Patri Guijarro x Dutch Speed Skater
Patri has built her career on knowing when not to force a pass. So when the inside lane opens in the Olympic final, she recognizes the choice for what it is — not hesitation, but control.
The air inside the Milano-Cortina arena carries the faint metallic taste of cold ice and freshly sharpened steel. It isn’t loud yet, not in the way a final will be, but it hums with a contained vibration that presses lightly against the ribs.
Entire sections of the stands are washed in Dutch orange. The flags are folded neatly over railings rather than waved wildly, and scarves are looped with intention instead of thrown over shoulders. The expectation surrounding you feels structured and confident, as if gold is less a hope and more a logical conclusion.
You’ve been ranked number one in the world all season. Your closing lap is the fastest in the field. The commentators have already described the race as yours to lose.
As you step onto the rubber mat, your blades make a hollow, clicking sound that echoes upward before dissolving into the murmur of the crowd. You lower one blade to the ice and test the edge. It bites cleanly, carving a thin white line that reassures you more than any statistic could.
The ice gleams under the arena lights, smooth and blue-white and deceptively calm. Short track rarely is.
You roll your shoulders beneath the compression of the orange suit and take a deliberate inhale. The fabric tightens across your back, reminding you of every breath. You shift your weight slightly and flex your right hip in a small preparatory motion that looks like nothing more than routine.
Across the rink, high enough to see the whole track, Patri sits in a dark coat that does not announce allegiance. She does not look at the jumbotron where your season highlights are looping. She watches you instead.
Midfield has trained her to notice what others do not. She reads the slight changes in posture before a tackle, the shift of balance before a run breaks through the line. She knows your baseline in the same way she knows the rhythm of a match.
When you are relaxed, you rock evenly on both blades.
When you are calculating, your weight settles subtly to the left.
When you are certain, your jaw softens.
She sees you bounce once on your toes and settle into position. She notices the small roll through your right hip as you align yourself at the start. It looks normal. It likely is.
But she catalogs it anyway.
The announcer says your name first in Italian and then in Dutch. The crowd swells, not explosively but confidently, as if they are confirming something that has already been decided.
You glide to the line and let your blades settle into the shallow grooves carved by earlier heats. You bend forward, hands hovering just above the ice, breath fogging faintly against your visor.
The quiet moves through the arena in waves until even the hum seems to hold its breath.
Not electrified. Not anxious.
Your first push is long and controlled. The second is clean and powerful. By the third, you have created space between yourself and the traffic behind you.
From the stands, it looks dominant and effortless.
From where Patri sits, she notices something smaller. Your first extension off the right leg is a fraction shorter than the left. It is not wrong, not weak, and not visible to the commentators narrating your inevitability.
She does not react. She does not worry.
She stores the detail the way she stores every pattern she reads on a pitch.
As you settle into the first curve, carving smooth crescents into the ice, the sense of inevitability returns to the arena. Gold feels structural, like something governed by physics rather than chance.
And physics, as far as anyone here believes, does not break.
Qualification is meant to be efficient. Controlled. A necessary step before the racing truly tightens.
You do not treat it lightly, but you do treat it as procedural.
The ice is still fresh. The edges still crisp. The pack compresses quickly as you enter the fourth lap, shoulders nearly brushing as everyone fights for position before the tightest curve.
You are boxed mid-pack, which is not unusual this early. You wait for space to open.
A skater dives late on the inside. Her blade catches a fraction too deep. Her shoulder clips your right side with more force than she intended.
Momentum takes over before instinct can correct it.
Your upper body twists sharply. Your right shoulder hits the padding first with a heavy, dull thud that reverberates through your chest. The impact whips your hip sideways as your skates lose their edge, and you feel the right side of your pelvis strike the ice a split second later.
The cold is immediate. The pain is not.
For a brief second, everything feels muted — the crowd noise, the announcer, even your own breathing.
You slide into the boards and come to a stop beneath the orange glare of arena lights.
The officials’ arms rise almost instantly to signal interference. You will advance regardless of where you finish.
Medical staff step toward you, but you are already rolling onto your knees.
