Chapter Text
“Stede. Stede. Open your email. Stede Eloise Bonnet, I swear to—”
“All right, all right, Lucius, for god’s sake. I pay you to read my emails, you know.”
Lucius sighs so loudly that Stede has to pull his mobile away from his ear. He switches to speaker as his assistant replies, “And I’m so good at it, boss, but you really need to read this yourself.”
Stede fumbles between apps on his phone. “Okay, what are we—ah, there’s something here from the New Zealand Olympic Committee. What could they be emailing about?”
“For Pete’s sake, Stede, read it.”
“Well, I don’t see what your husband has to do with anything—oh…”
“Right.”
“Oh god.”
“Right?!”
Lucius sounds gleeful, but there’s a roaring in Stede’s ears; he might faint. “Lucius… I… this can’t be correct.”
“I already checked. There was a disqualification for drugs. The second guy in line broke his arm in a pub fight, and the last man’s partner is eight months pregnant so he’s not going. You’re next up.”
Stede sits down, hard, in the nearest chair. “This isn’t possible. This isn’t happening.”
“Oh, babe,” Lucius says, “it’s very much happening.”
“I can’t do this. I didn’t intend… I wasn’t trying for this! I don’t even have a coach anymore. Oh god…”
“Breathe, Stedey.”
Stede stares at his phone screen. The text of the email is nearly blinding. He rereads the first paragraph, then scrolls down, his stomach sinking as he takes it all in. “It says they’ve already informed the media, Lucius! Fuck!”
“Makes sense, it’s, like, three weeks before everything starts.”
Stede covers his face, takes a deep breath, and lets it out in a whoosh. He could protest, surely, claim his own injury or that he has a scheduling conflict, but for a moment he lets himself imagine it: hurtling across a snowy track, the smell of gunpowder in his nose, every muscle in his body working harder than they ever have, his lungs on fire, a crowd of onlookers screaming as he chases what until five minutes ago was an impossible dream.
“Stede? Hellooo? You alive? What are we doing here?”
Stede nods, then realizes Lucius can’t see him. He drops his hands. His eyes fall on a picture frame on the nearest bookshelf; it’s a photo of himself in bright teal as he crossed the finish line of the biathlon world cup last year.
77th place.
(In the world!)
(For biathlon!)
Beyond the births of his children, he’s never felt lighter. Free.
For his entire life, things were handed to him or he was told where to go, who to be. He took up his poles because skiing had always brought him joy, and time to think; he needed it to process why he and his ex-wife were never well matched, his lack of grief over his father’s death, what he wanted now after quitting his soul-sucking job. Inheritance in hand, he traveled across the world, chasing snow, just to feel his muscles burn.
Learning how to shoot, and eventually joining competitions, had been a whim. Just another thing to do while he sorted himself out. He joined a club, and found himself competing. He hadn’t done it for glory; he’d done it because he wanted to prove he could do something for himself, by himself.
Three other men from AoNZ placed higher than him in the World Cup standings, and the country was only sending one person to the Olympics. Stede had no chance of Olympic competition, not that he was even aiming so high. A stupid idea to even contemplate, really, so he hadn’t.
But now—
“Yes, I’m here.” Stede clears his throat. “You should probably book our flights and inquire about lodging. It’s really quite late for this!”
Lucius squeals. “Oh my god, we’re going to the Olympics!!”
Ed “Blackbeard” Teach is back at the Olympics.
And he’s cold as balls.
Because it’s the winter games, not summer. And it’s snowing.
“Why did I agree to this again?” he wonders out loud.
“Because we’re getting paid,” Izzy rasps from behind him. Ed slows his pace to let Izzy catch up to him on the bustling cobblestone streets of the host city. “It’s not that bad.”
Ed glances over; Izzy Hands, the man who got silver in pistol when Ed won his first golds in the sport two decades ago, has his hands jammed in his armpits and his chapped nose is running profusely. Ed’s mouth twitches.
“Am I making more money than you, Iz?”
Izzy scoffs. “Fuckin’ obviously. Twat.”
“Fantastic.”
Izzy swears under his breath. Ed grins.
