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winxanity-ii · 3 hours ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 27 Chapter 27 | the trial of two disciplines⌟

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As you were about to settle into a spot with Callias and the others to enjoy the tournament, a familiar face approached through the crowd. Erythia was making her way toward you, her expression bright and eager.

"Dear, the Queen has requested your presence with her and the King in the royal box," she announced, her voice carrying a hint of pride.

Before you could even think of declining—not that you would have—Callias gave you a gentle nudge. "Go on, we'll catch up later. Don't keep royalty waiting," he teased, his tone light but encouraging.

You nodded, turning to follow Erythia as she led the way. The nurse chattered as you walked, her words weaving through the air like threads in one of Penelope's tapestries. "It's such an honor, isn't it? To be invited to sit with the King and Queen," she mused aloud, glancing back at you with a smile. "And with your new title, Divine Liaison, it's no surprise. They must be very proud of you."

The pathway to the royal seating was lined with guards in ceremonial armor, their presence a reminder of the significance of the event. As you passed by, their stances seemed to stiffen in respect—a gesture that still felt surreal to you.

Reaching the royal box, the view was striking. The area was draped in fabrics of deep blue and gold, the colors of Ithaca, fluttering slightly in the breeze. The royal box was positioned perfectly, giving an unobstructed view of the arean under the afternoon sun.

As you approached the royal box, the gentle murmur of conversation between Odysseus and Penelope reached your ears. Penelope's laughter, light and musical, fluttered through the air, while Odysseus, with a rare grin, whispered something back, causing another ripple of laughter from her.

A few feet away, Andreia sat apart from this warm scene, her presence like a shadow on a sunny day. She was fanning herself slowly, her green eyes scanning the crowd below with an intensity that bordered on scrutiny. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a coldness in her gaze that seemed out of place amidst the festivity. Near her, two Bronte servants sat rigidly, their heads bowed in silent obedience.

Before you could take in more of the scene, Erythia announced your arrival. The sudden attention snapped you back to the moment. Penelope's eyes sparkled with excitement as she noticed you. "Ah, here she is!" she exclaimed, her voice carrying across the box. In a graceful motion, she gestured towards an empty, cushiony chair beside her.

You curtsied respectfully, acknowledging both the king and queen with a nod before making your way over to the indicated chair. Penelope, unable to contain her enthusiasm, leaned in as you settled down next to her, her demeanor motherly yet filled with a queenly grace.

"Such a pleasure to have you join us for this, dear," Penelope said, her voice warm. She glanced towards Odysseus, who gave you a nod of acknowledgment that seemed to carry both weight and welcome.

Andreia, meanwhile, continued to watch the scene below, her expression a mask that hid whatever thoughts passed through her mind. The contrast between her solitary figure and the connectedness of Ithaca's royal family was stark, highlighting the differences in their realms and perhaps, their hearts.

Responding warmly to Penelope's enthusiasm, you assured her it was indeed an honor to be invited to such an event. Immediately, Penelope launched into a flurry of inquiries, each delivered with her characteristic vibrancy and concern. "You look absolutely lovely today, dear," she commented, the genuine warmth in her voice making you blush lightly. "Those colors really bring out your beauty. Have you eaten yet? Were you enjoying the festival before this?"

Her barrage of questions came fast, each punctuated with a bright smile and an expectant tilt of her head, waiting for your responses. Odysseus, watching the exchange with an amused expression, let out a soft chuckle. He shook his head gently, his hand finding a familiar rest on his wife's thigh, a silent, affectionate gesture that seemed to ground her.

You blinked, slightly taken aback but also touched by this display of affection—Penelope, the queen you had served so diligently, now radiant in the return of her husband. It was a side of her you had glimpsed only in fragments, a joy so profound it reshaped the stern monarch into the woman who giggled like a girl in love.

"I've had a wonderful time, thank you," you replied, managing to get a word in. "The festival is more than I could have expected. It's beautiful, lively... and the food, well, it's delicious."

Penelope beamed, pleased with your answers. "Oh, good, good! I'm so glad to hear that," she said, her eyes twinkling with satisfaction. "It's important to us that you feel part of this celebration, especially given your new role. You do belong here, with us, in these moments of joy."

The affirmation from Penelope, heartfelt and sincere, deepened the sense of belonging and warmth you felt sitting there among the royal family.

Odysseus nodded in agreement with his wife's words. "She's right," he said, shifting slightly in his chair to look at you directly. "This isn't just a kindness, it's a statement. An acknowledgment of your importance, not only to Penelope but to myself as well. You've more than earned your place here."

His words sent a rush of warmth through your chest. It was one thing to have Penelope's open-hearted approval, but to hear it from Odysseus himself—the man whose absence had shaped Ithaca in his wake—felt like a true mark of honor.

You sat up a little straighter, the weight of your title, "Divine Liaison," settling into your bones in a way that felt more real than before.

You smiled brightly as you bowed your head slightly in gratitude. "Thank you, truly," you said, meaning every word. "It's an honor I won't take lightly."

Penelope waved a hand in the air as if to brush aside any need for such formalities. "Of course, dear! You deserve it," she said, fanning herself lightly before her gaze suddenly flickered past you, her expression shifting to one of delight.

"Oh, there's Telemachus!" she exclaimed, nudging you gently with her fan to direct your attention.

Curious, you followed her gesture, your eyes scanning the field below until you spotted him. A short distance away, in an open stretch of the tournament grounds, Telemachus stood with his bow in hand, his posture steady as he tested its draw; even from here, you could see the focus in his stance.

The midday sun cast golden streaks over his figure, catching in the rich brown of his hair and the taut pull of his arms as he prepared to release. The sight of him like this—poised, strong, fully in his element—sent an odd flutter through your chest.

"He's always been a natural," Penelope said with a soft fondness in her voice, watching her son with pride. "Ever since he was young, he's had that steady hand... just like his father."

Odysseus let out a short laugh, crossing his arms. "He's getting there," he said, though there was no real criticism in his tone, only the amused musings of a father who saw potential yet to be fully realized.

You remained silent, watching as Telemachus continued his warm-up, the tension in his bowstring mirroring the quiet anticipation that filled the air. His movements were precise, deliberate, a testament to years of practice. Each time he drew back an arrow, his form was steady, his breath controlled.

There was something mesmerizing about it—the way he seemed to disappear into the rhythm of his own concentration, his world narrowing to just him and the target.

Penelope leaned toward you with a knowing smile. "You must be wondering why he's still practicing," she mused, following your gaze toward her son. "Throughout the day, there have been preliminary trials, small competitions to determine the best representatives from each kingdom for the final tournament."

