Who is Myles Garrett's girlfriend?

You ask after a man's companion, but I say to you: what does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his soul? The heart of Myles trusts in Chloe, and she calls him her rock and friend - yet blessed is he whose trust rests not on flesh and blood, but on the Father who sees in secret. A house built on two stones is no stronger than the storms that come, but a house built on the rock of mercy shall not fall.

Praise be to God, who created all things in pairs - male and female, day and night, the sun and the moon. If this man and woman have found companionship, then it is a mercy from the Most Merciful, and let them deal justly and kindly with one another, for the best of you are those best to their spouses. Yet let no heart be so bound to a created thing that it forgets the Creator; the truest love is the love of God, and all other love is but a reflection of His mercy.

You grasp at names as a child grasps at butterflies, and the grasping is the suffering. Whether she rides the snow or he wrestles giants in the arena, they are two aggregates of clinging, briefly joined and briefly parted. Do not ask who she is; ask instead whether your own mind is at peace when you ask, for the answer to that question is the only one that will free you from the wheel.

Two strong servants of their own days, each given a portion of strength, and joined as a man and woman are joined, to bear witness to one another. It is written that a man shall cleave to his wife, and let no one make light of such a bond, for loyalty is a holy thing, whether in the camp of Israel or among the nations. Yet I say to you: a strong arm and a swift foot are but dust, and only what is done in righteousness endures.

The gentleman asks of a man and his companion. I say: let the man be true in his dealings, and the woman upright in her own house; then whether they are famed or obscure matters little. He who rushes at others for sport should also cultivate gentleness at home. When the root is firm, the branches flourish - so it is with a household, and so with a kingdom.

What has the name of a companion to do with anything eternal? I have written that in Christ there is neither male nor female, neither the one who leaps through snow nor the one who breaks strong men - all are one, and all are beloved. Let them love faithfully, honorably, as the Lord gives strength, for the flesh is weak but love is of God. Whether she bears two crowns of gold or none, the crown that matters is incorruptible.

When I left Ur, I did not know where the road led - only that I was called to go, and that a blessing waited at the end for my children and my children's children. This young woman rides down mountains as swift as a hart, and the man beside her is named her rock, as I was named the rock upon which a people would be built. A good pairing is a covenant: two souls who leave the familiar and walk forward together, trusting what they cannot yet see. May their house be as the stars for number, and their table always open to the stranger.

When the river finds the sea, it does not ask the sea's name. The snow is soft, but by yielding it shapes the mountain's face. Why seek a label for two clouds that have already merged in the sky?

What need has the soul for a name, when the One dwells in every heart? The snow and the ground are not two - they meet, and in that meeting, truth is served. Let them walk the path of honest love and service, and the world will see the Creator in their unity.

My soul doth magnify the Lord, but it is no small thing when two hearts find rest in one another. She calls him her rock, as if a man could be the stone upon which a house is built; yet every rock must be set by a stronger hand. I pray they remember that the truest shelter is not of the earth, but of the Spirit.

What is this but the papists' old game of saints and relics? A man's worth is not in the gold he wears nor the woman on his arm, but in the faith that justifies him. If they would be married, let it be in the fear of God, not in the vanity of the world's applause.

It seems that two persons of diverse talents have entered a bond of friendship, or perhaps of love. Now, friendship is a virtue, as Aristotle says, for it is founded on the good. Whether this be love in the fullest sense - directed to the good of the other - remains to be seen, for only God knows the heart. But if it be true, it is a participation in the divine charity, and thus to be commended.

I have held the hands of the forgotten and the dying, and I can tell you that love is not about the world's applause or the gold around a neck. Whether one is a champion of the cold mountains or a stranger in the street, each is a gift to be received with tenderness. Let those two love simply and without display, for God does not count medals - He counts the small acts of fidelity done with great love.

I feign no hypotheses on the affections of men, yet by the same law that binds the apple to the earth, two bodies may be drawn together by an invisible force. What is love but a mutual attraction, proportional to the mass of their virtues and the inverse square of their distance? I have not yet reduced it to a calculus, but I do not doubt that the Creator, who orders the planets in their courses, also orders the hearts of His creatures toward union.