It might be brass monkey weather in the Alps, but he’s getting paid, and lots of fans and excited younger athletes from all around the world want selfies with him, so it could be worse. It’s even a bit of fun, really.
It’s just really fucking cold.
“Blackbeard!” someone with an Irish accent calls from a cafe.
There’s a chorus of whoops from other people waiting in a queue stretching out the door of the restaurant and down the street. Ed raises a hand, smiling, and keeps walking.
Of course someone on the street recognized him, even out of his official country kit. The curly beard that earned him his nickname sometime in the late 1990s/early 2000s is gone, but there’s still a decent scruff and his hair is as long as ever, though both are more grey than black these days. He really can’t complain; his hard work, which turned into 13 total Olympic medals in pistol and sailing (11 gold, 2 silver), set him up for life. He just kinda wishes he were more incognito, like Tony Hawk.
But Tony Hawk didn’t do shirtless magazine spreads or walk runways, did he?
Ed’s still got fond memories of all the glamorous stuff he did after the games—aside from the one photo shoot where a stylist strapped nine pistols to him and posed him in front of a sailboat; that one can remain in the bin, or the bowels of Tumblr, where it belongs.
Arguably, he should pause and have a chat with the cafe people, take a picture, post it with some cheeky caption. His contract with the Olympics is all marketing, throwing a seasoned summer Olympian into the snow-capped Alpine scenery and seeing what charisma Ed can shake out of himself. He’s good at that, always has been, but there’s a strange feeling crawling around in his stomach.
Hopefully it’s just from eating too much risotto alla milanese last night, or the two chocolate croissants he had for breakfast.
But more likely it’s the fact that being here is dredging up memories of fighting his way to the top of his sports, winning, and the aftermath of Olympic glory—it was fantastic at the time, but eventually Ed felt like he was drowning.
Ugh, he should probably text his therapist.
He’s about to pull out his phone when Kevin Fang flags them down. Fang’s second Olympics was Ed’s first; they won golds together in skiff. Ed leans into the big hug his old friend gives him, warmth radiating from the guy despite the multiple layers of clothes between them. He feels remarkably better once they pull away, and even Izzy seems less frigid after Fang hugs him.
Fang points out a Kiwi curler and a USAmerican speed skater holding hands across the square, his eyes a little misty. “I love love,” he sighs happily.
“Mm,” Ed replies.
He loves love, too, even if it’s not been in the cards for himself in a long time. And it’s nice to see queer people out in the open. He has never hidden his identity, but the world was different twenty years ago. It’s easier and harder in different ways now. He makes a mental note to talk with Archie Gata and Jim Jimenez before their respective competitions.
“You guys hear about what happened with the biathlon?” Fang asks. “For Aotearoa?”
Izzy spits into a snowbank. “I fucking did.”
Fang frowns. “What’s biathlon anyway? Like a triathlon? Pick two of running, biking, swimming? Biking’s probably not easy in the snow, so do they bike across a frozen lake and hope they don’t die? Is the running part in snow shoes or regular shoes? Swimming sounds dangerous, but people do those polar swims—”
“Hākinarua’s cross-country skiing and shooting, Kev,” says Ed, mouth twitching.
“What? Why?” Fang looks perplexed. “Winter sports are wild.”
Ed couldn’t agree more. “What happened?”
Fang’s face falls. “Our only athlete got DQ’ed, and the next two up couldn’t come.”
“Ah, fuck, that sucks,” says Ed. “So we’re out?”
“Worse,” says Izzy. “Your country called up Stede Bonnet.”
“Who’s that?”
Fang brightens. “It’s actually really nice? I read all about him and met his assistant at the village check-in. Sweet guy.” Ed doesn’t miss that Fang’s cheeks turn slightly pink, even under his snow white beard. “Underdog story. He’s almost 50, been skiing on and off all his life, but only started doing it more after he divorced. Some friends told him he should consider competing. He’s done really well, but didn’t qualify for the games, too far down. But then with the DQ and the other guys not coming, he was tapped. His assistant says Bonnet had three weeks notice.”
“Three weeks?” Ed demands. The weird feeling in his stomach has disappeared, replaced by electricity running under his skin, like witchfire dancing along the masts of his private sloop.
