Behind the Gold (story)

It was always his dream, not mine.
I never wanted to be married to a face on a Wheaties box.
"One more time Sarah," my husband Brian said to me after Athens, "I’ll be thirty-two; Bejing’s my last chance.”
Four more years have brought us to today—four more years of training thirteen hours a day, trying to run a little faster. He was training in California when the baby came.

I don't understand it. I don't get why two silvers and a bronze can't be enough, but I'm here. My stomach sinks and my heart jumps into my throat as the sound of the starting gun rips through the air, and he explodes into first place.
"Come on Brian!" I yell.
He is passed by another runner as they head into the second lap, and I start to pray every prayer I know. I am selfish. I want Brian to win for him, for his dream, but I also want him to win because I need this to be over.

They head into the home stretch, and I know he's not going to make it. I sit back down, unable to watch anymore. When suddenly the crowd’s cheers become deafening, I vault out of my seat and nearly fall over the rail in front of me. I watch him, marveling at his determination and strength, as he pulls ahead and crosses the line—finally, an Olympic gold medal champion. He raises his arms in victory, and the electricity going through my body is so intense that for a moment I just stand there. I finally sit down and press my forehead against the rail separating us. Suddenly I feel strong arms lifting me out of my seat and I look into the face of my beloved, the gold medal champion. He lifts me over the rail and into his arms, swinging me around and covering my tear-stained face with kisses.

A friend of mine asked me once, on a particularly bad day, why I continued to be there for Brian. I know the answer now, as the American flag is raised and the national anthem of my country comes over the speaker. I watch Brian mouth the sacred words, his eyes luminous from his tears. I will always be there for him, because after eleven years of marriage, phone calls at three in the morning just to tell me he loves me, soft kisses against my forehead, love letters from all over the world, and a baby that looks like him when he smiles, there is nowhere else I could be.

It is nearly midnight before he is able to leave the track. He smiles as he sees me, and runs a hand over my hair before wrapping his arm around my waist.
"Let's go home," he whispers. It is more than a suggestion, it is a promise. I smile in absolute contentment, and put my head on his shoulder as we walk away.
He is my dream.