Maddie’s POV
The second morning session starts before sunrise. The rink lights glow against empty stands, and the cold here feels different from Lakeview — sharper, less forgiving, like the air itself has opinions about whether you deserve to be on the ice.
Victoria waits at the boards with her clipboard, perfectly still, in the way that very controlled people are still when they want you to notice it.
"Your warm-up lap should have started three minutes ago," she says without looking up. "Efficiency is not optional here."
"I'm already on the ice," I reply, pushing away from the boards and gliding past her. "I assumed that counted as enthusiasm."
"It counts as delay," she answers, lifting her eyes briefly with the expression of someone who has heard every possible version of this excuse. "You have two sessions today, Maddie. I recommend you begin treating them like they matter."
I nod and start my warm-up, letting my blades carve steady arcs, keeping my breathing controlled, my face neutral.
"Triple combination," she calls from the boards, pen already poised.
I turn at center ice and launch into the first jump. The rotation is tight, but the second jump lands slightly off balance, blade scraping in a way that announces the mistake before I can.
"Again," Victoria calls, voice flat as a verdict.
I circle back without speaking. The second attempt is cleaner on the first jump and worse on the second. I straighten, breathe, reset.
"Again!" she repeats, tone sharper, clipping the word down to its essential meaning.
By the fourth run, my legs burn and my breathing grows heavier. The final landing holds, but barely.
"You're rushing your takeoff," Victoria says, stepping closer. "Control requires patience."
"I thought patience was the brand here," I reply, breathless enough that the sarcasm lands softer than intended.
Victoria studies me with the unhurried attention of someone who knows exactly what she's doing. "Deflection is charming," she says. "But charm doesn't win medals."
"Good thing I didn't bring charm," I answer, already pushing off for the next run.
The repetition continues until my muscles ache deeply enough that each landing becomes a small negotiation. When the session ends, I skate toward the exit, flexing my right wrist once, carefully, when Victoria isn't watching.
"You're scheduled for off-ice conditioning in twenty minutes," she says, checking her watch. "Strength drills followed by jump simulations."
"I have classes," I reply, frowning at the thought of it.
“Classes aren't as important as training. I'd rather you practice than sit in class and study useless stuff like everyone,” she scoffs.
I don't disagree this time because doubt settles in my chest. Uneasily. The conditioning room is quieter than the rink. Victoria gestures toward a weighted vest hanging near the door.
"Put one on," she says. "We're increasing resistance today."
I pull the vest over my shoulders and tighten the straps without comment. The weight settles across my chest like something I've earned.
"Twenty repetitions," she says, positioning herself to watch.
I practice as she says, do what she says, fix what she says. My calves ache to the point it's agonizing, but I push through because what else can I do?
"You're favoring your left side," she notes, not unkindly, which somehow makes it worse.
"I'm balancing," I answer, forcing another jump and landing it clean.
"You're compensating," she corrects. "There's a difference. One is control. One is a warning."
I finish the last jump and straighten slowly, rolling my shoulders back and pressing my expression into something that looks like fine.
"Anything else?" I ask, keeping my voice easy despite the way my wrist throbs quietly against the inside of my glove.
"For now," she says, making a note on her clipboard. "Hydrate and eat before your afternoon session. Not optional."
I nod and remove the vest, flexing my fingers carefully once her back is turned.
The cafeteria is almost silent. I sit alone with a tray I barely touch while athletes around me talk and laugh in small clusters, their ease with each other something I haven't figured out how to replicate yet.
My phone vibrates against the table. Dad. I stare at the name for three full seconds before answering.
"Hi," I say, keeping my voice neutral and my eyes on the window.
"Maddie," David replies, his tone hesitant. "I wasn't sure you'd pick up."
"I'm between sessions," I answer slowly. "Training schedule is intense."
"I figured," he mutters almost guilty. "Are you eating enough?"
"Yes," I say, looking at my mostly untouched tray. The lie comes out smoother than it should.
"You sound tired," he says, and the concern in his voice lands somewhere I wasn't expecting it to.
"I'm training twice a day," I shrug, even though he can't see it. "That tends to happen."
A pause stretches between us.
"How is the facility?" he asks finally, trying again.
"Efficient," I say, turning the word over like I'm examining it. "Very efficient."
"That doesn't sound like praise," he says carefully.
"It's not supposed to be," I answer. "It's a training center, not a resort."
He exhales slowly, and the sound of it travels through the phone in a way that makes the cafeteria feel smaller.
"I know things ended abruptly at Lakeview," he starts, and I sigh immediately.
"I chose this," I interrupt, harder than I meant to. The words sit between us with too much weight.
"I know you did," he replies, quieter. "I'm just checking on my daughter."
I stare out the cafeteria window. The campus beyond is gray and unfamiliar. "I'm fine," I say.
"Maddie," he says, just my name, with a specific softness that makes it harder to deflect.
"I'm fine," I repeat, steadier this time, like repetition makes it more true.
The silence that follows is heavier than the conversation.
"Just take care of yourself," he says finally. "Talent doesn't mean much if you destroy the person who has it."
My throat tightens. I stare at my tray. "I have to go," I say, standing up.
"Alright," he replies, almost awkward, painfully. "Call me if you—"
"I will," I cut in, and end the call before he finishes the sentence.
The afternoon session runs with the same relentless rhythm. Triple axels, edge corrections, Victoria's clipped observations landing one after another with no space between them for breath or pride.
Back in my dorm room, the silence presses in. I sit on the edge of the bed and replay her words the way I always do—finding the shape of each criticism, turning it over until it becomes something useful.
"She was a distraction," I say aloud to the empty room, the words deliberate and flat, like filing paperwork. "That's all."
They hang there. I don't quite believe them.
A knock sounds. Victoria steps inside without waiting.
"I've spoken to Olympic development scouts about your placements," she says, watching my face carefully for whatever she's looking for. "The timeline is moving faster than I expected."
I meet her eyes and keep my expression still, the way she's taught me. More pressure. Exactly what I signed up for.
"Good," I say, and mean it only halfway.