“I’m rooting for him!” says Fang. “They’re calling him the Gentleman Biathlete!”
“Gentleman?” asks Ed, imagining a man skiing around in a three-piece suit.
“That’s because he’s loaded,” says Fang. “He’d never shot a real gun until last year!”
Izzy clenches his jaw. “He’s completely unserious. I can’t believe he accepted the spot. He doesn’t stand a chance.”
Fang’s eyebrows lift. “I heard he has great endurance.”
“Bonnet’s a cunt,” says Izzy, scowling at Fang. “Fucking full of himself. Worst person I ever coached.”
“What?” Ed demands. “You know him?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Is he any good? With his aim?”
Izzy’s jaw works. “He’s fine.”
Ed laughs. “So he's pretty good.”
“He placed seventy-seventh.”
“In the world. That’s not nothing.”
“The media is eating up his story,” says Fang, smiling. “I guess he’s pretty good-looking?”
“If you think blond twats who look like 19th century strong men with sun shining out of their arses are handsome,” Izzy mutters.
“Lucius says he has nice hair.”
“I have to meet him,” says Ed. He stands up on his tiptoes, craning his neck to see if there are any refrigerator-shaped white men with skis nearby. There’s a lot, especially thanks to the boxy shape of anoraks, so that doesn’t go anywhere. He wheels around on Izzy. “Can you set up a meeting?”
“What the fuck for?”
“For work, Iz,” says Ed, rolling his eyes. Something about Stede’s story is drawing him in. “I am from New Zealand, remember? That’s my countryman! I want to, I dunno, talk with him. Find out what makes him tick. It’ll be good for the ‘gram or whatever social media platform is the least evil these days. Make it fucking happen!”
Izzy glares at him. “Fine. I’ll go find him later.”
“You’ll do it now,” Ed replies.
“Oh my god,” Izzy snaps, stomping off.
“Bye, Izzy!” says Fang cheerfully.
BNN Winter Olympics Coverage
Host: Ellen Conroy, Guest: Stede Bonnet
Chyron: Decorated ‘00 ‘04 ‘08 Summer record gold-winning medalist “Blackbeard” and other notable athletes arrive to support the Winter Olympians | Speed skating prodigy Jim Jimenez expected to dominate | The “Nordic” Angel is back seeking gold in men’s figure skating | Zheng Yi Sao …
“It’s so great to have you here today, Stede! Welcome to the Alps.”
“Lovely to be here, Ellen!”
“Wonderful, wonderful. Now you’ve got an interesting story, Stede. You’re from New Zealand, divorced dad of two. You’re turning fifty next year, and you found out three weeks ago you were going to the Olympics.”
“Ah, yup, that’s right. Bit of a shock that was.”
“How did your family take the news?”
“My ex-wife Mary cried and her wife laughed. Not really sure how to take that, Evelyn. My kids are excited, though. Hi, Alma! Hi, Louis!”
“Oh. Um. That’s—wonderful. Great. Hi, Stede’s kids. Hope you’re proud of your dad. So Stede, how did you get into biathlon?”
“Accidentally. After my divorce, I wanted to get out of my head so I threw myself back into skiing. I used to love downhill as a kid, but as an adult I took to cross country. Biathlon happened because an acquaintance at the ski lodge suggested it. I figured, might be a bit of fun.”
“So you really were never meant to be here.”
“I… Ah, well. I’m sure everyone has a childhood dream of doing something like this. But no, the possibility hadn’t crossed my mind.”
“What were you doing when you found out?”
“Oh, I… I was having a cup of tea and reading a book about pirates actually!”
“Uh, okay. So, biathlon. You cracked the top eighty in the IBU world cup, but three other men from New Zealand had to exit before you were called. You’re older than 96.43% of athletes here—”
“That’s a rather specific percentage. Also, it’s Aotearoa New Ze—”
“—and you haven’t had much time to prepare. The odds aren’t in your favor. Do you feel up for the challenge?”
“I mean, I’m here to do my best.”
“Thanks, Stede. Good luck.”
“Thanks, Ellen. Happy games, everyone!”