publicists call. Text. Call again. Statements need drafting. Appearances need confirming. Damage control needs assessing. Neither is spared from their families overbearing demand for answers and bold questions.

Enid’s PR team is in full panic mode.

Sponsorship managers send carefully worded emails.

We’re reviewing the situation.
We support inclusivity but…
We’ll need to evaluate brand alignment.

Not all companies love rainbow flags in February.

Some prefer them neatly folded until June.

Enid reads one message.

Rolls her eyes.

Turns her phone off.

She’ll deal with it when she gets home.

Because right now?

She’s in Milan.

And she has a girlfriend.

Her girl.

The thought makes her grin every single time.

They wander the city in disguises that are barely disguises.

Wednesday in oversized black sunglasses and a long coat that makes her look like a gothic film student. Enid in a beanie pulled low, trying   and failing  to tone down her natural golden retriever energy.

They drink espresso at tiny cafés.

Walk narrow cobblestone streets.

Stand in front of the Duomo like two kids pretending not to be Olympic champions.

Sometimes people recognize them.

Whispers follow.

Phones lift.

But Wednesday’s hand finds Enid’s almost immediately now. Not hesitantly. Not like the first time. Intentional. Grounded.

Wednesday is awkward as hell.

She researches “date etiquette” at three in the morning.

She overthinks whether holding hands qualifies as “public display.”

She asks Enid, completely serious:

“Is there a designated interval at which one should initiate physical affection?”

Enid nearly chokes on her pasta laughing.

“You don’t schedule kisses.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s insane.”

Wednesday considers that.

“Noted.”

She doesn’t understand half of relationship conventions. She doesn’t instinctively know when to compliment versus observe. She once said, while staring at Enid across a café table:

“Your presence significantly improves my mood.”

Enid blinked.

“…That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Wednesday frowned slightly. “It was a neutral statement of fact.”

Enid kissed her anyway.

And that’s the thing.

For all the world’s obsession with the “ice queen” narrative…

She isn’t cold.

She’s cautious.

Curious.

Deliberate.

Like a black cat who watches from the shadows before deciding whether you’re safe.

With Enid…

She’s learning to step into the light.

They spend hours just talking.

About childhood. About fear. About ambition. About what it means to suddenly be symbols for something bigger than themselves. Wednesday listens when Enid admits she’s nervous about sponsorship fallout.

“I have no desire to be palatable,” Wednesday says calmly.

Enid smiles. “Yeah, but I kinda need to pay rent.”

Wednesday pauses.

“…That is a reasonable concern.”

Enid laughs and leans her head against Wednesday’s shoulder.

“We’ll figure it out.”

“We will,” Wednesday agrees.

And she means it like a vow.

By the second night, “dating” stops feeling theoretical.

They’re not testing it anymore.

They’re in it.

Girlfriends.

The word makes Enid’s stomach flip every time she thinks it.

Wednesday doesn’t say it often.

But when she does…

She says it with precision.

“My girlfriend,” she tells a waiter once, when asked if they’re together.

Enid nearly melts into the floor.

The outside world grows louder. Headlines spin. Debates rage. Support pours in. Criticism too. But inside their little Milan bubble, 

None of it touches them.

Not yet.

On the evening of the 22nd, as the closing ceremony lights begin to glow in the distance, they sit on the rooftop of the Village housing.

City lights below.

Winter air crisp.

Gold medals resting beside them on the concrete ledge.

Enid studies Wednesday in the low light.

“You know,” she says softly, “you’re not scary at all.”

Wednesday arches a brow. “Dont insult me.”

“No,” Enid insists. “You’re just… careful.”

Wednesday looks at her for a long moment.

Careful.

Yes.

That feels accurate.

Enid smiles, brushing her fingers lightly over Wednesday’s knuckles.

“You’re like a black cat,” she says. “Act all mysterious and dangerous but really you just want to know if the world’s safe. Plus you purr when u get cuddles."

Wednesday considers that.

“…I do not purr.”

Enid grins. “Debatable.”

The 23rd looms.

Home waits.

Consequences wait. Statements. Contracts. Cameras. Reality waits.

But for now…

It’s just them.

A cautious black cat.

A golden retriever who refuses to stop smiling.

And three days in Milan that changed everything. The closing ceremony is louder than competition. Messier. Brighter.