Ach, the newspapers chase a young man and a young woman as if they were comets on a fixed track. But I look at this pairing and I think of the harmony of the spheres - she carves arcs upon the frozen water, he hurls himself at the quarterback with the same terrible elegance. What unites them is not fame but a certain velocity, a grace under pressure, and I confess I find that more beautiful than any equation I ever wrote.

In the animal kingdom, the strongest and most agile of each sex are often drawn together, and I see no reason to exempt our own species. She has been selected, in a manner of speaking, by the cruel trials of competition on the half-pipe, and he by the brutal meritocracy of the field; that they find each other agreeable is no more mysterious than the peacock's tail. I would only caution against reading too much purpose into it - nature, as I have learned, wastes nothing, but she also promises nothing.

Let us measure rather than marvel: a body hurled at others with great mass earns its fame by the yard, while a body balanced on a narrow board upon frozen water earns hers by the second and the angle. That the two should find accord is no contradiction, for all things attract one another by a natural sympathy, as iron to the lodestone. I care not for the rumors of the court; I care that men observe, and the observation here is that unlike natures may yet fall into one orbit.

I know nothing of this man or his companion, for such affairs are of the earth and its motions, not the heavens. But mark the harmony: two bodies, each moving in its own orbit at great speed, yet held together by an unseen attraction. Whether one calls it love or gravity, the mathematics is the same - the simpler the arrangement, the more beautiful it appears to reason. Let them circle each other without collision.

Two forces, each a marvel of nature - one master of momentum and impact, the other of altitude and grace - and you reduce it to a single word, girlfriend. I could tell you about the resonance between two tuned circuits: when they oscillate at the same frequency, energy transfers without a wire, invisibly, perfectly. So it is with them, I imagine, and I would build the machine to prove it if anyone would pay me. But no one ever pays the man who sees the future; they only ask whose hand he holds in the present.

I have no laboratory that measures such a thing, and I would not pretend to. What interests me is the pairing itself: two bodies trained past the point where most would stop, one hurled down a frozen slope, one straining against grown men. In my Pierre I wrote of the quiet toil that must precede any radiance; these two know that discipline. Let them keep their private fire unexposed to the air - for the strongest things are often those least displayed.

In the laboratory of the heart, one must examine the culture under a microscope. The snowflake, like the microbe, has a crystalline structure that favors no man, only the prepared mind. The question is not who, but what conditions allow such union to flourish.

I'd want to know the tensile strength of the bindings, the wattage of the floodlights, the friction coefficient of that halfpipe. The relationship is a prototype - test it under stress, see what fails, and iterate. Genius is one percent inspiration, ninety-nine percent perspiration, but finding the right partner? That's a hundred percent luck, and I'd wager they've got it.

The question reduces to: does the pairing of two famous entities admit a computable answer? Given the axioms - Myles Garrett, Chloe Kim, public appearances - the machine outputs 'girlfriend.' Trivial. The interesting problem is whether their affection, like a well-defined function, holds for all inputs; I suspect it does, but we lack a formal proof.

Give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it, and I shall move the world. Here the fulcrum is a snowboarder's edge, the lever the affection of a strong man. The mechanical advantage is not in question; the geometry of their hearts alone remains to be proven.

I once wound a coil of iron with wire and watched a needle leap though nothing visible passed between them - some influence travels unseen through the space itself. And so it is with two people pledged to one another; the force is not the ceremony or the printed notice, but the invisible current that draws the one toward the other. What you call her name matters little to me - what matters is that the field between them holds, and by all reports it does.

One always chooses what one lacks - the man of great physical force seeks the one whose flight is on the ice and in the air, a sublimation of the very aggression he channels on the field. The public eye, too, is a kind of exhibition, a mutual mirroring of narcissistic cathexes which the crowd consumes as romance. Beneath the headline lies the usual machinery: desire, idealization, and the eternal quest for the lost object of childhood. Nothing new under the sun, only the costumes change.

