Page 12

Daisy

The silver medal feels like lead around my neck.

I should be proud. I should be happy. Winning silver at Worlds is an incredible accomplishment. But as I stand on the podium, forcing a smile for the cameras, all I can think about is how it’s not gold, how it’s not enough.

And I know why.

The truth hits me like an ice-cold slap to the face. I haven’t been giving everything I have to my skating. My head hasn’t been in it the way it should be. Because my focus—my emotions—have been tangled up in something else.

Someone else.

Finn.

I sneak a glance at him beside me, his expression unreadable as he stares straight ahead. He’s smiling, but it’s tight, practiced. Not real. And I know exactly how he feels.

This doesn’t feel like a victory.

It feels like a loss.

* * *

The performance replays in my head on a loop, every step, every movement, every moment where I felt myself holding back. We had been so close to perfection. Our opening was flawless —gliding across the ice, bodies moving in complete sync, the connection between us humming like electricity.

Every time Finn touched me, I felt it spark, a pull so strong it made my pulse stutter. The audience could feel it too. I could hear their gasps as he lifted me effortlessly, the raw chemistry between us turning our routine into something more than just a performance.

Then came the final lift, the one I hesitated on.

For a fraction of a second, I questioned it—not him, not his ability to catch me, but what it meant that I trusted him to catch me. That moment of doubt threw everything off. Finn caught me, of course he did, but it wasn’t perfect. I felt the slight readjustment, the microsecond of imbalance.

The judges noticed. The scores reflected it. And now here we are, standing on the podium, silver instead of gold.

* * *

Back in the locker room, the excitement outside is deafening—cheers, interviews, celebrations. But here, everything feels muted.

I sit on the bench, still gripping my skates like they hold the answers to all my problems. My hair is still tight in its bun, my body still vibrating from the adrenaline of competition, but all I feel is empty. Hollow.

I stare down at the medal around my neck, running my fingers over the cool metal. It should feel like an accomplishment. It should feel like everything I worked for. Instead, all I can think is we could have been better.

I hear the door open and close, but I don’t look up until a shadow falls over me. When I do, I find a woman I’ve admired since I was a teenager standing beside me, her arms crossed. She’s been where I am. She’s won. She’s lost. And now, she looks at me like she sees something familiar in my expression.

“You look miserable for someone who just won silver,” she says, arching a brow.

I huff out a laugh, but it sounds hollow. “It’s just… not what I wanted.”

She nods like she understands, and maybe she does. “Let me guess. You feel like you weren’t completely in it. Like you held back.”

I look at her sharply. “How did you—”

She smiles knowingly. “Because I’ve been there. And I’ll tell you what someone once told me: Love and ambition don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”

I stiffen. “This isn’t about—”

She cuts me off with a pointed look. “Isn’t it?”

I open my mouth, then close it. Because shit. Maybe it is.

She pats my knee and stands. “The best skaters don’t skate with their minds, Daisy. They skate with their hearts. Figure out where yours is before you waste any more time.”

She walks away, leaving me reeling.

I sit there, staring at the floor, my pulse pounding in my ears. The best skaters skate with their hearts. Where is yours?

I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling sharply. Where is my heart?

I see Finn. His hands on my waist, steady and sure. The way he looks at me when he thinks I don’t notice—like I’m the most frustrating, exhilarating thing in his life. The way he’s always there, no matter how many times I push him away.

I think about how, when I hesitated on that lift, it wasn’t because I didn’t trust him. It was because I was afraid of what trusting him meant. I think about the way my body responds to his, how he makes me feel things I never let myself feel before.

I think about how empty it felt skating without my whole heart in it. And how he’s the one who makes me want to give everything.

And suddenly, it’s so obvious I almost laugh.

Finn isn’t Lucas. He never asked me to sacrifice who I am. He never made me feel like I had to choose between my career and my feelings. The only person who’s done that is me.

I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t just want skating, I want him, and this time, I’m going to fight for us.

My heart pounds as I race through the hotel hallways, my silver medal still clutched in my hand like it might disappear if I let go. I don’t know what I’m going to say. I don’t even know if Finn will open the door. But I know one thing—I can’t let another second pass without telling him the truth.

I reach his door and hesitate only for a breath before knocking, hard and fast, like I’m afraid I’ll lose my nerve.

The door swings open a second later, and Finn stands there, looking exhausted, shirtless, and completely unreadable.

I swallow hard. “Hi.”

He leans against the frame, arms crossing over his chest, his expression carefully blank. “Daisy. What are you doing here?”

I take a shaky breath, trying to gather my thoughts, but they’re all tangled together in a mess of emotions. “I—” My voice falters. “Can I come in?”

He hesitates, then steps aside, letting me pass. The room is dimly lit, the only sound is the faint hum of the city outside. I turn to face him, gripping my medal tighter.

“I need to tell you something.”

Finn exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Daisy, if this is about the competition—”

“It’s not,” I cut in. “It’s about us.”

His body tenses, but he doesn’t say anything. Just watches me, waiting.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “I was scared, Finn. Scared of how much I feel when I’m with you. Scared of what it would mean if I let myself have you and skating. I thought I had to choose. But I don’t. I don’t want to choose.”

His jaw tightens. “Daisy—”

“I love you.” The words tumble out, raw and desperate. “I love you, and I’ve been an idiot, and if you still want me, I—”

I don’t get to finish, because Finn moves in a blur, his hands cupping my face as his mouth crashes against mine. This kiss isn’t careful or tentative. It’s everything we’ve been holding back—hot, deep, consuming. I clutch at him, pressing closer, losing myself in the feel of his body against mine.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathless. Finn rests his forehead against mine, his voice rough. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy, baby.”

I smile, tightening my grip on his shirt. “Good. Because I’m not running anymore.” And this time, when I kiss him, I know, this is real.