She gestured toward the field, where remnants of previous events could still be seen—targets riddled with arrows, makeshift wrestling pits marked by trampled grass, and servants bustling to reset areas of the grounds. "It is called the Trial of Two Disciplines," she explained, her voice laced with excitement. "Ithaca values skill and cleverness, so archery serves as a test of focus and strategy. Bronte, on the other hand, prides itself on physical dominance, so pankration—a brutal mix of wrestling and boxing—is their measure of true strength."

Her words painted a clearer picture of the event's significance. It wasn't just about the thrill of competition—it was a display of each kingdom's values, a means of proving their strengths before the eyes of the people. And among all those who had participated, only two remained.

"Telemachus was chosen as Ithaca's champion," Penelope continued, her eyes gleaming with maternal pride. "And for Bronte, their finest competitor was Sthenelos."

Sthenelos. The name alone carried weight, and you found yourself glancing toward the other side of the tournament grounds, where the Brontean contingent gathered.

There, among the warriors clad in Bronte's bold green and gold, a man stood taller than the rest, his presence commanding. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick with muscle, and even from this distance, his stance exuded an air of controlled power.

Before you could study him further, the sharp blare of trumpets rang through the air, cutting through the hum of conversation and stirring the restless anticipation of the crowd.

The voice of the announcer boomed across the grounds. "Lords and ladies, people of Ithaca and Bronte, the Trial of Two Disciplines is about to begin!"

A roar of approval swept through the stands as the tournament officially commenced, the excitement tangible in the air. You felt the shift, the change in energy as the playful nature of the festival gave way to something more serious, more charged with expectation.

From your seat, you could see Telemachus straighten, rolling his shoulders back as he turned toward the call. The casual ease he had during warm-ups faded, replaced with something sharper, more focused. This wasn't just sport anymore—this was a test, a battle of skill and strength between two kingdoms.

And as he took his stance, his fingers flexing at his sides, you couldn't help but wonder what was running through his mind. Was he thinking of his father, of the legacy he carried? Was he weighing the expectations placed upon him, the watchful eyes of Ithaca and Bronte alike? Or was he simply lost in the moment, instincts taking over, knowing that once the match began, there would be no room for hesitation?

Whatever it was, his expression gave nothing away. Only the faintest exhale left his lips, his gaze locked on his opponent.

And the battle was about to begin.

.☆. .✩. .☆.

Telemachus tightened his grip on his bow, scanning the tournament grounds with a careful eye.

The field, now cleared for competition, stretched out before him, the painted boundary lines crisp against the packed dirt. On one end, a ring where the pankration match would take place had been roped off, its sand already uneven from the movements of previous competitors.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. The moment he had spent the entire day preparing for had finally arrived, yet there was a weight in his chest that training could not dislodge.

For Ithaca, for Athena—his name had been chosen to represent them both. He knew what this meant, what was expected of him.

Ithaca's strength had never been in brute force alone; their victories came from cleverness, from adaptability, from outthinking their opponents rather than overpowering them. To face Bronte's champion, a man built like a war statue carved from stone, felt like a test of not just his skills, but of Ithaca's very values.

And yet, despite all of that—despite the honor, despite the pride—his mind kept circling back to you.

He clenched his jaw, willing himself to focus, but the echoes of the morning still haunted him.

Waking up had been a sickening experience. His first thought had been that he must have drunk too much wine at the festival, that the fuzziness in his head and the unease in his stomach was nothing more than the aftermath of reckless celebration. But the second he sat up, memories hit him like a chariot slamming into a wall.

The heat of your skin beneath his hands. The feverish way he had held you down. The words he had spoken, unfiltered, desperate, real.

It had all been real.

His blood turned cold at the recollection, mortification flooding his veins. He had been undone in front of you, unraveling like a man driven mad by longing. And worse, you had seen it. Felt it. The depth of his want, the raw edge of his affection—there had been no space for restraint, no room for hesitation. He had wanted, and he he'd taken.

And then he had collapsed.

He wanted to believe it had been a dream, some feverish illusion, but the truth was worse. The realization clawed at him—what had it been like for you? To see him like that, to witness the parts of him he had tried so hard to keep hidden? Did you fear him? Or worse... did you pity him?

Shame curled in his gut, sour and unrelenting.

He hadn't seen you yet today, hadn't dared to seek you out before the tournament. What could he even say? That he hadn't meant to come undone in your arms? That he had no excuse for the way he had needed you in that moment? That his feelings were true even if his actions had been muddled by some unseen force?

Would that even matter?

The uncertainty was unbearable.

Winning for Ithaca—that, he could do. He knew the mechanics, the tactics, the way to move his body and steady his breath. He could make each shot count, could fight with precision and skill.

But winning you?

That was a different battle entirely.

The tournament felt like a metaphor he couldn't ignore—two kingdoms, two approaches, two warriors standing across from each other, trying to prove who was worthy. He didn't want to win you with brute force, with the kind of recklessness that had stolen his senses last night. No, if he had any hope of earning you, of proving himself, it had to be through effort, through strategy, through sheer determination.

And yet... what if it wasn't enough?

A horn sounded, shaking him from his thoughts. He swallowed hard and straightened his shoulders.

No more dwelling.

If he was going to fight, he would fight with everything in him.

For Ithaca.

For himself.

And maybe, just maybe, for you.

The announcer stepped forward, his voice carrying over the hushed crowd, cutting through the anticipation that hung heavy in the air.

"Representing Bronte—Sthenelos!"

A deafening cheer erupted from the Brontean side of the stands, their voices a mixture of roaring approval and guttural chants of encouragement. The name alone carried weight; Sthenelos was a warrior born and bred, a man molded by Ares' domain, where skill alone was not enough—one had to dominate.

Telemachus watched as the Brontean champion stepped forward, his movements slow, measured, exuding an effortless confidence that could only come from a man who had never considered failure an option.

He was taller than Telemachus by nearly a head, broad-shouldered with a stance like an immovable mountain. His dark, olive-toned skin gleamed under the sun, his muscles taut beneath his crimson-trimmed tunic. A golden torque encircled his throat, a sign of his status back home—a warrior of renown.

Sthenelos bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment of the task before him, then strode toward the designated line. The Ithacan side of the crowd was notably quieter, watching with a mixture of curiosity and wariness, well aware that Bronteans prided themselves on spectacle.

The previous rounds had already tested speed, accuracy, and distance, but this final trial demanded perfection.