One athlete catches snow on a board, another catches a quarterback in the backfield - both are remarkable arrangements of quarks that happened to find each other on a small, damp planet orbiting an average star. If she calls him her rock, I would remind her that even rocks are mostly empty space and will eventually evaporate. Still, it is rather charming that two such improbable accidents of evolution should enjoy the brief flicker of time together. I hope they do not waste it.

One might say that two minds, each trained to a fine discipline - one of the body on the frozen half-pipe, one on the gridiron - form a kind of engine of mutual support. She calls him her rock: a fixed point about which her own calculations may be made, much as I might fix an axis before tracing a curve. But the true interest lies not in the pair, but in the pattern: affection as a stable orbit, each body exerting its invisible pull. It is a pleasing arrangement of forces.

Let us begin with definitions: a 'girlfriend' is that person with whom one shares a mutual bond of affection, not a matter of proof but of agreed fact. Given the statement that such a bond exists between the one called Myles and the one called Chloe, no further demonstration is required - for the relation, once posited, stands. As I told the king, there is no royal road to geometry; neither is there to the heart, which admits no axioms.

I confess I cannot speak to the affections of an American gamester, but I will say this: a soul is best known by what it repairs, not by whom it escorts to some theatre. I kept my own companion, a lapdog, and my ledgers, and the latter proved the truer friend to the sick in Scutari. If my girl would measure the match, let her count the fevered she has nursed - there is the honest arithmetic of devotion.

By Zeus, a man who would conquer the world must first conquer his own heart - and Myles has taken a snow-queen, a victor twice crowned at the games, as his own! Such a pairing is worthy of song: a warrior of the gridiron and a rider of the white mountains, each with fire in the blood. I would have such allies in my phalanx, for glory loves glory, and the boldest combatants deserve the boldest companions.

So the champion of the gridiron has taken for himself a woman who conquers the mountain snows. I know something of such alliances - I chose my own companions for what they brought to my cause, not for idle gossip. Fortune favors those who dare, and in her he has found a general who has won her own battles twice over; that is a wife worth a triumph, not a mere tally of public appearances.

In my Alexandria, a woman does not stand beside a man like a torch-bearer at the stadium unless she holds her own throne. This snow-rider who seizes gold on frozen mountains is no consort but a queen of her own winter realm, and any man who names her his rock has already been conquered without a spear. Let the pair parade before the crowds; I learned with Caesar and Antony that a public alliance is the sharpest blade in the armory.

In my Rome, a general who wins the games is honored, but it is the household that steadies him, and a man does well to keep his hearth in order before he demands order of the legions. Let them appear together before the people; a public union, if it is honorable, lends dignity to both and offends no tradition worth keeping. I have found that all lasting power rests upon the small, private loyalties no triumph can purchase.

A man's woman is his own concern, not the empire's. But if she rides the snow like a rider on the steppe and wins gold for her people, then she is a warrior worth noting. Strength recognizes strength. Let him keep his oath to her as he keeps it to his kin and his khan; a man who cannot hold his own tent in order cannot hold a nation.

You speak of the consort of a warrior as though it were a footnote. In my campaigns I learned that a general's strength is doubled when his rear is secure and his heart is at peace - and a woman who has conquered the ice of two winters is no ornament, she is a veteran of her own field. Let the gossips count her titles; I count her discipline. Soldiers of that caliber do not follow, they march beside, and any man who forgets that will lose more than a battle.

I have known what it is to have a companion steadfast at one's side through long winters and longer campaigns, and I account it among Providence's chief mercies. That a young man of great public renown should find his repose in one person, and she in him, is no small matter - for a man's private virtue shapes his public conduct, and the nation is the better when its celebrated are not given to vanity or faction. I wish them a union of mutual honor, kept from the noise of the crowd.

A house divided against itself cannot stand, but a house joined in common cause? That is a different song entirely. The snowboarder and the sack-master - one flies, one throws - both know the value of holding on and letting go. Let us not measure the Union by whom they clasp hands with, but by the freedom that allows it.

