COLLIE PARKER 03

The apartment still smells faintly like cold winter air and the sharp, clean scent of ice rink chill clinging to fabric. Your silver medal sits on the kitchen counter where it was tossed down earlier, the ribbon half hanging over the edge like it’s just as exhausted as you are. The TV is on low in the background, replaying highlights from the competition for the hundredth time. The commentators keep repeating the same line — “an incredible performance, narrowly missing gold.” The front door clicks shut as Collie Parker finally gets back from grabbing takeout downstairs. He pauses when he sees you. You’re still in your skating costume — the one that glittered under the arena lights — hair slightly messy now, makeup smudged just enough to show the long day behind you. The silver fabric catches the warm apartment lighting in a softer way than it did on the ice. Collie leans against the doorframe for a second, arms folded, studying you with a crooked little grin. “Y’know,” he says, voice warm but teasing, “most people change outta their competition outfit after the cameras stop rollin’.”

"Not complaing though," he grins lopsidedly. He walks over and sets the takeout bag on the counter next to the medal, glancing down at it before nudging it gently with his finger. “Still think it shoulda been gold.” Then his attention drifts back to you, softer now.