A single torch was set ablaze, its flame licking at the air as it was hoisted high onto a wooden mechanism. From it hung a small golden ring, no wider than a clenched fist, suspended by a pendulum. The device had been wound tightly, its tension barely contained, ready to swing the ring into an unpredictable arc once released.

The task was simple in concept but ruthless in execution: Shoot through the ring and extinguish the flame in one strike.

No hesitation. No miscalculations. Only a single moment to strike true.

A hush fell over the grounds as the pendulum was released.

The ring swung wildly, the flame dancing, teasing—daring the archer to fail.

Sthenelos exhaled through his nose, lifting his bow with the kind of deliberate ease that made it clear he was used to this kind of pressure. He was calm, in his element. He nocked his arrow, eyes narrowing in concentration, tracking the movement of his target with almost predatory focus.

For a beat, everything stilled. Even the crowd seemed to hold their breath.

Then—release.

The arrow cut through the air like a streak of lightning.

A split second later, a sharp twang echoed through the tournament grounds as it struck true, passing cleanly through the ring. The torch flame flickered violently—then dimmed. Not quite out, but flickering weakly, fighting to hold on.

The Brontean crowd erupted in cheers, their warriors banging fists against their chests in approval.

Sthenelos lowered his bow, his expression betraying nothing—no frustration, no disappointment—just a quiet, knowing smirk. He turned, stepping back to the sidelines with an ease that suggested he was not worried. His performance had been strong—damn near perfect. Even if the flame had not been fully snuffed, he had still bested most of the competitors from earlier trials.

Telemachus felt his fingers tighten around his own bow.

So that's the standard, he thought, his stomach twisting with something equal parts unease and resolve.

From the royal box, Odysseus gave an approving nod, arms crossed as he leaned forward slightly. Telemachus didn't even have to look at him to know exactly what he was thinking: Not bad. But you can do better.

He swallowed.

His name was about to be called.

And all eyes would be on him.

The announcer stepped forward once more, his voice carrying effortlessly over the hushed arena.

"Representing Ithaca—Prince Telemachus!"

A wave of cheers erupted from the Ithacan stands, but it was different from the raw, almost aggressive roars that had greeted Sthenelos. The Ithacans cheered with pride, with unwavering support, their voices lifting Telemachus up rather than demanding his victory.

He felt the weight of their expectation settle over him like a mantle, but he didn't let it crush him. Instead, he took a step forward, rolling his shoulders as he moved toward the designated line.

Don't look up.

He knew you were sitting there.

He knew exactly where you were in the royal box, seated beside his mother, the Queen, in a position of honor. He had heard her laugh about it earlier, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she teased him about how your new title meant you were seated closer to the King and Queen—closer to him.

"Perhaps that will give you some motivation, hmm?" she had mused, her fan tapping against her chin as Odysseus merely chuckled.

He had fought away the warmth that had threatened to crawl up his neck then, and he fought it away now.

This was not the time.

Gritting his teeth, Telemachus drew in a slow breath and stepped into position. The cheers dulled into a distant hum as the announcer signaled for silence, the entire tournament ground sinking into stillness. The only sound left was the faint creak of the wooden mechanism resetting, the torch being relit, and the golden ring swinging back into position.

Focus.

His hands moved instinctively, adjusting his stance, settling into a position he had practiced a thousand times before. The bow felt familiar in his grasp, its weight grounding him. He inhaled, slow and steady, and with it came the silence—not just around him, but within.

His heart slowed.

His mind emptied.

And then—he felt her.

It was not a presence he could see, nor one he could explain. But it was there, pressing against the edge of his consciousness. Cold and sharp as a blade, yet warm as a guiding hand. It curled around him, not forcing, not demanding, but guiding.

Athena.

The whisper curled behind his ear, woven into his very thoughts, yet separate from them. A voice older than time, softer than breath, stronger than steel.

"Release."

He did.

The arrow loosed from his fingers, cutting through the air with a sharp whistle, an extension of his will. He barely tracked its path—there was no need.

It struck true.

The arrow passed cleanly through the golden ring, its trajectory flawless, before piercing the flame's very core. The torch sputtered violently—then extinguished entirely, leaving only a wisp of smoke curling into the afternoon sky.

A moment of stunned silence followed.

Then—an explosion of sound.

The Ithacan side of the arena erupted into a frenzy of cheers, their voices ringing with triumph. Telemachus barely registered the roaring applause, the cries of victory. His breath left him in a sharp exhale, his body suddenly too light, his pulse thrumming in his ears.

He hadn't realized how tense he'd been until now, until the arrow had met its mark and the weight pressing on his chest had lifted.

His fingers flexed instinctively, still curled from the shot, before he blinked himself back into reality.

Across the field, the Brontean warriors stood with arms crossed, their faces unreadable. They did not cheer nor jeer, only watched—waiting. Because this was not the end.

This was only the first test.

And now, the second awaited.

.☆. .✩. .☆.

Your voice went hoarse from cheering, though you hardly cared. The energy coursing through you was too electric, too exhilarating to be dampened by something as trivial as a sore throat.

Funnily enough, you weren't the loudest person in the royal box—not by a long shot.

Penelope had been completely unrestrained, gripping the railing in front of her as she screamed for her son with unabashed pride. Her golden fan lay discarded on the seat behind her, forgotten in her enthusiasm. At one point, she had leaned so far forward you genuinely thought she might tip over the balcony's edge and go tumbling into the stands below.

"THAT'S MY BABY!" she hollered, her voice ringing out over the roaring crowd. "DID YOU SEE THAT?! PERFECT FORM! PERFECT! THAT'S MY BOY—"

Odysseus, in contrast, remained seated, his hand firmly gripping her waist as though prepared to yank her back at any moment should her excitement send her too far over the edge. He wasn't unaffected by Telemachus' victory—far from it.

Though his reaction was more subdued, there was pride in the sharp gleam of his eyes, the way his lips curled ever so slightly upward as he watched his son stand victorious on the field.

You swallowed a laugh as Penelope finally turned back, breathless and flushed, her hands still clenched into excited fists. "Did you see that?" she asked you, eyes wide and gleaming. "Oh, I knew he'd do well, I knew it—but that? That was incredible!"

"I did see it, my queen," you said, smiling, your heart still hammering in your chest. "He was—" You struggled for the right word. "—flawless."

Penelope nearly swooned, placing a hand dramatically over her heart. "Flawless," she echoed, as though the word itself was divine. "Oh, my dear, that's exactly it! Absolutely flawless! My son, the pride of Ithaca, the future of our kingdom, our champion!"