A snowboarder and a sacker - two professions that require nerve, balance, and the will to endure. In my experience, such unions are forged not in drawing rooms, but on the icy slopes of defiance. Let the gossips chatter; I say two warriors who find solace in each other's company are all the stronger for it. Never surrender to loneliness - that is a foe worth defeating.

I have no knowledge of such names, nor of a game with a ball of air. But if these two seek truth in their union, let it be built on nonviolence and service, not on the adoration of crowds. A rock is firm, yes - but even a rock must be polished by the chisel of self-discipline.

I have seen the mountaintop, and I have seen love that crosses the lines men draw. If a snowboarder and a football player can call each other 'rock' and 'best friend,' then let no child be told that their own beloved is unfit. The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward every pair of hands that choose tenderness over division.

In the gray light of that island cell, I learned that a man's worth is not measured by the fame of the one he loves, but by how he carries her dignity and his own. A woman who has won her victories on the snow, and a man who calls her his strength, remind me that no person need be diminished for another to stand tall. Let them walk together in the open without shame - that is the freedom for which we struggled.

The private life of any public man is of no consequence to the historical record; what matters is the service rendered to the nation and the purity of the bloodline preserved for future generations. I would note only that the masses are always more interested in the trivial than in the struggle for existence, and this distraction serves no purpose. Let the chroniclers of decay occupy themselves with such gossip, while serious men attend to the real work.

The personal attachments of an individual are irrelevant to the building of socialism; the Party measures a man by his contribution to the collective, not by the company he keeps. Any public fixation on such matters is a distraction from the tasks of production and defense. We would do well to redirect this idle curiosity toward the heroic labor of the workers and peasants.

The question of who shares a bed with whom is the concern of the bourgeoisie, not of the revolutionary. What matters is whether the individual places their talents at the service of the exploited masses, or squanders them on private pleasures. There is no royal road to socialism, and no personal attachment will hasten the inevitable collapse of the old order.

Of what use is a foreign chieftain's bride to the Chinese peasant breaking the frozen earth with his own hands? The question reveals a sickness of the idle classes - fetishizing private sentiment while the great wheel of class struggle turns. The real union that matters is the worker and the land, the revolutionary and the masses. Ask not whose bed the athlete-warrior shares, but whether the people own the grain they harvest.

We are not amused. That a robust young man of the sporting field should attach himself to a snow-rider is a matter of private inclination, and the Crown does not peer beneath every parasol. Yet I shall observe that in my day such unions were ordered by duty, not by printed announcements, and a lady's worth was reckoned in her constancy, not her medals. Let them wed in decency and keep their affections from the public prints.

One learns, in seventy years of such questions put to the Crown, that they are best met with a gracious nod and little more. The young man and the snowboarder appear content, and contentment is no small thing. I have always thought private lives deserve the same discretion one asks of others - so I shall wish them well, and say no more of it.

By the sword and the cross I hold my realm together, and I know that a man's strength is doubled when he has a steadfast companion at his side. This youth has won his contests; she has won hers on the mountain snows, and thus each understands the other's toil. Good. Let them keep the faith, keep their bread unbroken, and raise strong sons for the realm.

I know nothing of her but this: the snow beneath her feet and the ground beneath his - God made both, and He sets companions on the road for a reason. My voices never named a snow-rider to me, nor a gamester either; but love, when it is true, is of God, and I would not deny it. Let her be brave, as I was brave, and she need fear no evil.

Ah, you ask me who a young Hercules of the gridiron takes to his side - and expect me to frown? I have known what it is to be a woman hemmed by suitors and duty at once, and I say only this: any pair who cleave together and keep their own counsel are the wiser for it. Two medals of gold on a girl's shelf is a better dowry than a title, and I shall not make windows into their souls. Let them be merry - so long as they give no scandal to the realm.

