Maddie’s POV
The new training facility feels clinical in a way that makes me want to apologize for breathing too loudly. The hallway lights are bright and unforgiving, and the walls are so blank they might as well be daring me to add a personality.
I stop outside the locker room door, inhale once, and tell myself that quiet is discipline, not loneliness.
Inside, the locker room is packed with elite athletes and somehow still silent. I set my bag down and start lacing my skates, keeping my hands busy so my mind doesn't drift.
A girl across the bench glances up while tightening her laces, her gaze quick and sharp. "You're the transfer," she says.
"I'm Maddie," I reply, tugging my lace ends into a tight knot. "And yes, I'm the transfer, apparently with a name tag now."
"Names don't matter much here," she says, then nods at my skates. "Skating does."
"That's comforting," I answer, standing and rolling my ankles. "I was worried I'd have to bring a fun personality."
"Give it a week," she says, standing and shouldering her bag. "The quiet either makes you sharper or it makes you crack."
"I don't crack," I say, too quickly, while I slide my guards off.
"Everyone says that," she replies, already turning away. "See you on the ice, transfer."
The rink doors open with a soft hiss. I push off, carving a clean curve, and for one second my muscles remember who I am.
I do my warm-up lap, then another. I tell myself that Lakewood was chaos, and chaos was distraction, and I chose this for a reason.
"Again," a voice calls from the boards, calm as a verdict.
I don't need to look to know it's Victoria. I circle back and stop near the boards, breathing steady, face blank.
"You warm up like you're trying not to upset the ice," Victoria says, her gaze moving over me the way judges scan a program sheet. "This isn't a social situation, Maddie."
"I'm aware," I reply, keeping my tone even. "I didn't come here to make friends with frozen water."
"Run the triple-triple," she says, tapping her clipboard once.
I skate out and launch. The first jump rises clean—but the second catches a fraction late, and my blade scrapes hard enough to announce the mistake. I straighten immediately.
"You compensated," Victoria says when I stop, her voice holding only disappointment. "You did not execute."
"I stayed upright," I answer. "That's usually a positive outcome."
"It's a minimum outcome," she replies, tilting her head. "Again, and don't bargain with me using survival."
I go again. My breathing sharpens as my thighs burn. I land the first, rush the second, recover.
Victoria glides closer when I stop. "Emily Harper is doing exceptionally well," she says casually, as if commenting on rink temperature.
The name hits my ribs from the inside, but I keep my face still with practiced control. "That's good," I say, and the words taste like metal.
"People say she looks energized," Victoria continues, watching me carefully. "They say she's thriving now that she isn't distracted."
"Emily thrives on pressure," I reply. "If she's thriving, she's probably hurting."
Victoria's gaze sharpens. "Or she's moved on," she says, the suggestion smooth and deliberate. "Athletes adapt quickly when they remove what weakens them."
"If you're trying to make me jealous, you can be more direct," I say, lifting my chin. "This is starting to feel like a soap opera, and I didn't bring popcorn."
"Your humor is a shield," she says, then gestures toward center ice. "Skate, Maddie."
I skate. I jump. I stumble slightly on the landing, just enough to feel it in my ankle and in my pride. Frustration rises hot in my throat, and I swallow it down.
Victoria points out flaws with surgical clarity—edge timing, shoulder alignment, hesitation on takeoff—without offering a single word that resembles encouragement.
"This is discipline," I tell myself as I glide to reset.
After the session, the cafeteria is bright and sterile. I sit alone by the window with a tray I barely touch and scroll through skating forums.
A headline flashes about my transfer. A thread beneath speculates about Lakewood. Someone posts a clip of Emily from practice. Comments pile up fast: people praising her.
A tray drops onto the table across from me, and the same girl from the locker room sits down without asking. "You look like you're reading your own autopsy," she says, tilting her head at my phone.
"I'm fine," I reply, locking my screen and forcing my posture straight. "I'm just eating lunch like a well-adjusted teenager."
"Well-adjusted teenagers don't sit alone and doomscroll," she says, then points her fork at me. "What are they saying?"
"Nothing worth repeating," I answer, setting my phone face-down like burying evidence. "Just the internet being the internet."
"You're trying very hard not to react," she says, and the observation is uncomfortably accurate.
"I don't need to react," I reply. "I came here to skate."
"Sure," she says, her tone suggesting she's heard that script before. "Just remember that silence doesn't magically turn into strength. Sometimes it just turns into rot."
"Is this your hobby?" I ask, forcing sarcasm into my voice. "Serving emotional warnings with eggs?"
"My hobby is staying alive in places like this," she says, then nods toward the rink hallway. "If you're smart, you'll learn how to be alone without letting it eat you. I was like you once, you know. When I just entered."
"Thanks," I tell her, meeting her eyes. "I'll file that under 'terrifying life advice I didn't request.'"
She gives a small shrug. "Welcome to the facility, transfer."
The campus library is quiet. I sit in a corner with my textbook open and read the same paragraph until the words blur.
My phone lights up with Mom's name. I stare at the screen long enough for the call to stop buzzing, then flip it face-down and press my palm flat against the back like that settles anything.
By the time I walk back to my dorm, my shoulders ache from holding myself so tightly together. My room is small, neat, and painfully unfamiliar.
I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. My phone sits on the bedside table, and the temptation is immediate: one tap, one search, one look at Emily's face and her life without me.
"This loneliness is necessary," I whisper, and repeat it until it almost sounds like the truth.
I sit up abruptly and drag one of the unpacked boxes closer because if I stay still, I'll break. The box is full of training gear and old clothes.
Something slides loose near the bottom—an envelope. I frown and open it, expecting paperwork or some useless keepsake I forgot about.
A photo slips into my lap.
Emily and me, in the Lakewood locker room, caught mid-laugh as she grips my collar and pulls me down. Our mouths are pressed together like we're starving, like we're reckless, like we believed nothing could touch us.
I hold it with both hands, and the room suddenly feels smaller.
Doubt settles in my chest. And no amount of discipline can scrape it off.