Odysseus sighed through his nose, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes as he leaned forward, giving his wife a knowing look. "You're going to make his head even bigger than it already is, gynaíka mou," he murmured, his voice rich with fondness.

Penelope huffed, turning her nose up. "Let me dote on him," she insisted. "I had to wait twenty years to do so properly. He deserves it."

Odysseus chuckled but didn't argue, instead pressing a brief kiss to her temple before finally releasing his hold on her waist now that she seemed marginally calmer.

The energy in the arena began to shift as the announcer's voice rang out once more, this time with a note of finality.

"A ten-minute recess will be taken before the next trial of the tournament. Contestants may rest and prepare themselves while the field is adjusted for the second phase."

The collective excitement of the crowd began to settle, cheers giving way to chatter as people took the opportunity to stretch, fetch refreshments, or discuss the previous event.

Penelope let out a happy sigh, finally sitting back down, fanning herself now as though she had exerted more energy than her son. "Oh, this is wonderful," she said, practically beaming. "And to think we still have another round left! I cannot wait to see how he does in Pankration."

You, however, felt a flicker of unease at that.

Archery was one thing.

Pankration—Bronte's specialty—was another.

Your gaze drifted back toward the field, watching as Telemachus set down his bow and rolled his shoulders, stretching out the tension. His face was unreadable from this distance, but you could sense it.

The shift.

The challenge yet to come.

And what it would mean.

As your thoughts swirled with the implications of the next round, you barely registered Penelope shifting beside you—until her voice rang sweetly in your ear.

"Oh, dear, will you be joining Telemachus during his break?"

You choked on air.

Spluttering, you turned to the queen, wide-eyed and teary from the sudden struggle for breath. "Pardon, your majesty?" you wheezed, voice high-pitched and thoroughly scandalized.

Penelope merely giggled behind her fan, tapping it playfully against her chin as she leaned ever so slightly toward her husband. Odysseus, to his credit, didn't react beyond a slow blink and a knowing hum, as if he'd long grown used to his wife's antics.

"N-Nothing, dear," Penelope mused, waving a hand, though her eyes gleamed with mischief. "Just thought it might be nice for him to have a bit of... support, you know? Something to keep him... motivated."

Her tone—gods her tone—was far too innocent to be anything but teasing. She knew exactly what she was doing, enjoying it far too much.

Your face burned as you quickly looked away, shifting in your seat, suddenly very aware of your own heartbeat. Having a conversation that might actually kill me on the spot, you thought wildly, your mind racing.

Support.

Motivation.

The unspoken meaning behind her words was not lost on you.

Your thoughts spiraled, unwillingly wandering toward dangerous territory. Did she approve of you? Was she encouraging something? The warmth in her voice, the giggle behind her fan, the playful glance she shared with Odysseus—it all felt like an unspoken nudge toward a reality you hadn't dared fully consider.

Your fingers curled against the fabric of your skirt, trying to ground yourself as a sudden flutter bloomed in your chest. If she accepted me—if she truly wanted us together—

Before your thoughts could spiral any further, a smooth, measured voice cut through the moment like a blade.

"I suppose I should go see how our competitors are faring," Andreia mused, a slow, coy smile gracing her lips as she lifted her fan to her chin. "It wouldn't do for me to let my champion feel unsupported. After all, I am his princess."

The shift in the air was immediate.

The queen's giggling ceased, the warmth between you all flickering as if snuffed by a sudden draft. For a moment, it was as if you'd all forgotten she was even there.

Penelope's expression schooled into something unreadable, though the way she slowly straightened in her seat was telling. Odysseus, meanwhile, remained silent, but his brow lifted in something that might've been amusement—though it was impossible to tell if it was toward Andreia's words or his wife's reaction.

After a beat, Penelope cleared her throat and gave a composed nod. "That is very kind of you, Lady Andreia," she said, voice smooth, betraying nothing.

Andreia's eyes gleamed at the praise. "Oh, not at all, Your Majesty," she said sweetly, flicking her fan open and waving it lazily. Then, she turned toward you, tilting her head as if examining you, and smiled. "Enjoy the rest of the break, dear."

Before you could form a response, she stood gracefully, her movements practiced and elegant. With a dainty snap, her fan closed in one fluid motion, the sound crisp against the lively noise of the festival below.

Immediately, the two Bronte servants seated near her rose as well, their movements eerily synchronized, their heads still bowed in silence. Without a single glance spared toward them, Andreia stepped forward, moving toward the exit with a presence that demanded attention without a word.

Just before she disappeared, she glanced over her shoulder, her hair shifting over her shoulder like liquid fire. "I'll be back before the next event begins," she assured smoothly before slipping away, her silent shadows following closely behind.

The air she left behind felt noticeably cooler.

Penelope exhaled slowly, rolling her fan shut as she leaned slightly into Odysseus, who hummed under his breath. Neither of them spoke immediately, as if absorbing the brief shift in atmosphere.

You, on the other hand, were left sitting stiffly, your thoughts still rattled—not just from Andreia's departure but from the realization that, for a moment, you had completely forgotten she was there.

And the fact that Penelope had as well.

That realization sent a sharp jolt through your chest, a cold hand wrapping around your ribs and squeezing. Andreia had heard every teasing lilt in Penelope's voice, every not-so-subtle hint about you and Telemachus.

You swallowed thickly, suddenly hyper-aware of how silent you had gone, your fingers curling into the fabric of your skirt as your thoughts churned.

What did she think of it?

The first time you believed she had grown upset over your closeness to the prince, she had shattered your lyre—an act so cruel and deliberate it had left a scar deeper than any physical wound. Your breath hitched slightly at the memory, the phantom echo of broken strings still whispering in the back of your mind.

And now...

Now, she had witnessed something far worse.

Not just a moment of friendship, not just idle words exchanged between you and Telemachus—but the Queen of Ithaca herself, openly encouraging something more.

Your stomach twisted. What did that mean for you?

What would she do?

Where in thunder and tides would her anger lead this time?!

Your pulse quickened, and your breathing shallowed as your mind began to spiral—

But before the panic could fully take root, Penelope's voice cut through the tangle of thoughts looping in your head, drawing you back to the present with an effortless grace that only she possessed.

Seated beside you, she took a delicate sip from her wine cup, her fingers effortlessly keeping hold of her fan in the other.

Just as you were about to compose yourself, Odysseus—ever the observant one—gently took the cup from her hands, smoothly replacing it with a fresh goblet of water. He didn't say anything, merely casting her an amused glance that had her rolling her eyes with a quiet huff.