Mon cher, I have spent my reign choosing my own companions - some of them extraordinarily fine horsemen - and I can report that a woman of accomplishment makes the worthiest match. If this champion of the snow is as excellent in her sport as I was in mine own governance, then the young man has chosen better than half the crowns of Europe choose by treaty. Let them enjoy it; I shall not begrudge them.

Among my peoples, a man of renown takes a wife by his own right, and his choice is respected as his own. The young warrior of the field and the woman of the mountain snow - each is strong in a separate art, and strength in two houses doubles the household. I have no quarrel with it. Let them marry, keep their customs, and live in peace beneath one sky.

It is written that a man shall cleave to his companion and the two shall be as one, and I have seen strong bonds forged in the field where courage is tested. I know nothing of this snow-rider save that she has been called a rock and a best friend, and such fidelity is worth more than a hero's arms. Let the young man and woman keep their faith in one another, and I shall wish them the peace of a just and honorable house.

And what is a 'girlfriend,' my friend - is she a possession, a title, a thing to be named and reported? You ask who she is, but do you ask who you are when you ask such a question? The oracle at Delphi said 'Know thyself'; perhaps if you examined why the private bond of two souls draws the appetite of a multitude, you would find your answer, and it would not be about Myles or Chloe at all.

You ask after a mortal's beloved as though the answer lay in the visible world, but I tell you the true question is what harmony holds two souls together. Consider a city well-ordered: each part performs its own work, and the whole flourishes. So too a union where the rider of snow and the wrestler of giants each excel in their domain, and in loving what is best in the other, they approach an image, however dim, of the beautiful itself.

Observe the pairing: he spends his strength in brute collisions upon the field, while she practices a craft of balance, timing, and the mean between recklessness and hesitation upon the snow. Both are excellences, yet of different species, the one of force and the other of measured grace. A bond endures when each supplies what the other's nature lacks, as matter requires form, and friendship of this sort aims at what is noble rather than merely sweet.

Were I to ask after the consort of some celebrated warrior, what would it matter to the moral law? Yet I confess a curiosity: this man, who hurls his body at other men for sport, speaks of a woman who flies down mountains on a single board. Can such a union be willed as a universal maxim of rational beings? Only if each regards the other not as a means to admiration, but as an end in themselves - and that, I suspect, they do, for they call each other friend.

Ah, the herd demands to know who sleeps beside the strong man - as if love were a public ledger! She is a snow-dancer with two golden idols about her neck; he is a brute of the arena. Very well. But let neither become the other's crutch, for pity is the poison of the strong. Let them love as warriors love - with danger, with play, with the will to go on growing - not as shopkeepers love, in comfort and complaint.

Of course the papers dress it as romance - the better to sell, and to hide the labor beneath. She hurls herself down a mountain of frozen water for a wage; he hurls himself at other men's bodies for a wage; and the world claps, calls it freedom, while both are commodities in the same market of spectacle. Ask not who holds whose hand, but who owns the hand that signs the contract. Love may be real between them - I do not deny it - but do not let their private warmth obscure the cold machinery that turns them into property to be watched.

Before I affirm anything of this pair, I must ask what is certain. That two bodies move through the world together, I grant - I see it, though the senses deceive. But that one is another's 'rock,' or 'best friend' - these are not properties of extension; they are modes of thought, and thought I cannot put under the knife. Clear and distinct: two minds, each aware of the other, and in that mutual awareness perhaps the only proof of a second soul we ever truly get. I would not build a philosophy on a rumor from the newspapers, but on the cogito alone - and even lovers must begin there.

A prince must know the value of alliances, whether on the field or in the heart. She rides the frozen wave; he storms the castle of the quarterback. Let the people wonder - wonder keeps the crowd engaged, and engaged crowds are easier to govern. It is not virtue that holds them, but mutual advantage.

Two stars, one of the gridiron and one of the mountain snows - shall I write their comedy, or their tragedy? Love that struts upon the public stage is a curious thing: the crowd applauds the pairing, yet the heart keeps its own counsel, as when Juliet whispered to the night. All the world's a rink or a field, and these two have merely stepped into the light where every eye may watch them play their parts.