Your right shoulder protests first. It is not sharp enough to panic, but deep enough to demand attention. When you plant your right skate to stand, your hip answers differently — tight and unstable in a way that feels less dramatic and more dangerous.
You push yourself upright before anyone can reach you.
You rotate your right arm once as if adjusting the sleeve of your suit. The joint pulls, then settles. You test your balance by shifting weight evenly. The right side lags for half a beat before accepting it.
No one in the crowd would see the delay.
From the stands, it looks like resilience.
You take three short strides to test the edge.
Right push — a hitch that you smooth out before it becomes visible.
The advancement is guaranteed as long as you finish. You’re body is screaming but you finish anyway.
You cross the line under your own momentum because leaving early would change the story, and you are not ready for the story to change.
The crowd applauds your toughness. Dutch flags lift in approval. The commentators call it composure.
In the stands, Patri does not clap. She is not focused on the interference call or the fact that you will move on. She is watching how you stand.
You place your right foot down carefully before transferring full weight. Your shoulder remains a fraction tighter against your side as you skate off the ice.
It is not dramatic. It is not obvious. But it is there.
She has spent years reading micro-adjustments in players who insist they are fine. She recognizes the difference between shock and compensation.
As you disappear down the tunnel, the hum of inevitability returns to the arena.
Only now, it carries a hairline fracture.
The semifinal is cleaner. No collisions. No chaos. No dramatic lunges for position.
From the stands, it looks like control.
You take your place at the line with the same measured posture as before. The shoulder has stiffened slightly in the cooling time between races, but it does not limit movement in a way that alarms you. The hip is tighter now, less forgiving on the first few pushes, but it warms quickly once you begin.
You adjust. Not visibly. Strategically.
You do not explode off the line the way you typically do. Instead of forcing the inside on lap one, you hold the outer lane longer, conserving the torque that a sharper cut would require. You let two skaters burn energy jostling for first position while you settle comfortably into third.
To the commentators, it looks patient.
To the Dutch fans, it looks confident.
To you, it feels calculated.
Every curve requires a lean that presses weight through the right hip. You reduce the angle slightly. Not enough to lose speed outright, but enough to protect the joint from the kind of stress that would expose weakness.
Your right arm remains fractionally closer to your body than usual as you exit each turn. The shoulder does not want full extension on the swing.
It is subtle. It is survivable.
Lap six, you normally surge. Tonight, you do not.
You hold position and trust your closing speed.
On the final lap, the top two break just slightly clear. You do not chase recklessly. You maintain rhythm and drive through the straight with measured power.
For a split second, the arena holds its breath.
Then the time flashes on the board.
You nod once at the clock as if this was always the plan.
The crowd exhales in relief. The commentators praise composure and tactical maturity.
From the stands, it looks like discipline. Patri remains seated. She is not watching the clock. She is watching the curve exit.
You are shortening the right extension by a fraction each lap. Not dramatically, but enough that she sees the asymmetry in your stride pattern. Your lean angle is shallower than in earlier heats this season. Your arm swing is tighter.
She has watched you train in preseason sessions when you were loose and uninjured. She knows the difference between strategic patience and physical protection.
When you skate off the ice, you do not limp. You glide, but your right foot touches down first before stepping onto the mat — testing stability before committing weight.
There. Again. You believe you have hidden it. Patri sees it anyways. She knows something isn’t right but she can’t get to you. The final is in twenty minutes.
The ice is quieter for the final.
Not in volume — the crowd is louder now — but in tone. The kind of quiet that settles underneath noise when something important is about to happen.
You step to the line and roll your shoulders once. The right one resists slightly before loosening. Your hip feels stable enough when you stand still.
Standing is not the problem.
The first two laps are controlled. Clean entries. Clean exits. No elbows, no desperation. The pack stretches early, and you settle comfortably into second wheel behind the Italian skater who has been aggressive all night.
From the stands, it looks ideal. It looks like you are exactly where you planned to be.
Patri watches the first curve carefully. Your lean is shallower.
It’s almost imperceptible, but she sees that your center of gravity is sitting a fraction higher than usual. You are not dropping fully into the turn. Your right shoulder stays closer to your torso, limiting the swing that normally drives you through the exit.
You are skating efficiently, but not freely.
