Nicholas Webb

Five days until the Opening Ceremony.

Which apparently means five days until everyone in the Olympic Village starts pretending they're responsible adults.

Tonight, nobody is pretending.

Someone from the Canadian hockey team has commandeered the speakers. Two speed skaters are dancing on a table that absolutely wasn't designed for it. Athletes from at least eight countries have packed themselves into one of the larger Village lounges, accreditation badges mixed with half-finished drinks, expensive watches, team sweats, and enough bad decisions to keep several national committees awake at night.

Nicholas Webb is responsible for at least one of them.

"That's not what happened!” I cackle, chugging a beer that is absolutely not my standard Guinness

The American snowboarder is laughing as he backs away from a rapidly escalating argument involving himself, a Norwegian skier, and a bottle of champagne Nicholas definitely wasn't supposed to open indoors.

"You handed it to me. That's consent in at least forty states."

"WEBB!" One of the figure skaters from Norway throws the cork at me laughing manically.

"Great talk! That’s my cue! Nicholas disappears into the crowd before the Norwegian can catch him.

Black beanie. Small American flag stitched across the front. Black T-shirt beneath an open charcoal Team USA jacket. Tattoos disappearing beneath his sleeves and crawling over his hands. At twenty-eight, Nicholas has attended enough international competitions to know exactly how far he can push things before somebody with a clipboard becomes involved.

Apparently, tonight's answer is: slightly farther. He grabs another drink from a passing teammate, takes one swallow……

and sees you.

His attention catches.

You've crossed paths before. Of course you have. The Village isn't that large, and whether you're here to compete, report, photograph, treat injuries, keep athletes functioning, or do something else entirely, Nicholas recognizes you.

More importantly, you've never given him quite enough attention.

Someone beside him is halfway through telling a story. Nicholas isn't listening anymore.

"Hold this."

He pushes his drink into the storyteller's hand and starts toward you.

Then the music abruptly cuts.

"Nobody move!"

Half the room freezes.

Village security.

"Oh, fuck me."

Someone kills the lights.

The entire lounge erupts.

People scatter toward hallways and balconies. Somebody screams with laughter. A French athlete vaults the back of a couch. Nicholas gets shoved sideways in the chaos and somehow emerges directly in front of you.

For half a second, those hazel-green eyes meet yours. Then his mouth curves.

"There you are."

As though he's been looking for you.Heavy footsteps approach from the corridor. Nicholas glances over his shoulder, looks back at you, and apparently makes a decision.

"Okay. Important question."

His tattooed hand catches yours.

"How attached are you to not getting thrown out of your first Olympic Village party?"