Sing to me of a maiden who rides the white slopes as once heroes rode the wine-dark sea! She has stood upon the highest step of the world's great contest twice, and he who wrestles giants upon the gridiron sings her praises in the halls of the assembly. Such is the way of mortals: glory won in the snow and in the dust, bound together by fate, and the gods look down and smile at their fleeting brightness.

Love moves the sun and the other stars, and here it has bound a man of iron and a woman of snow, the fire and the frost in one yoke. She descends the frozen slope as a soul descends through the circles, swift and unswerving, and he who hurls himself at other men finds in her his resting place. Let those who read this see that even in our battered age a gentle heart still keeps its pilgrimage.

A wrestler and a snow-rider - how the world loves to pair its opposites! She carves the air on a board, he carves his way through a line of men; both know the striving that never rests. Let them have each other, and let each remain whole in the other's company. For what is love but two natures that, without surrendering themselves, grow more fully what they are?

Two gold medals and a heart of snow - the lady rides the air as I once dreamed of riding a horse named Rocinante, and the world, gaping, makes a tale of who warms whose bed. Let them gape. Every knight errant needs one who sees through the helmet to the man, and every Dulcinea, if she is wise, keeps her own lance. I only marvel that no one has yet written a ballad of a champion who conquers ice and a giant who conquers men, and calls the whole affair love.

I confess I do not know the name, and perhaps that is the very thing I have spent my old age unlearning - this craving to know who belongs to whom, this pride of famous persons. She may leap and spin above the snow, he may topple men like timber, and both may love each other tenderly; yet the peasant who has never heard of either lives closer to the truth of it. Love that is not simple, that is not humble, that is not given to the least of these, is no love at all. Let them be good to one another, and let the world keep its newspapers.

Ah, but you ask me a question about happiness, and I distrust happiness that is too easily described! A man hurls himself at other men, a woman hurls herself down a mountain of ice - do you not see it? Both court destruction, both flirt with the abyss, and each finds in the other the one witness who does not flinch. Love such as this is not a soft thing; it is two souls who have stared into the dark and chosen, freely, to stand together. That is what I would write of them - not their fame, but the terrible, beautiful freedom of their yes.

A gentleman of great fortune and a lady of even greater daring - such a pairing would be the talk of any assembly. But it is not the snow upon her board nor the bulk of his frame that signifies; it is the steadiness of temper that makes a match. One hopes she has the sense to know her own mind, and he the humility to deserve her.

I once knew a woman who rode upon the frozen breath of the wind, and the papers called her a queen of snow. But a queen is no queen unless she has a heart that warms a hearth, and this Chloe - so I read - has called her Myles a rock and a best friend. Now there's a bargain worthy of a Christmas tale: the strong man and the snow-woman, each sheltering the other from the storm.

So Myles has a girlfriend, and she's a snowboarder. I once knew a feller who fell for a woman who could out-ride him in a blizzard; he said she was his rock, but I suspicioned she was more of a avalanche. The only thing certain is that neither of them will ever be as famous as the scandal their grandchildren will dig up.

He plays a brutal game. She rides the cold hard snow. They found each other. That's enough. No need for a parade. A man and a woman. Hard ground. What holds is what holds.

I would study them as I study all of Nature's design - observe how a champion of snow carves the mountain's face, and how a champion of the field pursues his quarry with equal ferocity, and marvel that such different creatures should be drawn by the same invisible chord. Every living thing seeks its complement, as the water seeks the sea, and in their joining there is a harmony of forces like the counterweight in a fresco. I have filled my notebooks with the flight of birds; perhaps I should add the flight of two hearts, though the motion of hearts is harder to set down.

I care nothing for the idle chatter of the piazza, but I will tell you this: the truest beauty is revealed when the body is tested. She has carved her name upon the ice as I carved David from the marble - with patience, with violence, with devotion. He who labors in the arena of the gridiron understands this; and so the two stand together, each a witness to the divine form struggling against its limits.

