[Maddie’s POV]
The next afternoon I text Victoria back: ‘Coffee sounds good. Does today work for you?’
Her response comes fast: ‘Perfect. There's a café called The Bean Counter about ten minutes off campus. 2 PM?’
The Bean Counter turns out to be one of those aggressively aesthetic places with exposed brick and plants hanging everywhere like some kind of caffeine jungle.
Victoria is already there, sitting at a corner table with two cups. She stands when she sees me, all warmth and professional polish. "Maddie, thanks for meeting me." She gestures to the second cup. "I got you a latte. Hope that's okay."
I sit, wrapping my hands around the cup. "Yeah, thanks." The warmth feels good against my palms, grounding. "So, um, how are you?"
"I'm well. More importantly, how are you?" She leans forward. "Regionals is coming up. That's a lot of pressure."
The question hits different than when Emily asks. No edge of worry, no undercurrent of here-we-go-again. Just curiosity, professional concern.
"It's fine," I say automatically, then catch myself doing the thing where I pretend everything's fine when it's objectively a dumpster fire. "Actually, no. It's kind of terrible."
The admission surprises me, but once it starts I can't stop. "I feel like I'm constantly being watched. Like every mistake I make isn't just a mistake—it's proof that queer athletes don't belong, that we're too distracted, too controversial, too much of a liability."
Victoria nods slowly, doesn't interrupt, doesn't try to fix it. That alone makes my throat tight.
"And the worst part is I know people are rooting for me to fail," I continue. "Not everyone, obviously, but enough. Enough that I see it in the scores, in the way certain judges look at me, the comments alone... It's exhausting."
"I've seen this before," Victoria says finally. "Talented athletes in unsupportive environments. Sometimes the institution itself becomes the problem, even when individual people have good intentions."
She pauses, takes a sip of her coffee. "Have you thought about what you want your skating career to look like beyond this season?"
The question catches me off guard. "I mean, I want to keep skating. Get better. Maybe make it to the Olympics eventually."
"That's ambitious. Admirable." Victoria's smile is genuine, the kind that makes you feel seen.
"I have connections at other programs. Better coaching infrastructure, more competitive environments. Less complicated politics."
She says it casually, like she's recommending a Netflix series, not suggesting I upend my entire life.
"Nothing you need to decide now. Just information if you want to explore options."
My stomach does something complicated—part interest, part alarm, part trap-but-appealing.
"Other programs?" I manage, trying to sound less interested than I actually am. Which is, unfortunately, very interested.
"Universities with stronger skating departments. Coaches who specialize in pairs. Environments where you wouldn't be fighting uphill battles."
She meets my eyes. "You're talented, Maddie. You deserve better than this."
We talk for another fifteen minutes about training and coaching relationships. When we part ways, I feel lighter than I have in weeks. Like someone finally understood.
The drive back to campus passes in a blur. I park in the dorm lot and sit for a moment, hands still on the steering wheel, trying to hold onto this feeling of being seen.
Inside, Emily is at her desk, textbook open, highlighter in hand looking like a stock photo for "Studious College Student." She looks up. "Hey. Where were you?"
"Got coffee with someone." I aim for casual, land somewhere around suspicious enough to make Emily's investigator senses tingle.
Emily's eyes narrow slightly, and I can practically see her mental gears turning. "Who?" I hesitate. Part of me wants to lie, to say it was Ava or one of the teammates, to avoid this exact conversation we're about to have.
But we've been down that road before, and it never ends well. Honesty time, I guess. "Victoria. The judge from Nationals." I try to say it like it's no big deal, like I'm mentioning I ran into someone at the grocery store.
Emily's face goes completely blank, like someone just unplugged her emotional operating system. Then carefully, deliberately neutral, which is somehow worse. "Victoria."
Not a question, more like she's testing how the word tastes. Spoiler: not good. "And what did you talk about?"
"About skating, obviously. Some advice, some critiques." I set my bag down, already feeling defensive and we're approximately thirty seconds into this conversation. "Why?"
"I knew she texted you, but coffee?" Emily's voice is calm, controlled in a way that makes my skin prickle. “When did that happen?”
"Today, actually. She wanted to check in about competition stress." I set my bag down, defensive now. "It's not a big deal."
"Right." Emily stands, crosses her arms. "Let me see if I have this straight. Your father, who cut you off for being gay, suddenly calls you multiple times a week. Victoria, who has power on the Regional Selection Committee, suddenly mentors you over coffee. And you've been distant for weeks."
She pauses for effect. "That's not paranoia, Maddie. That's pattern recognition."
Heat flashes through my chest. "You're making Victoria sound like some kind of villain. She was being nice."
"Was she?" Emily's jaw tightens. "Or was she planting seeds? Suggesting you'd be better off without the 'complicated politics' of training with your girlfriend?"
"She was giving me options!" My voice rises. "Something I'm apparently not allowed to have without you deciding they're part of some conspiracy."
"This isn't about control, it's about—" Emily starts, but I'm on a roll now, the kind where you say things you can't take back.
"It's about you treating me like I can't make my own decisions. Like I'm some helpless victim who needs you to protect me from everyone." The blow is delivered, I see it in her face.
Emily's face goes pale. "I'm trying to protect you from people who are actively manipulating you."
"Or maybe—" I step closer, something cold settling in my chest. "Maybe you're trying to keep me dependent. Maybe it's easier when I need saving."
The silence that follows is deafening. Emily's face goes from pale to white, her eyes wide with something that looks like betrayal. For a second I think she's going to yell, to fight back.
Instead, she grabs her jacket and keys. Doesn't say a word. Just walks out, the door closing with a soft click that somehow sounds louder than if she'd slammed it.
I stand alone in our dorm room, surrounded by evidence of our shared life—her textbooks on the desk, my skating bag by the door, posters on the walls. The domestic archaeology of a relationship possibly imploding.
I tell myself Emily overreacted, that she's being paranoid, that I'm allowed to have coffee with someone without a full investigation. I'm good at telling myself things. Less good at believing them.
But there's this voice in my head, quiet and persistent, that sounds a lot like Emily. The one pointing out that Victoria knew exactly what to say, exactly how to make me feel understood while subtly suggesting I'd be better off elsewhere.
The one noting my father's sudden reconciliation started just before Victoria appeared. The one recognizing I've been pulled in exactly the direction everyone wants me to go, and I didn't even notice the steering.
That's what terrifies me most. Not that Emily might be wrong. But that she might be right.