Unbothered, Penelope continued, flicking her fan toward the field below where Andreia had just finished speaking with her own kingdom's representative.

"She's making her way to Telemachus now," she mused, her voice carrying a knowing lilt. "She's been hovering around the competitors all day—oh, which reminds me!"

She turned to you suddenly, the shift in conversation catching you completely off guard. "During morning tea earlier," she said, her voice lowering conspiratorially, "Andreia let something rather interesting slip."

You blinked, momentarily distracted by the fact that she was still having morning tea with Andreia?

"She called him 'Machus.'"

Your entire body stiffened.

Penelope smirked, clearly relishing your reaction. "She caught herself quickly," she continued, "smoothing it over as something between the two of them, but oh—you should've seen her face when she realized what she said."

You barely registered the end of her sentence before she suddenly tilted her head, gaze sharpening with unmistakable curiosity. "Now that I think about it," she drawled, a teasing glint in her eye, "do you and Telemachus have any special nicknames for each other?"

Your mouth fell open, and for what felt like the tenth time today, you were spluttering.

"A-Ah, I—what? No! We—I mean, why would we—what kind of—?" Your hands uselessly flailed for a nonexistent escape route.

Penelope only giggled behind her fan, her expression positively delighted.

Thankfully, salvation came in the form of Odysseus, who—while certainly entertained by your reaction—decided to spare you from further torment. He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he lightly tapped two fingers against Penelope's wrist in a wordless gesture to rein her in.

"Pen," he said, his voice warm with affection yet edged with amusement, "I believe you've had a bit too much wine."

Penelope gasped softly, scandalized. "How dare you?" she said, clutching her chest in mock offense before dramatically narrowing her eyes at him. "You poured it for me, husband."

Odysseus smirked. "And now I'm cutting you off."

She pouted, looking between her goblet and her husband like a child who had just been denied another helping of sweets.

You let out a deep breath, quietly thanking Odysseus for the rescue—though the moment was short-lived. Because the very next thing out of his mouth was—

"Although," he mused, stroking his chin as if in deep thought, "if there were any nicknames between our dear guest and my son, I'd certainly like to hear them."

You nearly keeled over.

"Odysseus!" Penelope beamed at him, her previous pout vanishing as she turned and placed a playful kiss against his cheek. "See?" she giggled, her eyes shining. "I knew you were on my side."

Your brain short-circuited.

Your entire body felt like it had gone up in flames.

You had just been teased by Penelope and Odysseus.

The Queen of Ithaca and the Odysseus.

A living legend.

The man whose cunning outwitted gods and monsters, whose stories were told by poets, had just smirked at you like a father indulging in gossip about his son's love life.

Your lips parted, your mind desperate to find words—any words—to process what had just happened, but all that came out was an utterly pathetic, "I—"

A voice cut through the atmosphere, breaking the peace that had settled just moments before.

"I've returned~," Andreia announced, her dulcet tone sweeping across the royal box as she stepped inside.

Her two Brontean servants followed closely behind, heads bowed in that same silent obedience as before. Andreia, however, moved with deliberate poise, gliding back to her seat with the air of someone who belonged—not just in this space but in any space she chose to inhabit.

As she settled, she let her fan drift lazily in her grasp, her green eyes flicking toward the field before returning to the royals. "Both men seem to be in high spirits," she mused, a pleased lilt in her voice. "I must admit, I can't wait to see who emerges victorious."

Penelope hummed, nodding thoughtfully as she turned to you, her expression bright with curiosity. "And what do you think, dear?" she asked, tilting her head. "Who do you place your faith in?"

Without hesitation, without even thinking, the answer left your lips with a certainty that startled even you.

"Prince Telemachus."

A soft snort echoed faintly from beside you, but you ignored it.

Odysseus, who had been leaning back comfortably in his chair, suddenly straightened, casting you an interested look. "And what makes you so sure?"

You hesitated for a moment, not because you were uncertain, but because you wanted to answer properly. You glanced down at the field, watching as Telemachus rolled his shoulders, stretching his arms as he prepared himself.

Slowly, you began to speak.

"I won't pretend to be the smartest here," you admitted with a small smile, "but I've had the privilege of watching some of Ithaca's finest train the prince throughout his youth." Your voice grew steadier, more assured, as the words continued to form. "And if there's one thing I've always noticed about him, it's that he's observant—more than people realize."

Your gaze remained on Telemachus as he adjusted his stance, his body language shifting subtly as he sized up his opponent.

"Even as a boy, he picked up on things quickly. He learned, adapted, and absorbed everything around him, but for the longest time, that part of him was overshadowed by his own hesitation. He second-guessed himself, doubted his own instincts. That hesitation made others underestimate him, but when it truly mattered, when he was forced to act..."

You took a slow breath, watching as Telemachus bent down slightly, testing his balance.

"He proved himself."

Penelope listened intently, her fan resting lightly against her chin. Odysseus, too, seemed intrigued, nodding along as you spoke. Even Andreia remained silent, though her expression was unreadable.

You shifted slightly in your seat. "His adaptability isn't like yours... his father," you admitted, your tone softer now. "Your cunning is effortless, ingrained into your very being. But the prince? His cleverness was shaped by necessity. It was sharpened over time, forged through struggle."

As you spoke, your eyes remained locked on the field, watching Telemachus move with quiet determination.

And that's when you noticed it.

The heat creeping up your neck wasn't just from speaking so passionately—it was from the very moment you realized Telemachus was practically naked.

Your breath hitched as your eyes flickered down, properly registering what you were looking at.

His usual tunic was gone.

Instead, he stood in nothing but a simple perizoma, a cloth tied around his waist that left almost everything exposed. His skin gleamed under the sun, a fine sheen of sweat making every muscle far too defined. The broad expanse of his shoulders flexed as he rolled them, his back a map of hardened lines and sinew, his abdomen taut and dusted lightly with dark hair.

Your lips parted, your mind stalling.

And then—he poured something over himself.

Your breath stopped in your throat as a servant stepped forward, handing him a decorated clay vase. At first, you didn't quite register what was inside until Telemachus lifted it, tipping the contents over his chest.

Olived oil.

A thick, golden liquid ran over the planes of his chest, slicking down his torso, catching in the grooves of his muscles before sliding lower, over his arms, his stomach, his legs—wait. LEG?!

Your eyes bulged as you suddenly realized—

He wasn't just shirtless.

He was practically bare.

Your mouth snapped shut, throat working around nothing as heat flooded your face.

Your hands instinctively shot into your lap, fingers gripping the fabric of your skirt tight as you desperately forced your gaze away, fixing your attention anywhere else.

