[Maddie’s POV]
The hotel lobby smells like stale coffee and regret, which feels appropriate for a Sunday morning after your entire life imploded on national television.
I'm meeting Victoria before the drive back to campus, and the part of my brain that still functions knows this is probably a terrible idea.
The other ninety-five percent is too exhausted to care about self-preservation or common sense.
Victoria sits in one of those lobby chairs that's trying too hard to look sophisticated but mostly looks uncomfortable.
She stands when she sees me, all professional sympathy and perfectly styled hair. "Maddie," she says, gesturing to the chair across from her. "Thank you for meeting with me."
I sit because standing feels like too much effort. My entire body aches from yesterday's performance, from landing every jump perfectly and watching the judges decide perfection deserved sixth place.
"I wanted to talk to you about something." Victoria's voice has this gentle quality that makes me immediately suspicious.
Adults using gentle voices usually means bad news is incoming. "I've been speaking with a program. They have incredible coaching, a competitive environment. It could be a fresh start for you."
The words fresh start feel like bait on a hook. I bite anyway because I'm apparently a fish with poor survival instincts. "What program?"
"It's about three hours from here. Spring semester enrollment is still open." Victoria leans forward slightly, and I can see she's already planned this conversation down to her posture.
"They have an opening, and I could get you a spot. Your technical skills are exceptional. You just need the right environment to showcase them."
Three hours away. Far enough that commuting would be impossible, that it would mean leaving Lakeview entirely, leaving the team, leaving Emily. The thought should make my chest tighten, and should make me refuse immediately.
Instead, I just feel numb.
"You really think I should leave?" The question comes out quieter than I intended, and I hate how small my voice sounds.
Victoria's expression shifts to something that might be genuine concern or might be excellent acting. I've lost the ability to tell the difference, like trying to determine if someone's Instagram post is sponsored content.
"I think sometimes we outgrow places," she says gently. "Staying somewhere out of obligation isn't healthy, especially when that environment is working against you."
The words settle over me like a weighted blanket. Obligation. Is that what I'm doing? Staying at Lakeview because I feel like I owe Coach something, owe Emily something, owe the team something even though they barely tolerated me just a few months ago?
"Think about it," Victoria says, standing. "You don't have to decide today. But you deserve better than what you're getting here."
She walks away before I can respond, which is probably strategic. Leave me sitting here with the seed planted, let it grow while I drive back to campus thinking about fresh starts and better environments.
The drive back takes two hours that feel like two years. I spend most of it staring out the window at scenery that refuses to be interesting, mentally rehearsing conversations I probably won't have.
Campus looks exactly the same as when we left, which feels wrong. Shouldn't everything look different when your entire world is falling apart?
Emily is waiting outside our dorm, sitting on the steps with her phone. She looks up when my car pulls in, and even from this distance I can see the tension in her shoulders.
I grab my bag and walk over, each step feeling heavier than the last. Emily stands, shoving her phone in her pocket, and I can see she's been waiting a while. Probably rehearsing her own conversation.
"Hey," she says, and her voice is too casual, trying too hard to sound normal. It's the vocal equivalent of whistling while walking past a graveyard.
"Hey." I set my bag down because holding it feels like too much weight to carry.
"What did Victoria say?" The question is direct, no preamble, and I appreciate that about Emily even when I wish she'd let me ease into things.
I take a breath. Just say it quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. "She told me about a transfer possibility. A program that's taking applications for spring semester."
Emily's face goes pale, the color draining so fast I can actually track it happening in real time, like watching a time-lapse video of someone receiving terrible news. "What?"
"It's three hours away. Good coaching, competitive environment. She thinks she can get me a spot." The words feel rehearsed because they are, because I've been repeating them in my head for the entire drive.
Emily's hands curl into fists at her sides. "Are you seriously going to let one biased judge drive you away?"
"It's not just one judge, Emily." My voice comes out sharper than I intended, frustration bleeding through.
"It's everything. The discrimination, the pressure, the constant scrutiny. Every competition where we land everything perfectly and still place behind people who fall twice."
"So we fight it. Together." Emily steps closer, her voice intense. "We file complaints, we go public, we make them acknowledge what they're doing."
I feel exhausted just hearing the words, like she's suggesting we climb Mount Everest in our skates while juggling chainsaws. "I'm tired of fighting."
"Tired of fighting?" Emily's voice rises slightly. "Maddie, we've barely started fighting. We can't just—" She stops, something shifting in her expression. "Is this about skating or about us?"
The question hangs between us like a grenade with the pin pulled. I should lie, should say it's only about skating, and should preserve whatever we have left. But I'm too tired for lies. "Maybe both."
Emily's face crumbles, just for a second, before she controls it. When she speaks, her voice breaks. "If you transfer, we're done. You know that, right? Long distance won't work with training schedules. We'll be competing at different events, training at different times. We'll never see each other."
The words hit like a physical blow, even though I knew they were coming. Of course we'd be done. Of course a transfer would mean ending this. You can't maintain a relationship when you're three hours apart and training eighty hours a week.
"Maybe that's for the best," I hear myself say, and the words feel like they're coming from someone else. "Maybe we're too tangled up. Maybe we can't see clearly because we're too close."
Emily stares at me, and I watch her expression shift from hurt to disbelief to something that might be acceptance or might be devastation. It's like watching someone cycle through all five stages of grief in fast-forward mode.
The words hang between us, heavy and irrevocable, and I know with absolute certainty that I just broke something that can't be fixed. Not with apologies, not with time, not with anything except maybe a miracle or time travel, neither of which are currently available.
We stand there in the fading afternoon light, and the space between us feels infinite even though it's barely three feet. Everything I should say stays trapped in my throat like words written on dissolving paper, and Emily's silence is somehow louder than screaming would be.