Lap five. The rhythm holds.
Lap six. You would normally begin the squeeze here — tightening the gap, testing the inside edge, forcing the leader to defend.
You don’t. Instead, you maintain a precise half-blade distance behind her left hip.
It’s surgical. It’s controlled. It’s restrained.
On the final lap, entering the tightest curve, the Italian drifts half a lane wider than expected.
It happens quickly. A narrow window opens on the inside. It’s enough. Enough for you to slide your blade under, lean aggressively, and power through the corner for gold.
The lane is there. The crowd sees it too. A collective inhale pulls through the arena.
Patri sees something else.
She sees the micro-hesitation in your right hip before the lean. The calculation in your shoulder angle. The way your body begins the movement — and then reins it back.
You hold the outside line. You exit cleanly.
Silver locks in before the straightaway ends.
The crowd erupts anyway, but threaded through it is confusion.
Why didn’t she take it? Why didn’t she go?
You glide across the finish line upright and controlled. No stumble. No visible frustration.
From the stands, it looks like composure.
Patri does not clap immediately. She studies the way you decelerate. You do not shift weight onto your right leg fully until you are nearly stopped. You are protecting it. The realization lands quietly. You did not miss gold. You chose not to gamble your body for it.
She begins clapping then — steady, deliberate. Not for the medal, but for the decision.
The media room is warmer than the arena, but the air feels sharper.
The silver medal rests against your suit, cool where it touches your collarbone. It is heavier now that you are no longer moving.
The first question comes quickly.
“You were in position for gold. Why didn’t you take the inside line?”
No congratulations first. No framing. You fold your hands on the table.
“I made the decision that secured the podium,” you answer evenly.
A journalist leans forward.
“You’re ranked number one. The Netherlands expected gold.”
The room waits for more. You don’t rush to fill the silence.
“Why didn’t you commit?” another asks, sharper this time. “It didn’t look like your usual aggression.”
There it is. You meet his gaze.
“It wasn’t the right move for the race I was skating.”
A faint ripple of dissatisfaction moves through the room.
“Are you saying you weren’t confident you could hold it?”
“I’m saying that forcing a pass carries risk,” you reply calmly. “Short track punishes hesitation and it punishes overcommitment. My job is to finish.”
The word lands heavier than you intend. A reporter from a Dutch outlet doesn’t soften the question.
“I played it intelligently.”
There is no apology in your voice. No explanation beyond that. Another tries from a different angle.
“Do you feel you missed an opportunity?”
You pause for a moment, not to dramatize it, but to choose the right phrasing.
“I feel I made the best decision available in that moment.”
The room does not applaud. It does not nod. It sits with it.
They wanted domination.
They wanted inevitability confirmed.
The moderator signals the end of the session. As you stand, your right leg stiffens more than it did on the ice. You smooth the motion before it becomes visible.
Most of the room watches the medal. None of them notice the shift in your gait. None of them, except the one person who has been watching your balance since the first heat.
The security gate behind you closes with a muted mechanical click. The Olympic Village hum dissolves almost immediately once you step beyond the perimeter lights. The world feels smaller. Quieter. The snow along the roadside is piled in uneven banks, reflecting the amber glow of scattered streetlamps. The path into town is lined with snow that has been packed flat by weeks of boots and service vehicles.
Her hotel sits just beyond the main path, warm light spilling from the lobby windows. It’s only a short walk away, reserved for federation guests and families. She is waiting near the entrance, hands tucked into her coat pockets, weight balances evenly like she’s reading a field before kickoff.
When she sees you, her expression softens. Not exuberant. Not performative. Just hers.
“You look tired,” she says as you step close.
She leans in to hug you. Her arm wraps around your shoulders automatically. The contact pulls at the right side, deep and tight. You keep your face neutral, but your body stiffens for half a second before adjusting.
She feels it. She doesn’t comment yet. Instead, she shifts her arm lower when she pulls back, letting her hand rest at the small of your back rather than your shoulder.
The town road is quiet, only a few restaurants still open for late dinners. The air smells faintly of wood smoke and something sweet from a nearby bakery closing for the night.
You start toward the warmest-looking place at the end of the street.