The sky. The crowd. The dust on the ground.

Dear gods.

Clearing your throat, you dropped your gaze entirely, willing your pulse to slow.

This was fine. You were fine.

You were not going to combust over a little bit of exposed skin.

...Or a lot.

You understood before competing, athletes would rub olive oil on their skin to help with muscle flexibility and made it harder for opponents to grip them, but rationalizing it sure wasn't making anything less difficult.

Remembering that you had been in the middle of answering a question, you quickly scrambled to regain your composure.

"So... yeah," you blurted out, clearing your throat and forcing your gaze anywhere but the field. "I apologize for rambling."

Odysseus let out a low hum, his lips quirking in amusement as he leaned back in his chair. "No issue at all," he said, the weight of his gaze settling on you. "It was very... insightful."

There was a peculiar note in his voice, one that made you wonder just how much of your little distraction he had noticed.

But before you could linger on that—or on the fact that Andreia had remained uncharacteristically quiet behind you—scattered murmurs from the stands below caught your attention.

"What in the name of the gods is he doing?" "By the gods, the man's covering himself with dirt!"

Your eyes snapped back to the field just in time to witness Telemachus crouching down, scooping up fine dust from the ground, and deliberately rubbing it over his freshly oiled skin.

A chorus of mixed reactions followed.

On the Ithacan side, murmurs of curiosity spread quickly, while the Brontean side was far less subtle, a few warriors scoffing outright.

"That defeats the entire purpose," one sneered, folding his arms. "The oil is meant to emphasize the strength of the body, to heighten the power of the strike."

Another shook his head, chuckling under his breath. "Ithacans—always scheming instead of fighting properly."

A few others muttered in agreement, their voices laced with thinly veiled derision.

But then—

"Hmm."

Odysseus' voice broke through your thoughts, his tone carrying a note of interest.

You turned, catching the thoughtful gleam in his eyes as he studied Telemachus below.

"Smart," he murmured, stroking his chin. "He knows this will be tough, but this..." He gestured toward the field with his goblet. "This might just give him an edge."

You blinked, glancing back at Telemachus, who had now dusted down his arms and legs, rolling his shoulders as if testing the difference.

"He's reducing slipperiness," Odysseus continued, smirking slightly. "Improving his grip. The oil was a necessity, but with this? He won't be at as much of a disadvantage when the real fight starts."

Your lips parted slightly as you processed his words, a realization settling over you.

What had seemed like an odd, almost desperate act was actually strategy.

A small, begrudging smile tugged at your lips. Of course. Telemachus wasn't about to charge in unprepared. He was thinking ahead, adapting—just as you had said he would.

As your thoughts settled, the announcer's voice rang out once more, commanding attention over the restless murmurs of the crowd.

"Now, for the final trial of the tournament—Pankration!"

A wave of excitement rippled through the audience, cheers and shouts filling the air. You inhaled sharply, your fingers curling slightly against the railing as you leaned forward.

"But before we begin," the announcer continued, his voice carrying over the din, "a clarification of the rules!"

He paused for dramatic effect, allowing the noise to settle before going on.

"As tradition dictates, Pankration is a test of raw strength, endurance, and skill. Traditionally, combatants would enter the ring unclothed to ensure fairness, as is the way of the great warriors before us!"

A few loud cheers erupted from the Brontean section of the stands, some of the warriors already pounding their fists in approval. However, just as quickly, an amused ripple of laughter followed from the Ithacan side, along with a few high-pitched groans from certain spectators.

"Due to the presence of unwed women and children," the announcer added with practiced ease, "both competitors shall instead wear perizoma!"

There was a chorus of exaggerated boos from a section of Brontean women in the stands, one particularly familiar voice dragging out a dramatic, "Oh, come on!"

A second later—

Thud.

"Ow!"

There was a sharp snort of laughter, and despite the gravity of the moment, you recognized Callias' voice yelping from somewhere below, followed by a hushed "Serves you right," that sounded suspiciously like Lysandra.

You bit down on a smile, shaking your head slightly as the announcer continued.

"With this adjustment, let it be understood that this will be a battle of integrity!" His voice boomed, ringing through the arena. "To emerge victorious, one must either force their opponent out of the ring or render them incapacitated! Ithaca values skill, control, and wit—while Bronte honors strength and power! Which shall triumph?!"

The crowd roared.

The announcer lifted a hand, and the noise ebbed just enough for his final declaration.

"Step forward, warriors!"

Telemachus took a deep breath and strode to the center of the sandpit, his movements steady and controlled. Across from him, Sthenelos did the same, his heavy footfalls pressing deep into the dirt.

As the two men approached, the differences between them became even more pronounced. Sthenelos was a mountain, broad-shouldered and thick with muscle, his skin scarred from previous battles. His bare chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, and as he rolled his neck, his knuckles cracked ominously.

He was built for brute force, his very presence exuding the power Bronte so deeply revered.

Telemachus, by contrast, was leaner but no less formidable. His body, honed through years of rigorous training, spoke of precision rather than sheer might. Where Sthenelos was a boulder, Telemachus was a blade—sharp, measured, and waiting for the right moment to strike.

The announcer motioned for both men to stand face to face.

"Do you understand the rules?"

Sthenelos let out a short, rough exhale, punching his own chest three times in rapid succession, his eyes locked onto Telemachus with an intensity that bordered on predatory.

Telemachus, in stark contrast, merely nodded once. "Yes."

You exhaled, crossing your fingers in your lap as the announcer stepped back.

"Then let the final trial... begin!"

*gynaíka mou - my wife.

A/N: is it obvious im obssessed with this fic rn??? lowkey was feeling awful about this presentation i have coming up (i suffer from bad social anxiety, lol rip my steady voice) and jusr remember i have free will and can write, so that's what i'm doing instead of facing reality ❤️❤️ is chappie good? also, woooowwww came back from like a week gone and gained like 30+ followers?! no take-backsies! now you're stuck reading my deranged fantasies forever~ mwaaaahhhhhh- 😋

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog

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toasttt11 · 1 year ago

Text

gold medal

January 5, 2024

Kensington saw the puck go across the ice and knew they had just won the gold medal, she didn’t know if it was her screams in her ears or her teammates or both, but she skated over jumping on top of all her teammates at the goalie net.

The rest of the team all jumped over then bench skating over to meet all of them.

The whole team was jumping up and down onto of each other, smiles across everyone’s faces.

Kensington felt someone pull on her shoulder turning to see a grinning Gabe, Kensington laughed as they lunged at each other the same time hugging tightly.