Less precise.

Which, naturally, irritates Wednesday Addams.

Athletes flood the stadium floor in a riot of colors and flags. Music blasts. Fireworks crack overhead. Confetti cannons detonate at random intervals. It feels chaotic. Undisciplined.Unnecessary.

Wednesday walks with Team Mexico.

Green, white, red draped across shoulders.

Proud. Correct.

She represents Mexico. She always has. She always will.

But tonight…

It feels like a border instead of a banner. She is fond of her home, and is proud to be where she is from contrary to what many people believe. But being away from her Enid, only annoys her further.

Across the stadium, somewhere in a sea of red, white, and blue…

Enid laughs with her hockey team.

Dancing. Waving. Glowing.

And Wednesday can’t reach her.

Not without crossing lines she isn’t allowed to cross.

Security barriers.

Delegation zones.

Invisible rules about optics and protocol.

It feels absurd.

They kissed in front of the world.

But they can’t stand next to each other during a ceremony.

Wednesday’s jaw tightens.

She hates inefficiency.

And this…

This is emotional inefficiency.

She sits with her delegation in the stands after the parade of nations. Most of them chat. Take selfies. Exchange pins. She sits straight-backed and alone. The only Mexican medalist in the olympics this year.

Gold resting against her collarbone.

She didn’t carry the flag. The honor went elsewhere. She doesn’t mind. Symbols are performative.

But she still feels…

Separated.

She watches the American section from across the stadium.

She spots Enid immediately.

Of course she does.

Bright even among thousands.

Enid catches sight of her too.

Their eyes lock.

And the distance between them feels enormous.

Ridiculous.

Infuriating.

Fireworks explode again.

Music shifts to something triumphant and sentimental.

Athletes cry.

Hug.

Trade jackets. Celebrate the end. Wednesday checks the time.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Three hours feels like three weeks.

She does not enjoy spectacle without purpose.

She does not enjoy forced unity narratives.

She especially does not enjoy being unable to stand beside the person she has chosen.

Enid blows her a dramatic kiss from across the crowd.

Wednesday pretends not to smile.

Fails slightly.

Finally…

The speeches end.

The flame dims.

The fireworks climax.

The announcer declares the Games closed.

And Wednesday is already standing before the final echo fades.

She doesn’t linger.

Doesn’t network.

Doesn’t celebrate.

She moves.

Through crowds.

Past photographers.

Past volunteers.

Past clusters of athletes crying about endings.

She scans relentlessly.

Searching.

It takes less than two minutes.

Enid is halfway down a tunnel corridor when Wednesday reaches her. She doesn’t slow.

She doesn’t hesitate.

She grabs Enid’s wrist and pulls her flush against her chest.

Hard.

Not polite.

Not careful.

Enid laughs in surprise.

“Whoa,   hi to you too.”

“You are infuriatingly difficult to access during multinational ceremonies,” Wednesday says flatly.

Enid grins up at her.

“You missed me.”

“Yes.”

No denial.

No pride barrier.

Just fact.

Enid wraps her arms around Wednesday’s waist without thinking.

Wednesday doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t calculate.

Doesn’t brace.

She just rests her forehead briefly against Enid’s, standing as far on her toes as they will allow.

“You represent your country,” Enid says softly.

“And you represent yours.”

“I am aware.”

“But we’re still… us.”

Wednesday exhales slowly.

The tension in her shoulders unwinds.

“Yes,” she says. “We are.”

The ceremony lights flicker off one by one behind them.

Athletes disperse.

The Games are over.

No more schedules.

No more events.

Just departure.

Wednesday looks down at her.

“Tomorrow,” she says.

“Tomorrow,” Enid echoes.

Home.

Questions.

Consequences.

Reality.

But tonight…

They walk out of the stadium together.

Not Mexico and USA.

Not figure skating and hockey.

Just two girls with gold medals knocking gently together in the dark.

Wednesday lies on her back, staring at the ceiling.

Enid is curled against her side, cheek resting over Wednesday’s heart, fingers loosely tangled in the fabric of her t-shirt.

The gold medal sits on the nightstand.

Neither of them has touched it since they came back.

For a while, they just breathe.

It feels fragile.

Like if they move too suddenly, reality will remember them.

