wednesday (may 6th) is the one year anniversary of the first part of ot. never in a million years would i have expected it to a. still be going on, b. that anyone would read or care about it, or c. that i'd have met so many incredible people because of it. thank you to each and every one of you for sticking with me and caring about these idiot hockey players and their epic and silly love story. i really really couldn't keep it up without all the support. if i could, i'd send each of you your own shiny gold medal for your patience, encouragement and feelz. seriously, thank you.

ps brittana got married in canon. remember?

Santana's finds out via email that father moved out of her childhood home and into a tiny apartment in Boston's Back Bay sometime during the past week. He sends along the MLS listing for the place, all high ceilings, distressed wood floors and exposed brick dating back hundreds of years. The kind of place Santana always dreamed she would live once this was over. Her life after competitive hockey, whatever that uncertainty may hold for her. Now the idea burns bitter at the back of her throat as she scrolls quickly through the pictures on her phone, one after the other.

"Hey," Brittany interrupts, nudging Santana in the shoulder before disappearing through the inside of a sweatshirt and reappearing again once she's pulled it on. At sight of the "USA Hockey" emblazoned across the front, Santana pauses, a flood of something washing over her suddenly, cresting and crashing. "What's up?" Brittany asks, her smile fading into concern and brow creasing.

"Nothing," Santana promises, grabbing the hem of Brittany's sweatshirt and tugging her closer, wrapping an arm around her waist and using a finger to smooth and soften the wrinkles between Brittany's eyebrows. "Sometimes I just, I don't know, forget. Forget that we're here, why we're doing all this. That this isn't a dream, it's real."

"It's real." Brittany's voice is reverent as she studies Santana, looking at her with so much pride and admiration Santana thinks she may disappear altogether. A tingle radiates across all her nerves as Brittany's fingers find the skin at her lower back, slipping under the waistband of her shorts to press into the twin dimples there at the base of her spine. "It's real and we're going to win. We're going to go to Korea and we're going to march in the Opening Ceremonies, wear our country's colors, and bring home that gold medal."

"Fuck yeah, we are."

They stare at each other for a few moments, just breathing. Eventually they both break into matching Cheshire cat grins and bubbling giggles.

Santana grabs Brittany's hand as they push through the locker room doors, swinging their interlaced hands back and forth between them all the way to the dining hall.

"I want to ask you something."

They're out to dinner at a tiny Italian bistro in the small downtown area of the Springs, Brittany's idea. They're sharing a bottle of deep and full-bodied red wine and two large bowls of pasta, playing with each other's fingers across the table in between courses and just reveling in each other's company. The candle light has been flickering in Brittany's irises and it's been distracting Santana all night. Brittany is so beautiful it's nearly a constant distraction.

"San."

"Hm?" Santana answers, pulling Brittany's fingers closer to kiss a few knuckles.

"Our next scrimmage. Russia."

"What about it?" This time a kiss pressed to Brittany's palm.

"It's in St. Paul." Of course, how could Santana forget? "My dad and sister plan on coming to watch and," she pauses, fidgeting her lip between her teeth. "And I want you to stay with us. After. For Thanksgiving. I mean, only if you want to, obviously. I don't know if you were planning on going home, you hadn't mentioned anything so-"

Santana loves when Brittany rambles, mostly because Brittany is the most confident and self-assured person she's ever met. Nervousness fits her as poorly as a vastly over sized jacket, shrouding her in shadow. It's actually adorable the way her fingers can't sit still and her eyes shuffle away and back, away and back. Santana just smiles wider and wider.

"What-what do you think?"

"I think you're wonderful. And yes, I would like that very much, Britt. I would love to spend Thanksgiving with you and your family." And just like that, the jacket is shed, the shadows dissipate, and the shining and sparkling Brittany emerges through the uncertain fog, her smile brimming at the borders of her face, threatening to spill right over. "Thank you," Santana whispers, leaning on both elbows across the table and meeting Brittany over the middle, kissing her softly.

"Thank you for saying 'yes,'" Brittany mumbles against her lips, the vibration coursing everywhere.

"You're a goon, you know that, Pierce?" Santana teases as they lean back into their chairs, shaking her head at how cute Brittany is.