Ryan skated over jumping on top of both of them shaking them, “Let’s go baby!” He was shaking them and yelling like crazy.

Will looked over seeing his three best friend and skated over jumping onto the three knocking the all four of them onto the ice.

The four laughed happily as they hugged on the ice having literally just had one of their dreams come true.

“Oh my god, we really did that!” Gabe laughed in disbelief.

Kensington let out a shocked laughed rolling over to lay her back straight onto the ice.

Will and Ryan laughed together seeing Gabe and Kensington both laying down comfortably on the ice and shared a look standing up, Will grabbed Kensington by her waist and Ryan grabbed Gabe’s hands pulling them up.

The team lined up and all were dancing to the music as they were given their gold medals, and all went back to the blue line.

“And now ladies and gentlemen, please rise and remove your hats for the national anthem of USA.” The commentator spoke through out the arean.

The U.S.A. team all linked arms as the music of their national athem started and the whole team was belting out the lyrics with wide grins adorned on their faces.

Will gently knocked his head againt Kensington’s head, who was standing next to him, Kensington looked up at Will and knocked her head against his head laughing as they continued to sign the song loudly with their team.

Kensington was grinning the whole time and was vibrating with excitement as the team watched Rutger get handed their trophy and turned around coming towards them and lifting it into the air.

The who team jumped on top of each other, jumping up and down as the whole rink was covered in gold confetti.

The whole team was on a giddy high as they all but skipped their way back to the locker room, hollering down the hallways.

Kensington could feel herself losing her voice from all the screaming, especially as they all huddled together to scream together oh mama don’t you cry.

Kensington sat at her stall having slipped her jersey and pads off leaving her in a black sports bra, Gabe threw an arm around her shoulder pulling her into the photo with him.

Will and Ryan leaned over from the other side getting into the photo.

Ryan ended up getting up and jumping into other peoples photos of and Gabe walked away leaving just Kensington and Will sitting next to each other.

Will raised an eyebrow at her making her giggle but nod and she reached into her stall pulling her phone out and open her camera and hood in front of them as Will help up both of their gold medals, Kensington and Will both smiled at the camera as she took the photo.

Kensington posted the photo onto her story before getting changed out of her equipment and changed back into her light purple suit.

Kensington headed back to her and Gabe’s hotel room deciding to shower first as Gabe was seeing his parents and her parents couldn’t make it to the tournament.

Kensington threw on a multi colored striped sweater and a pair of mom jeans before getting out of the bathroom letting Gabe head into the bathroom. She sat at the desk finishing her hair and putting on a lightly layer of mascara and some lipgloss and putting on the rest of her jewelry that she took of her the game, she slipped on her a pair of boots and played on her phone until Gabe was done.

Gabe finished getting ready and Kensington and him headed out of the room and headed to the karaoke bar that was close by and was meeting up with their teammates and any of their girlfriends or siblings that came with them.

It seemed like Gabe and Kensington were one of the last people to walk into the bar seeing some of their teammates alreadly very drunk.

Gabe and Kensington walked over to where Will and Ryan were talking with a few of their teammates talking.

Kensington slid next to Will nudging him with her elbow and Will looked over smiling at her.

Kensington looked over seeing Ryan already looking very tipsy and he stood up and dragged Drew up to the stage and put on We are never getting back together by Taylor Swift and the two started screaming it into the microphones.

Kensington let out a laugh making sure to pull out her phone to flim the two especially as they started dancing on the stage together and Drew dipped Ryan.

The whole bar was filled with their group and everyone cheered for Ryan and Drew’s performance and then Rutger and Gavin went up next.

Kensington ended up walking away from the team after almost everyone had already went onto the stage for the karaoke and went to the bathroom.

Kensington walked out for the bathroom when she finished and saw Will leaning on the wall, “Willy?” Kensington titled her head curiously wondering why Will was waiting outside the bathroom.

“Hey Gray,” Will looked up smiling at the sound of her voice, he saw the questioned look, “I uh didn’t want anything happen if you went to the bathroom alone so i waited outside.” Will sheepishly explained not wanting to anything to happen to her.

Kensington felt her face soften and her heart squeeze in fondness for her best friend, she leaned on the wall next to him and nudged him gently, “Thank you.” She appreciated that he cared enough to wait for her.

“Always.” Will softly smiled looking down at her, Kensington looked up at him and saw the way Will’s eyes flickered down to lips and he leaned closer, Kensington nervously bit her lip but leaned in slightly.

Kensington let out a nervous breath at Will being so close to and she could just feel his lips brush hers and suddenly a very drunk Ryan was putting his arms around them both as he was hollering loudly and Kensington and Will both pulled apart quickly and Kensington looked away immediately feeling her heart beat rapidly in her chest and Will kept his eyes on her.

Kensington let Ryan drag Will and her back to their team and she sat right next to Cutter, who gave her a concerned look seeing her look panicked, “You alright Singy?” He put at arm around her and looked at one of his favorite teammates and the girl who had become like his little sister over the last few years.

Kensington shook her head and rested her head on Cutter’s shoulder and closed her eyes, getting the comfort of an older brother from Cutter, especially since she had known him for years know and he is one of the older players she is closet with.

“Will almost kissed me.” Kensington whispered quietly to Cutter, still in shock she almsot kissed her best friend and maybe the person she has been crushing on but has been trying to get over it.

“Oh.” Cutter’s eyes widen and looked at her, “What happened?” Cutter had seen Kensington when she realized she had a crush on Will but he knew she didn’t want to risk her friendship with him so she had been trying to get over her crush.

“Ryan interrupted us.” Kensington whispered playing with her bracelets.

Cutter slowly nodded and he could see she didn’t want to keep talking about it, “Do you want to go back to hotel?” He also knew she had a really early flight the next morning as she had to get back to New Jersey.

“Please.” Kensington softly whispered. Cutter stood up with her keeping his arm around her shoulder as they said goodbyes to a few of their teammates and walked out of the bar, not seeing Will look at them with a sad face and dejected frown.

Cutter walked Kensington the quick walk back to their hotel and he walked with her up to her hotel room, “Are you gonna be alright?”

Kensington looked at him and wrapped her arms around him needing a hug, “I will be.”

Cutter gently wrapped his arms around her and letting her hug him as long as she needed.

Kensington eventually stepped back and gave him a small smile, “Thank you.” She turned around and headed into her room.

She took a deep breath before getting changed in a purple sweatshirt and sweatpants set before starting to pack up her bags before her flight in the morning, she set her alarms and headed into bed wanting to get as many hours as she could before having to get up early.