“I don’t want to leave,” Enid says quietly.

Her voice is softer than it ever is in public. No sparkle. No bravado. Just honest.

Wednesday doesn’t look down, but her hand slides into Enid’s hair automatically.

“You miss home,” Wednesday replies.

“I do,” Enid admits. “I miss my friends. My family My dog. My bed.”

A pause.

“But leaving means leaving you.”

There it is.

The thing neither of them has said out loud yet. They just got together. Just barely allowed themselves to say this is real. Just survived the world watching. Yet now they have to separate.

It feels cruel.

“It’s unfair,” Enid whispers, voice cracking a little. “We finally get this. And now we have to go back to being hudnreads of miles away like its nothing. You live in new jersey which yeah is still in the us. But it still feels so far away, like Ic ant drop everything to come visit you all the time. 

Wednesday’s jaw tightens. She hates when Enid’s voice trembles. 

“I do not intend to treat it as nothing,” she says evenly.

Enid lifts her head, studying her face in the dim light.

“I know. But it’s going to be hard.”

“Yes.”

Honest.

No false comfort.

Enid shifts, climbing half over her so they’re face to face.

“What if it’s too hard?”

“It will be,” Wednesday replies calmly.

Enid huffs a weak laugh. “You’re supposed to say something reassuring.”

“I am reassuring you,” Wednesday says. “I am not leaving.”

Enid’s eyes search hers.

“Even when we’re apart?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

Wednesday’s hand moves from Enid’s hair to her cheek, thumb brushing lightly along her jaw.

“Because I do not experience people temporarily,” she says. “When I choose someone, it is not circumstantial.”

Enid swallows.

“I’ve never done long distance,” Enid admits. “What if we drift? What if schedules get crazy? What if…”

“We will schedule around each other.”

“What if time zones…”

“We will adapt.”

“What if it hurts?”

“It will,” Wednesday says quietly.

That stops her.

Wednesday’s voice lowers.

“It will hurt. I will miss you. I will resent the distance. I will likely become insufferable.”

Enid smiles faintly.

“But I would prefer that pain to the alternative.”

“And what’s the alternative?”

“Not having you at all.”

Silence. Heavy. Certain.

Enid presses her forehead to Wednesday’s.

“That’s disgustingly romantic,” she whispers.

“I am aware.”

They lie there like that for a long time. Talking about logistics. Training blocks. Flight prices. Competition schedules. FaceTime. Sneaking visits. Possibly one of them relocating someday. It’s messy and impractical and terrifying. But it’s real.

At some point Enid’s voice softens again.

“I’m scared,” she admits.

Wednesday tightens her arm around her.

“So am I.”

Another pause.

“But fear is not a sufficient reason to retreat.”

Enid nods slowly against her.

“I don’t want to be separated from you,” Enid whispers.

“You aren’t,” Wednesday replies. “Geography is not separation.”

Enid smiles at that.

“You’re such a dramatic nerd.”

“Yes.”

Eventually the room grows quieter. Enid’s breathing slows. Her fingers curl tighter in Wednesday’s shirt, like she’s afraid she might disappear in the night. Wednesday doesn’t sleep right away.

She watches the ceiling. Counts the seconds between Enid’s breaths. Memorizes the weight of her.

The warmth.

The exact angle of her head on her chest.

Tomorrow they fly home.

Different gates. 

But tonight…

They are in the same bed.

And for now,

that is enough.

But maybe just maybe… she might be able to work something out. After all… she is an Addams.”

The aplane smells like cleaner sweat. 

Enid sits by the window, knees bouncing.

Her medal is tucked in her carry-on. Her phone is face down in her lap. She hasn’t checked it in ten minutes. Which, for her, is a miracle.

Yoko and Divina sit behind her, whispering and occasionally kicking the back of her seat just to annoy her.

“Stop,” Enid mutters without turning around.

“You’re vibrating,” Yoko says. “It’s concerning.”

“I am not vibrating.”

Divina leans forward between the seats. “You absolutely are.”

Enid exhales slowly.

Boarding is almost done.

One seat next to her remains empty.

She tries not to look at it.

Tries not to think about how Wednesday had said goodbye at the terminal with that composed, infuriatingly calm expression.

Geography is not separation.

Easy to say when you’re not the one flying home first.