"You've mentioned it once or twice. Whatever, there are worse things I could be. Like a Butthead!" She smirks sly as a fox and winks before plunging her fork into the pasta and expertly twisting a large forkful of pappardelle around the prongs. She holds it out across the table, the other hand open-palmed underneath ready to catch any errant sauce drips, and Santana rolls her eyes before leaning forward and taking the bite into her mouth. She can't help at the ridiculousness of the girl across from her. This girl who she used to think of with such hatred, such fiery disdain. This girl who is now sharing her bed and feeding her across tables and taking her on dates. This girl who listens and understands and protects. This girl, this girl.

"Soooooo," Rachel starts, dragging out the word as long as her breath will allow. Which, as it turns out, is an extraordinarily long time. They're at practice a week before the scrimmage with Russia and Coach Taylor is relentlessly working them through various odd-man situations. Rachel and Santana sit side by side on the bench while some of their teammates fight through the latest simulation, a daunting two-on-four overtime win-or-go-home that leaves the short-handed players completely spent after each shift.

"So what?" Santana snaps, annoyed. Santana and Rachel have been teamed up all afternoon and they can't seem to get on the same page.

"A little birdie told me something this morning," she sing-songs, happy as a clam.

Santana shoots her best 'what the fuck' expression, picturing a large pile of manure where Rachel sits. "What are you talking about, Hobbit?"

"Brittany!" she squeals, bobbing up and down on the bench as much as she can without actually leaving her feet. "Thanksgiving? Her family?" After a long pause, she huffs. "Ohplease, Santana, don't play dumb. If you ask me, I think it's just what the doctor ordered for you-"

"Did I ask you, Berry?"

"Well, no, but-"

"Then shut up." But she can't fight the smile for long at the thought of their impending visit to Minnesota and meeting Brittany's family in person and Rachel actually starts tearing up with glee.

"Oh goodness, look at you blushing! Aren't you two just the cutest. I swear I could tell there was something between you from the very first-"

"God, Rachel, stuff a-"

"LOPEZ! BERRY! STOP YAPPING AND GET OUT HERE!" Coach Taylor shouts from center ice, puck-in-hand and ready to drop it for the next set of drills. Santana launches herself over the boards and onto the ice in record time just to drop the conversation.

It's easy for Santana to make the excuse to her family for missing Thanksgiving. It's not the first time in her career there's been games over the holiday, and what better excuse for missing out than training for the Olympics? Her mother and brother will be at Santana's aunt's for the day, and no word yet regarding her father's plans, not that she cares much for the goings on of his life these days. Quick emails every few days that lack any sort of substance is all she hears from him, and as the days pass, it bothers her less and less.

It's Saturday morning and Santana just finished trekking through the foot of snow that fell overnight and blanketed campus all in white. She opens the door to their room with one hand, balancing a tray of breakfast in the other.

"Can you grab this? My boots are covered and I don't want to track snow all over the floor, I know you just vacuumed…"

Brittany eyes are still half-closed in sleep and she yawns big and wide before smiling softly in Santana's direction. "I was wondering where you disappeared to. Bringing me breakfast in bed, huh? You big softie," she teases, slinking out of the covers completely naked and scampering on tiptoes across the cold tile.

"Britt!"

"Oh act like the whole team hasn't all seen me naked. Plus no one is even awake yet," she laughs, poking her head out into the hallway to prove her point. And she's right as usual, it's deserted. "You're the only one loony enough to wake up this early. And to do it before they even clear the walkways? Silly."

"Do you want some of this breakfast I worked so hard to bring you or are you going to tease me all morning? Because I'm sure Quinn will-"

Brittany puts down the tray and shuts her up with a searing kiss, grabbing her hard by the front of her jacket and yanking her into the room, Santana's damp socks slipping on the tile as they crash into each other and nearly tumble to the floor.

"Thank you, sweetheart."

And just like every other time Brittany's used the endearment, the butterflies swarm and flutter in Santana's belly. This girl, this girl.

"You're welcome. And hey," she nudges her nose against Brittany's once, twice. "There's chocolate chips in that waffle."

"And you covered it in strawberries?"

"And whipped cream."

"Damn, I love you, woman."

Santana barks out a laugh, bends over and throws Brittany over her shoulder, carrying her back to bed.