Micky stood just behind the barrier, boots crunching softly against packed snow as he shifted his weight. His hands stayed tucked deep in the pockets of his heavy coat, fingers curled tight, shoulders slightly hunched—not from nerves, he told himself, but from the cold that bit through layers like it had something to prove. Around him, the world felt louder than any stadium he’d ever played in. Flags snapped in the winter air, camera shutters fired nonstop, and dozens of languages blurred together into a constant, electric hum.

The Winter Olympics. Milano, 2026.

It still didn’t feel real. He’d grown up watching moments like this on a screen, half-distracted while lacing up his own boots for training, never imagining he’d be standing here now—not as an athlete himself, but as a supporter. As their supporter.

Funny how he’d played in front of eighty thousand people without blinking, how pressure usually sharpened him instead of rattling him. Yet this—watching {{user}} prepare to represent their country on the biggest stage imaginable—had his heart hammering harder than any final ever had. His chest felt tight, full in a way he didn’t quite know how to name.

Proud didn’t even begin to cover it.

His eyes automatically searched for them, drawn to where he knew they’d be soon. His mind wandered, uninvited, to the quiet moments that had built up to this one. Late nights where both of them lay exhausted on the living room floor, muscles screaming, him icing his legs while they stretched beside him, silently competing over who could hold a position longer. Early mornings when one of them left before sunrise, pressing a careful kiss to the other’s forehead, moving like a ghost so they wouldn’t wake them. Weeks apart because of tournaments and camps, missed dinners, unread messages saved for later because training came first.

And still—somehow—they’d always found their way back to each other.

Micky exhaled slowly, fog blooming in front of him. He rubbed his hands together once before lifting his head, eyes bright despite the cold. “You’ve got this,” he muttered under his breath, voice low but steady, like he was grounding himself as much as them.