For the first few steps, it’s manageable. The adrenaline is gone now, though, and the hip no longer has the illusion of flexibility. Each right step lands more carefully than the left. Not dramatically. Just… measured.
Left.
Right — shorter.
Left.
She doesn’t look down. She listens. Your steps don’t match. She matches your pace automatically. You don’t notice. She does. By the time you reach the second streetlamp, she has mapped the rhythm. After a dozen stridges, she slows subtly to match your altered rhythm.
“You’re landing carefully,” she says quietly.
She doesn’t stop walking, but her hand slides from your back to your right hip, not pressing, just resting there — warm through the layers of fabric. The contact steadies you more than you expect.
“You never guard this side,” she says.
The road curves slightly downhill, and the change in grade pulls at your hip. You adjust again, shifting weight left. She feels the shift under her palm.
“Show me how it feels,” she says quietly.
She steps slightly in front of you and turns so you have to stop walking. Snow falls lightly around you now, fine and almost invisible under the lamps. A car passes slowly on the narrow road, headlights sweeping briefly across the snowbanks before disappearing around a bend.
“You don’t hold the outside line unless you’re protecting something,” she says. “That lane was there.”
“You could have taken it.”
She students your face for a long second, like she’s watching for the moment before a player commits to a run.
“You calculated,” she says finally.
Her hand moves more deliberately now, fingers pressing gently along the outer edge of your hip through the jacket. You inhale sharply despite yourself. There.
Her eyes soften, but her tone stays steady.
“For tonight,” she replies.
The restaurant window glows across the street, condensation blurring the silhouettes inside. The smell of garlic and wine drifts faintly through the cold.
She steps back beside you, but this time she slips her arm around your waist instead of your shoulders. It changes your balance point subtly, taking a faction of weight off your right side.
You feel it immediately. She doesn’t mention it. She just adjusts her stride so your right step doesn’t have to extend as far.
“You didn’t hesitate,” she says as you begin walking again.
“You didn’t trade a medal for your body.”
The words land deeper than the medal ever could. SHe leans in to give a quiet kiss to your temple.
“I didn’t lost control,” you say.
She nods. “No.” A pause. “And you didn’t need gold to prove anything.”
The snow gathers faintly in her hair. You reach up with your left hand to brush it away, careful not to shift too much weight.
“Tomorrow we get imaging,” she says gently.
You hesitate. She squeezes your waist slightly, grounding rather than commanding.
“We get imaging,” she repeats.
It isn’t negotiable, but it isn’t harsh either.
You nod. Together, you cross the street toward the restaurant light, her arm steady at your side, taking just enough of the strain that your limp becomes almost invisible again.
Her hotel room is warmer than the street but quieter than the arena ever was. The radiator hums softly beneath the window. Snow gathers along the sill outside, blurring the lights from town into muted gold. The lamp near the bed casts a low amber glow that softens everything — the sharpness of the day, the silver on the nightstand, the tightness in your jaw.
You sit first. That’s when the illusion fades.
Standing, you could manage it. Walking with her arm at your waist, you could disguise it. But the moment your weight settles and your muscles cool fully, the hip stiffens hard and deep. The shoulder throbs in a dull, spreading ache that no longer has adrenaline to compete with.
She watches the way you lower yourself. Careful. Too careful.
“Take the jacket off,” she says gently.
You slip it off slowly. The medal slides forward and glints briefly in the lamplight before you set it on the nightstand. It makes a soft metallic sound against the wood.
She kneels in front of you without hesitation. Not dramatic. Not panicked. Just steady.
You lift the right shoulder. Halfway through the rotation, it catches. Not sharp. Tight. Resistant. Your jaw tightens before you can stop it.
Her eyes flick up immediately.
You try. You get slightly farther this time before the joint refuses to cooperate. You lower it carefully.
She nods once, absorbing the information the way she absorbs match patterns.
You shift your weight as if to stand straighter, and the movement pulls sharply enough that you inhale through your teeth. There.
Her hand moves to the outside of your hip, pressing lightly along the bone through your base layer.
You flinch. Small. Involuntary. Her hand stills.
“That’s worse than manageable.”
You look down at your hands.
