Emily’s POV
The rink smells exactly the same.
Cold air, zamboni water with an ice cleaner. Nothing here cares that my life detonated a week ago.
Which is rude, honestly.
I drop my bag and start unlacing my sneakers. The locker room hums with chaos—music, blades clinking, Ava arguing with Chris down the hallway.
Ava appears in the doorway and lifts her brows. "You're early," she says, eyes doing their sweep of my face.
"Coach said nine," I reply, pulling my tights straight. "It's nine."
"It's eight twenty," she says, like time is personally offending her on my behalf.
I shrug. "Then I'm very committed to punctuality."
She studies my face like she's searching for cracks. Ava has the emotional subtlety of a golden retriever with a detective license.
"Emily," she says carefully, "you don't have to—"
"I know," I cut in, standing. "But I'm going to."
Ava sighs like someone watching a train roll toward a cliff. "Right," she says. "Love that for you."
Chris wanders in. "Did I miss a fight?" he asks, glancing between us with barely concealed hope.
"No fight," Ava says, still watching me carefully.
"Tragic," Chris mutters, dropping onto the bench. "My favorite sport."
I grab my skates. "Practice," I say, as if the word should explain everything, and head for the doors.
Chris gestures toward the rink. "After you, Captain," he says, trying to make it casual and almost succeeding.
The word lands differently now. Captain—singular. I don't react.
I push off faster than usual. Edge, push, glide—my muscles remember before my brain can interfere. Coach stands by the boards. I launch into a jump. Clean landing, hard.
"Again," Coach calls, voice flat and meaning it.
I don't answer. I just do it. The second jump snaps sharper. My blade bites the ice like it's angry.
Ava falls into stride beside me. "Good morning to you too, chaos gremlin," she says.
"I slept great," I say, eyes staying forward.
"You look like you drank three energy drinks and decided gravity is optional."
"Don't be jealous," I mutter, "it's not a good look on you either."
"Emily," Ava drops to a whisper, her expression shifting uneasily.
"What?" My tone comes out sharper than intended.
"You're scaring the freshmen," she says, nodding toward the boards.
I glance over. Two of them stare like they've wandered into a documentary titled Predator on Ice.
"Good," I say, and mean every letter of it for once.
Coach whistles, waving over for me to meet her. "Harper."
I glide over. "Yes, Coach?" I keep my arms loose, performing fine like a professional.
"Run the combination," she says, clicking her pen against the clipboard.
Takeoff, rotation, landing. The second jump hits cleaner than it ever has. Coach tilts her head.
"That," she says slowly, her tone strict, "was excellent."
"Thank you," I say, clipped and mechanical, nothing like actual gratitude.
"Technically," Coach adds. That one word does the work of a paragraph.
"What are you doing?" she asks, tapping her clipboard.
"Skating," I say, shrugging like the answer is self-evident.
"Don't get clever with me. You're attacking the ice like it insulted your mother," Coach says, narrowing her eyes.
"Motivation," I say, voice easy, like commenting on the weather.
Ava drifts closer. "I told you," she says, giving Coach a look that communicates a whole private conversation.
"The precision is impressive," Coach says. "But the energy is… intense."
"That's a polite word," I say, taking it as a compliment anyway.
"Would you prefer alarming?" she asks, tilting her head the way she does when matching my stubbornness.
Chris skates past. "Vote alarming!" he announces to no one, already gone before I can respond.
I shoot him a look. Coach crosses her arms. "Emily," she says, just my name, which somehow lands like a full sentence.
"Yes?" I keep my eyes on her, shoulders relaxed, performing unbothered.
"You don't have to turn pain into velocity," her voice drops softer. I hate softer.
"Why not?" I ask, and mean it enough that it surprises us both.
"Because that approach tends to end with injuries," she says, the word landing heavy.
"I'm fine," I say, automated, reflex, merely true at all.
"You're furious," Coach says, eyes on her clipboard.
"Also fine," I say, which sounds worse out loud.
Coach exhales. "Skating is about control, not punishment."
"I'm in control," my words sound colder than the ice.
"Are you?" she asks, looking up, meeting my eyes directly.
I smile politely. "Completely," I say, and it almost sounds true.
Practice runs jump after jump, spin after spin. By the time it ends, sweat soaks my sleeves.
Ava skates beside me toward the exit. "You're going to destroy someone at the next competition," she says.
"That's the goal," I manage, breathless and sweaty.
"Emily!" she catches me mid-stride, snapping to meet my eyes.
"What?!" I snap, spinning on my heel too sharp.
"You look like a villain in a training montage," Ava says, softening it just enough to pass as concern.
"Finally," I say, pressing a hand to my chest. "Recognition."
Chris leans against the door. "You know what this reminds me of? The scene in every movie where the hero gets dumped and then becomes terrifyingly competent."
"I was always terrifyingly competent," I reply, yanking my skates off harder than necessary.
"Fair," Chris says, hands up, but I catch the flicker in his expression he doesn't manage to hide.
Ava nudges my shoulder. "You sure you're okay?" she asks, careful, no pressure.
"Yes," I mutter, pulling my jacket on. Not really, but I wouldn't admit it.
"Emotionally?" she adds, quieter, like she's decided to push anyway.
I don't answer. I slide my skates into my bag, avoiding their gazes.
"That tracks," Ava says tiredly, in the voice of someone long since resigned to never getting a straight answer from me.
"See you tomorrow," I say, moving before they find another angle.
"Emily," Ava calls. I pause, glancing back.
"Try sleeping tonight," she says, small smile doing the emotional heavy lifting.
"No promises," I say, and turn before she can see my face.
Campus is loud after the rink. Couples on benches, someone kissing near the coffee stand. Life continuing without my permission. It shouldn't irritate me. It absolutely does.
My roommate is out when I get back. I sit on my bed and pull out my phone.
The gallery opens to Maddie—rink boards behind her, hair messy, grin crooked. My throat tightens. I swipe. My chest cracks open.
The crying hits. Violent. Ugly. I shove my face into my pillow until it burns out.
I roll onto my back. "Fantastic," I mutter to the empty room.
My thumb hovers over delete. I can't. I toss the phone aside.
"Coward," I tell myself. The word sits there, accurate and unhelpful.
Morning comes too fast. Still dark when my alarm fires. If I stay still, my brain starts talking—unwise. Gym. Running. Weights. Core drills. Pain is clean and controllable.
A message from Ava blinks on my phone: "Eat breakfast. This is not optional."
Then one subject line stops me cold. Competition Judges Announcement.
I tap it. Victoria Hughes will be judging our next major competition.
The gym feels colder. "Of course," I whisper, the words barely making it past my teeth.
Because apparently the universe looked at my life and thought: needs more chaos.