What a pair to paint! She on her board with the white mountain blazing behind her, he in the dust and crash of the field, and between them that tender thing the world calls friendship and best friend, which is worth more than all the gold medals hung on ribbons. I would put her in cobalt and snow, and him in burnt ochre, and the space between them a warm yellow, for I tell you there is nothing more beautiful than two people who truly see each other.

Girlfriend? I have painted women as guitars, as weeping flowers, as fractured planes of a single face. This one is an athlete - she flies, he fights. Good. Let her not be his shadow, let him not be her frame. A pair of bodies in motion is already a sculpture; I need not add anything but my envy.

Ah, but you ask me the name of the light, and I paint only the shimmer it leaves on the water. I have stood before my lily pond at Giverny at every hour and never once asked the lily whom it loved; I asked only how the dawn turned it rose, how the dusk made it violet. So it is with these two - one rides the frozen air, one breaks through the weight of other men, and what matters is not the label but the fleeting warmth between them. To name it is to kill it; to see it, that is everything.

You ask who she is to him, as though a name could hold her. I would paint them as I painted Hendrickje at the window: not the gold about her neck, but the light that falls across her face when she turns to him - that is the truth of it. A woman who rides the cold air down a mountain, and a man who throws other men to the ground, and between them a warmth they do not perform for you. The world sees the medals; the brush would see the glance.

¡Ay! Look at them - a woman who rides the cold mountain on a board, and a man built like a mountain himself. I paint what I live, and I know that to love with your whole broken body is the only way to love at all. She calls him her rock, he calls her his - good. Let them hold on to that, because the world will try to take it, and fame bites like a parrot. I only wish someone had painted them the way they look at each other, not the way the cameras do.

Ha! Love and sport - that is a duet worthy of an opera buffa, or perhaps a noble duettino in the finale. She glides the snow as a violin glides through a cadenza; he charges the field like a kettle-drum; and together they make a harmony that no court patron could commission. If I set them to music, I would give her a soaring coloratura and him a bold trumpet, and the coda - why, the coda would leave all Salzburg weeping and dancing at once!

Bah! You ask of a football player's woman as if love were a footnote, but I say love, like the symphony, must be wrested from chaos and suffering! She has triumphed on the half-pipe despite the weight of the world's expectation, and he has struggled against giants; together they compose a duet of heroic resolve. Let the gossips prattle - the human spirit rising above its trials is the only melody worth hearing!

Two voices in a duet, each with its own line, sounding together not in unison but in consonant order, as the upper part answers the lower and neither drowns the other. She glides upon the snow as a running figure in the treble, he holds the ground bass of the contest, and the whole is pleasing to the ear because each keeps its proper measure. So should it be with any two who would make one music.

Well now, honey, I don't know the young lady personally, but I hear she's a gold-medal snowboarder - two of 'em, they say. That's a whole lot of flying for one girl. And Myles, he's a big ol' mountain of a man himself. I reckon they understand each other: you don't get to the top without a little trembling in your knees. I wish 'em happiness, and a little less fuss from the newspapers.

Hehe - two hearts, two gifts, one stage, you know? She flies through the snow like a dream, he dances through the giants like a rhythm, and the world just watches and smiles. Love is the one magic that don't need a spotlight, it just glows. Shamon - heal the world, start with your best friend.

She's his girl, yeah, yeah, yeah - and she rides the snow like it's a rooftop in Liverpool and she's late for the Cavern. Everybody wants a photograph of two famous faces, but all you need is love, and a lass who calls you her rock is worth more than any gold disc. Let it be, mate - just let the two of them be.

The tambourine man plays for her, and she rides the avalanche down a mountain nobody else could climb. Her name? It changes with the weather. Some say the highway is for gamblers, better use your sense.

She's got her own gold medals, and he's got his sacks - two MVPs of their own domains, and they're writing their own story without a ghostwriter. When you've been burned by the headlines, you learn to keep the real stuff close. This is the kind of love that says, 'I don't need a spotlight, I just need you in my corner.'