“I knew in qualification,” you admit.
“I thought it would loosen.”
The room is very quiet. No crowd. No commentary. No national expectation humming in the air. Just you.
“If you’d told the staff,” she says carefully, “they might have pulled you.”
You nod once. “They would have.”
She shifts back slightly, studying you with that same composure she carries on the pitch when the shape breaks and she has to decide whether to press or hold.
“You chose silver,” she says.
A breath passes between you.
“You chose not to gamble with your body,” she corrects gently.
That lands more cleanly. You hadn’t framed it that way.
“The inside was there,” you say quietly. “I felt it open.”
“And if the hip gave out?”
You don’t answer. You don’t need to.
“You would have gone down,” she says softly. Not dramatic. Just real. The possibility hangs there — not catastrophic, just honest.
“I didn’t want gold if it meant crawling off the ice,” you say.
Her expression shifts then — not pity, not relief. Respect.
“That’s judgment,” she says. “Not hesitation.”
“No,” she agrees immediately. “You didn’t.”
She reaches up and cups the side of your face, thumb brushing just below your cheekbone. The gesture is warm and grounding, not possessive.
“You calculated under pain,” she continues. “You secured what was yours.”
The silver medal catches the light on the nightstand. She leans towards you until your foreheads meet.
“I’m proud of it,” she says. “I’m more proud that you walked off on your own blades.”
That is what breaks the tightness in your chest. Not the medal. Not the criticism. That.
You lean forward, careful of the shoulder, and rest your forehead against her collarbone. She adjusts instantly, arms wrapping around your waist in a way that supports without trapping.
Her hand moves back to your hip, not probing now — just warm and steady.
“We’re getting imaging in the morning,” she murmurs into your hair.
“And if it’s more than a strain?”
She nods once against you.
“That’s what champions do.”
Outside, the town continues quietly. Somewhere, people are replaying the final curve and wondering why you didn’t take the lane.
Inside, she understands exactly why you didn’t and she doesn’t need gold to prove it.
The medical clinic is quieter than you expect. No roaring crowd. No flashing lights. Just fluorescent ceilings and the faint antiseptic smell that makes everything feel too clean.
You sit on the edge of the examination table while the team physician scrolls through the imaging results on a screen angled slightly away from you.
Patri sits in the chair beside the wall. Not pacing. Not hovering. Watching.
“Grade two AC sprain,” the doctor says evenly. “Stable. Painful, but no structural separation.”
You nod once. Manageable.
Then the hip. The scan lingers longer.
“There’s a partial tear in the hip flexor,” he continues. “Not catastrophic. But it explains the compensation.”
Partial tear. The words settle heavily but not violently.
“Six to eight weeks before full loading. Rehab immediately. No racing for a while.”
No racing. The season is already over. The Olympics were the final marker. Still, the word lands.
You glance at Patri. She isn’t startled. She isn’t disappointed. She looks almost… unsurprised.
“It’s not worse,” she clarifies. “And it’s not something you pushed into a rupture.”
She stands then and walks toward you. Her hand rests lightly at your lower back — careful of the hip — grounding.
“You made the right decision,” she says quietly.
The doctor steps out to print paperwork. The room falls silent again.
Six to eight weeks. Rehab. Careful rebuilding. You exhale slowly.
“I could’ve torn it fully,” you admit.
She doesn’t let you spiral.
“Then we’d still be here,” she says.
Not dramatic. Not poetic. Just certain.
She looks at you like that question never needed asking.
She leans forward slightly, lowering her voice even though the room is empty.
“I’ll come when I can. I’ll sit through physio sessions. I’ll learn the exercises. I’ll remind you when you get impatient.”
A small smile touches her mouth. “And you will get impatient.”
You almost laugh. “Probably.”
“You’re not doing recovery alone.”
The certainty in her tone is steadier than any medal ceremony.
“You chose your body on that curve,” she continues. “Now we protect it properly.”
The phrase lands differently now. Not sacrifice. Investment.
You rest your forehead briefly against hers, careful of the shoulder.
Outside the clinic window, the mountains sit quiet under fresh snow.
Gold would have been one moment.
And she is already planning to stand in every one of them.