 Kensington was so deep asleep she didn’t even hear when the door opened and Will was helping a drunk Gabe into the room, Will helped Gabe lay on his bed and covered him with the covers.

Will started to walk out of the hotel room and looked at Kensington, he walked over pulling the blanket up around her and he leaned down pressing a very gentle kiss to her forehead, “I’m so sorry gray.” He looked at her regrettably once more before walking out of the room.

January 6, 2024

Kensington woke up hearing her alarm and quickly shutting it off, she looked towards the windows seeing it still pitch black out side and the sun still down.

She got out of bed and headed to the bathroom and got ready real quick.

She slipped on her black high top converses and packed the rest of her stuff into her suitcase, she zipped the suitcase up and grabbed her backpack, slipping it onto her backpack and rolling her suitcase out of her hotel room.

Kensington headed down to the lobby and waited for the taxi to take her to the airport.

Kensington sat in the Taxi watching the asleep city as they drove to the Airport.

She thanked the driver before grabbing her bags and walking into the airport, she went through Security and walked through the Sweden airport to her gate. She had some time before her flight and headed to the Starbucks getting an Ice Matcha and a breakfast sandwich before waiting by her gate.

Kensington boarded her flight and put her suitcase in the overhead before sitting in her window seat, she grabbed out her headphones and pulled out her journal. She slipped her headphones on and started her playlist and looking out the window as the plane was about to takeoff.

Kensington spent most of the eight hours either listening to music or working on one of her songs in her journal and before she knew they were already landing in New Jersey.

She eventually got off the plane and walked through the airport and got into a uber to take her to Jack’s apartment.

She walked through his apartment building and got to his apartment and knocked on the door waiting, not sure who would be in the apartment and who is already at the Arena.

Jack opened the door looking pretty down but the second he saw his sister he smiled happily and pulled her into a one armed hug as his other arm is in a sling.

“I’m so proud of you Sunshine.” Jack pressed a soft kiss to the side of head, having watched almost all of games during the WJC, and watched her gold medal game with Luke, Quinn and their parents. They all were really happy for her but sad they couldn’t have been there for her.

“Thanks Jacky.” Kensington voice was very quiet and raspy as hugged him, sighing in relief to see part of her family for the first time since thanksgiving as she also spent the holidays with her team in Sweden and not with her family.

“How’s is it?” Kensington softly asked as they pulled apart and headed into his apartment, she didn’t have a chance to see his game only got told he was hurt and wasn’t playing tonight.

“Been worse.” Jack grimaced unhappy about being injured again.

“Well, if you can’t play for a little awhile, i have room for visitors.” Kensington softly whispered her voice still raspy from all the screaming and yelling. She also knew Jack doesn’t do great sitting alone when his team goes on road games and she is only a three hour drive away or a quick flight.

“I like that.” Jack smiled wanting to spend some time with his sister and that may be the only positive about being injured, “Luke and Quinn headed out a while ago and Mom and Dad have left a few minutes ago. So if you want to change or something but we can leave whenever you’re ready.”

“I’ll change.” Kensington nodded and she headed down the hallway with her bags to the guest room she always stays in. She put her suitcase down and zipped it open pulling out her outfit and she grabbed her makeup bag.

She put on a pair of loose blue jeans and a thick grey sweater, a multicolored scarf and her tan ugg’s. She put on very light makeup and grabbed her phone walking out of the room to the living room where Jack was waiting.

Jack looked up at the sound of her waking into the room, “Ready?” Kensington nodded and headed to the front door as Jack slipped on his black coat, “Uh Sunny, so i’m not supposed to drive..” Jack trailed off looking at his sister.

“That’s ok.” Kensington smiled shaking her head and held out of her hand letting Jack giver her the car keys.

They headed down to the parking garage and Kensington hoped into the drivers seat as Jack got into the passenger seat, she started the car and started driving to the Prudential Center.

Jack showed her how to get into the player lot and she pulled into his spot. They walked into the Arena and Jack led them through the hallways, “You don’t mind if it’s just us, because i can take you to Mom and Dad.”

Jack having gotten two seat in the press box and hoping to be less seen there and their parents had gotten a suite with the friends and family that came out for the game.

“With you.” Kensington softly whispered not minding waiting to see her family especially because all of them were free tomorrow and are going to spend the day together and she knows the suite is packed with friends and family and she’s exhausted and can barely talk so she really doesn’t want to be in a suite filled with people.

“Alright Suns.” Jack smiled swinging his good arm around her shoulder pressing a kiss to the side of her head.

They walked to the press box and sat in the seats seeing the teams already warmed up and about to do the puck drop.

Kensington leaned her head onto Jack’s good shoulder as the puck just dropped and the players started lining up for the game to start.

The two watched the game, with no score in the first period and the second period ended in 4-2 with the Canucks leading, the third period started and and both team scored two more times and the game ended 6-4, with the Canuck’s winning against the Devils.

Jack groaned dropping his head as the game ended and hating that they lost against the Canucks.

“Well looks likes Quinn has another win.” Kensington giggled seeing Jack dramatically groan. Jack and Quinn keeping score of all the time they played against each other, who won and or who lost.

Jack and Kensington got up and started the walk down the locker room where they saw some of their family.

Ellen felt someone hug her side and she looked down seeing her daughter, Ellen smiled wrapping her arms around her, “Oh my love!”

“Hi Mama.” Kensington whispered hugging her mother tightly.

Ellen reluctantly let her daughter go, Jim wrapped his arms around his daughter and tightly hugged her.

Jim smiled down at his youngest and before letting her greet the rest of their family and friends that were there.

“Hi Liv.” Kensington whispered as she hugged Olivia.

“Hi Kens.” Olivia fondly smiled having grown quite close to the young girl.

“Sunnyyy!” Luke cheered happily as he rushed forward and picked his baby sister in a big hug and spun her around.

“Lu!” Kensington held onto her brother as he spun her around.

Luke gently set her down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, “Hello miss gold medalist!” Luke proudly teased her.

Kensington softly laughed, “Thank you.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek before seeing Quinn walking out of his locker room and perked up seeing her big brother as she hadn’t see Quinn the longest out of her family.

She quickly lunged at him wrapping his arms around him and resting her head on his chest.

“Hello Sunshine.” Quinn smiled hugging her back gently and contently closing his eyes as he held his baby sister. Quinn wrapped an arm around her shoulder and walked to the their family.

Kensington smiled seeing her family all together something that doesn’t happen often.

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