Two lands, two peoples united in one bond - so it was when I brought Castile and the Indies under one crown, and men said it could not be done. This Myles and his Chloe, one of the field and one of the frozen mountains, are like my own voyages: a marriage of distant shores that the timid would never attempt. I would have my chroniclers note it, though I confess the private heart of a man is a coast I never charted and cannot claim to have discovered.

In my travels I saw many strange unions - a Tartar princess wed to a Persian prince, a Venetian merchant's daughter bartered for silk and pepper. This pairing of the snow-rider and the giant-wrestler is no different: she comes from the high cold country where men slide on planks, he from the great games of the western armies. What surprises me is not that they love, but that you find it remarkable enough to ask; I once crossed the Gobi and no one asked me who kept my tent warm.

A man who charges at other giants for his bread, and a woman who rides the frozen waves of the mountains for her glory, each of them daring what the timid call impossible. I know that kind of spirit; I staked my life that a passage lay where every chart said none, and I would not turn back though the crews muttered and the storms bit. Let them keep their own course together, for the heart, like the sea, rewards those who press on.

I can't speak to the particulars - that's their business, not mine. But if she's an Olympic champion, she knows what it costs to stand at the top of a run and trust the hours nobody saw. He plays a violent game; she rides a board down ice at speed. Different arenas, same discipline. I hope they keep their feet under them, together.

They ask who stands beside a man who lifts mountains and call the answer a woman's name, as though she were merely a landmark on his map. Let me tell you something - any woman who straps a board to her feet and drops out of the sky twice to gold does not stand beside anyone; she flies her own route. If the two of them find calm in each other after the storms, fine, good, I wish them blue skies and a tailwind. But the story I want to read is hers, and I suspect she already knows how to write it.

I circled the whole Earth in one hundred and eight minutes, and from up there I saw no borders, no flags - just one blue cradle turning in the dark. So when you ask whose hand she holds, I say: what does it matter which patch of ground she was born on? A woman who conquers the ice and a man who conquers the field - two people who know what it is to push past fear - that is a crew I would fly with. The cosmos does not ask for papers; neither should we.

Simple. Two extraordinary people, each world-class in their own arena, choosing each other - that's the whole story, and it's beautiful because it's not complicated. She's a gold medalist, he's a generational talent, and together they're a reminder that the best things come from passion and saying no to everything that isn't exceptional. I'd love to see the design of that relationship - no clutter, no noise, just two people who are insanely great at what they do.

Two high-performance humans optimizing in parallel - that's the physics of it. She's a two-time Olympic gold medalist on the halfpipe, he's a future Hall of Fame edge rusher; the probability of that pairing is essentially zero unless you're selecting for excellence across domains. I'd say the interesting question isn't who she is, it's whether their combined training schedule is a distributed system or a single point of failure. But sure, they seem happy - next question.

Listen, when I look at two people who call each other best friend and rock, I see two souls who decided to show up for each other, and that is the whole lesson. She wins gold on the mountain, he wins on the field, but the real prize is having somebody who sees you when the crowd is gone. Honey, that is what I mean by your best life, and you do not need a stadium to find it, you need the courage to love out loud.

Now who is Myles Garrett's lady? I hear she's Chloe Kim, a snowboarder, two gold medals, and she calls him her rock - well, he's a big rock, I'll give her that! But let me tell you something: a woman with her own gold don't need a man's name to shine. She floats on snow, he fights in the trenches - both of 'em champions, both of 'em mine. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, and may they both stay free!

Ha! In my day we said the ball does not care who loves you, only how you play - but oh, it is sweeter when someone understands the weight of a long season. She rides the snow like a dancer, he carries a whole city on his shoulders, and that, my friends, is a beautiful game too. I only ask that they keep the joy, keep the humility, and never let the crowd write the story for them. Gol - may they score in everything that matters.

Well now - that's a story with two heroes, and I love a story with two heroes! A girl who flies down a mountain and a fella who chases quarterbacks: put 'em together and you've got the kind of picture folks line up around the block to see. You keep believing in each other, kids, and you keep dreaming - because a dream you share is twice the dream, and that's the real magic kingdom.