Chapter 2: Ready for Anything

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"At least my name doesn't sound like a brand of grape juice," says Will.

Every day starts the same. They wake to the same, dizzying alarm from Ocean's phone—from a popular anime series from 2018. They silently grab breakfast, get dressed, and splash their faces with tapwater—all while mumbling to themselves about where their things are placed. And whether the other boy moved them in the middle of the night.

Then Will says something that pisses Ocean off.

Then Ocean bites back harder, like a great white shark swimming in his very own name.

Soon after, the hotel room, which always looks familiar and foreign from the last, turns into one of the matches at Wrestlemania. But instead of chairs flying, their words streamline like daggers.

"You know what," says Ocean. Will rolls his eyes; his skating partner never fails to be the first offended. "When you're flying in front of the whole world, maybe I'll drop you on purpose."

Will shakes his head. He's fully dressed now in his Olympic jacket—the colored rings standing out like beacons—and suede black pants that fit snugly. He knows that Ocean should also be fully dressed by now. But he also knows that he was the main cause of distraction.

They even wear the same brand of underwear. Will shakes his head at the sight. Sometimes, the fact that they share so much disgusts him. A hopeless parody of Bonnie and Clyde.

"Whatever. Get dressed, O."

Their car ride is exhausting silence. How they turn it on so effortlessly in the arena—Will can only guess. It doesn't make much sense to him, and he hates anything that doesn't make sense. If it can't be put into an equation or written into a formula, why even bother?

As reminded by Coach Burnaby, the opening ceremony will be held at a newly constructed stadium, the Polygon Arena, ten miles from the hotel. Traffic holds them up for an hour, but their designated driver manages to swerve quickly to the entrance of the underground parking lot—down to the floor where only arriving athletes are allowed.

A reporter meets them as they make way toward the elevator. "Will and Ocean, our golden boys," he exclaims, much for dramatic effect for the live viewers. "How lovely it is to see you again. Pearson Clyde from NBC Sports."

Fake smiles. Who knew they could turn it on off the rink too?

Will waves toward the insect-lensed camera. "We're so excited that we made it here. It's even more rewarding knowing that we put it all out on the stage for the Olympic trials." Or at least I did. "Ocean and I are ready to make Team USA proud."

Will glances at Ocean and how his brilliant and straight white teeth are on full display. He must admit that the Irish boy is a much better actor than him. His smile seems easy and maybe even genuine. "Thank you for welcoming us, Pearson. And ditto to everything Will said. We may have had a rough time a couple months ago but we're ready for redemption."

You didn't seem so ready for it last night.

Around the gathering of reporters, other athletes from around the world are beginning to arrive. From all 105 registered nations. Will recognizes the famed nineteen-year-old from Sweden, Joan Hart, who is predicted to win at least two gold medals in the snowboarding events. That's if everything goes as expected. And as usual, an event like this will never play out in the way the public expects.

Will hates the camera as well—the huge behemoth of machinery that's coupled with overhead microphones, which loom over him like the constant fear of falling during a routine.

"We better head inside," says Ocean, eventually. "We wouldn't want to miss the Parade of Nations."

"Right," says the reporter. His plump cheeks bobble as he nods. "You wouldn't want to miss that. Fly high, you two."

Ocean has the nerve to say, "He will," right before they can escape through the elevator door.

These two words come close to undoing him completely. He will? I will be the decider of that. But he manages to grab hold of the logic within him, counting backwards from 14—the age he entered his first major competition. There is no use in starting another fight before even meeting the rest of Team USA. They are called the golden boys for a reason, after all, through every commentator, fan, and even the top athletes and coaches of the figure skating world.

"Are you ready to march?" asks Will. The elevator continues to climb floor after floor, ascending the deep parking basement. Even with all the chaos of arriving athletes, they managed to snag the whole elevator for themselves.

"Yeah," Ocean replies.

I'm ready to do anything. Ocean always used to say this phrase. When they first met, they got along well enough, and Ocean used to respond to any challenge with such an infectious enthusiasm. 10 more sets of camel spins before taking a break? I'm ready. Skipping out on the homecoming game at Moanalua High to practice? I'm ready. Attempting their first major routine at nationals, where Will completes a triple twist over Ocean's head? I'm ready for anything.

Just say the damn line, Will thinks. Even though he firmly believes in matter over superstition, that maybe, just maybe the mood would be lifted if—

The elevator lets out an ear-piercing shriek. Like the weight of Will and Ocean's tension and one or the other's massive ego is too much for the machine to handle. The lights overhead flicker then completely darken, leaving the space pitch black. Will can see absolutely nothing. The sound of the lift being controlled by stalwart roping comes to a screaming halt.

"Don't panic," says Will. It's his go-to response whenever the other boy begins shaking like a squirrel caught in a blizzard. Even though he can't see his partner, he has enough sense to know that he isn't the one hyperventilating.

"William... what's going to happen?"

Full name, bad sign. For once Will wishes that they stayed in their shared hotel room, fussing about and fighting for the event—who-can-shout-the-best-insults.

They would win gold for that as a pair, no questions asked. 


A/N : Thank you for reading, and please vote and/or comment if you enjoyed

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