A shadow falls over the aisle.

“Excuse me.”

The voice is low. Familiar. Precise.

Enid freezes.

Slowly,very slowly,she turns her head.

Wednesday Addams stands beside the seat, black carry-on in hand, expression neutral as ever.

“May I?” she asks.

Enid blinks.

“...What.”

Wednesday lifts a brow. “This is 14B, is it not?”

Enid looks at the ticket in Wednesday’s hand. Looks at the seat number.

Looks back at her.

Yoko leans over the seat behind them.

“Why is Wednesday Addams on our flight.”

Divina just gasps softly.

Wednesday places her bag in the overhead compartment with calm efficiency and sits.

Like this is normal.

Like this was always the plan.

Enid is still staring.

“You said goodbye,” she finally manages.

“I did.”

“You— you watched me go through security.”

“Yes.”

“You live across the country!.”

Wednesday folds her hands in her lap.

“My family has acquired an apartment in San Francisco.”

Silence.

Enid’s brain short-circuits.

“…What.”

“It is in proximity to your residence,” Wednesday continues evenly. “Three blocks down, to be exact.”

Yoko makes a strangled noise behind them.

“YOU WHAT.”

Wednesday glances back mildly. “I can practice skating anywhere.”

Enid’s mouth opens. Closes.

“You,  you got an apartment.”

“Yes.”

“In San Francisco.”

“Yes.”

“Right next to me.”

“Yes.”

Enid’s hands fly into her hair.

“When were you going to TELL ME?”

“I am telling you now.”

Yoko leans fully over the seat.

“Calm down Enid, we get it you’re U haul lesbians”

Divina chokes on laughter.

Enid whips around. “We are NOT moving in together!”

Yoko raises a brow. “She is literally moving countries not even a full week after starting to date you.”

Wednesday corrects calmly, “Technically, I am relocating my primary training base.”

Yoko snorts. “That’s insane. Even for you.”

Enid turns back to Wednesday, eyes wide, heart racing so fast she thinks she might faint.

“You can’t just, just move!”

“I can,” Wednesday replies. “I have.”

“My family will send the remainder of my belongings within the week.”

“You already packed?”

“Efficiently.”

Enid stares at her.

“Why.”

It’s softer now.

Not accusation.

Just breathless disbelief.

Wednesday’s dark eyes meet hers.

“You expressed distress at our separation. My family has the financial caopability to afford it, and San Fransicsco has training facilities. Plus my family is very wealthy and can afford to visit whenever they wish or fly me out to visit them. This seemed lille the best solution to your emotional distress.”

Enid swallows.

“I concluded it was necessary.”

The plane engines begin to hum louder.

People settle in.

Seatbelts click.

The world continues like something monumental hasn’t just happened in row 14.

“You’re serious,” Enid whispers.

“Yes.”

“You’re really moving.”

“Yes.”

“To be near me.”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“I do not engage in people temporarily.”

Enid’s eyes sting.

Yoko mutters behind them, “Oh my god I hate how intense this is.”

Divina whispers, “It’s kind of romantic.”

“It’s terrifying,” Yoko says.

Enid lets out a shaky laugh.

“This is crazy. What about Mexico, your people, awaiting their star medalists return!”

Wednesday tilts her head slightly.

“I am aware. And trust me they are used to me not showing up for such events, I can always fly back down if need be for interviews though you know how much I detest the media.”

“And you don’t care?”

“No.”

The plane begins to move.

Enid reaches out slowly, like she’s afraid Wednesday might disappear if she moves too fast. She takes her hand. Cold. Perfect. Real.

“You’re insane,” Enid whispers.

“Correct.”

Enid leans closer, forehead brushing Wednesday’s temple.

“This is totally insane to say after such little time but…I love you,” she breathes.

There’s the smallest pause.

Not hesitation.

Just weight.

“I know,” Wednesday replies softly.

And then, after a second.

“I love you as well.”

Yoko groans loudly from behind them. “U haul lesbians.” She sighs groaning at the display.

Divina smacks her shoulder. The plane lifts off. Italy shrinking below them.

San Francisco waiting ahead. Enid squeezes Wednesday’s hand. No more borders. No more terminals. No more waiting for the next person to arrive. Just them.

And apparently…

an apartment three blocks down.