Maddie’s POV
Talking to David left me with more thoughts than I had before, but it also settled a weird feeling of being understood deep in my chest.
Which is weird, because David is the last person who would normally understand me.
The private session starts late enough that the rest of the facility is nearly empty, the hallways holding that particular institutional quiet that makes every footstep sound like a confession.
The rink lights burn cold and bright above untouched ice. My muscles already ache before I even step onto the surface, and the dull pulse in my wrist reminds me that yesterday's fall hasn't magically forgiven me overnight. I owe that fall an apology. I'm not going to give it one.
Victoria stands by the boards with her clipboard and the expression of someone who has never once been tired in her entire life.
"You're late," she says without looking up.
"It's 9:59," I reply, gliding onto the ice and fixing my expression into something neutral. "You said ten."
"Champions arrive early," she says, lifting her gaze slowly like the sentence doesn't require additional punctuation.
"Champions also sleep occasionally," I answer, pushing into my first warm-up lap before she can respond.
My body feels slow tonight, like every joint carries an extra pound of resistance that wasn't there yesterday. I complete the lap and turn at center ice without waiting for her signal.
Victoria's whistle cuts through the air. "Program sequence," she calls, already writing something before I've started.
I circle back and begin the routine. My jumps land clean enough, spins controlled, transitions technically correct. Mechanically perfect and emotionally empty, which is apparently what happens when you spend two weeks being told that feelings are a structural weakness.
When I finish the run, Victoria doesn't clap. She doesn't even nod — just studies me the way you study a blueprint for errors.
"That was efficient," she says.
"That's the goal," I reply, still catching my breath.
"It lacked precision," she says, which sounds like a compliment until you realize it isn't.
I blink at her. "I hit every mark," I say, because I did, and that deserves at least a moment of acknowledgment.
"You hit them," she agrees, tilting her head slightly. "But you did not command them. There's a difference."
I rest my hands on my hips. "You said vulnerability was weakness," I remind her. "I removed the emotional part, like you suggested."
Victoria steps closer to the boards. "I said uncontrolled emotion is weakness," she corrects. "What you displayed tonight was indifference. Those are not the same thing."
"You told me to isolate myself," I reply, letting my arm sweep toward the empty rink behind me. "Congratulations. I did. Thoroughly."
Her eyes narrow. "And yet your performance is still insufficient," she says, in the tone of someone who expected this and is mildly disappointed that they were right.
"That's encouraging," I mutter, pushing off for the next entry.
Victoria taps her clipboard once. "Again," she says.
I take the entry again. The second jump lands sharp, the spin faster, the step sequence nearly identical to the first run. When I finish, Victoria shakes her head with the economy of someone who has made this gesture before and knows exactly how much it costs.
"Isolation clearly hasn't been enough," she says.
"Enough for what?" I ask, genuinely asking now, not performing patience.
"To remove the hesitation from your skating," she says. "You still hold back at the peak of every jump, as if part of you is waiting for permission."
"I'm exhausted," I say, before I can make the better decision of not saying it.
Victoria tilts her head slightly, like the word itself is unfamiliar to her. "Exhaustion is irrelevant," she says. "Discipline does not depend on comfort."
"Neither does collapse," I reply.
Her gaze sharpens. "You're questioning the process," she says, not as an accusation, more as an observation she finds mildly interesting.
"I'm questioning the physics of sleep deprivation," I mutter, which is technically true and also completely beside the point.
Victoria folds her arms, clipboard pressed against her chest. "Champions sacrifice everything unnecessary," she says.
I laugh softly, the sound strange in the empty rink. "Everything?" I ask, already knowing I shouldn't follow this thread but following it anyway.
"Yes," she replies, perfectly calm.
"Friends?" I slide an inch closer to the boards, eyes on hers.
"If they weaken you," she says, with a small shrug that treats the question like it barely qualifies.
"Family?" My voice drops slightly.
"If they distract you," she replies, same measured tone.
"Love?" I ask, quieter than the others.
Her voice doesn't change at all. "Especially love," she says.
The word echoes strangely in the empty rink. I swallow the reaction that rises with it, pressing it back behind my ribs where I've been keeping everything else.
"So the ideal athlete," I say slowly, "is basically a highly functional robot with excellent edge control."
"The ideal athlete," she says, "is someone who removes obstacles without hesitation."
"And if the obstacle is exhaustion?" I ask, keeping my voice easy.
"Then you remove weakness," she says simply.
"And if the obstacle is you?" I ask again, tone cautious now.
The silence stretches between us. Victoria's eyes flash once, just barely.
"Again," she says sharply then, like an order.
I run the sequence one more time. My legs feel heavier with each jump, the ice offering no sympathy whatsoever. When Victoria finally glances at her watch and declares it sufficient, I slide my guards on and leave without another word, because I don't have one that wouldn't make things worse.
Instead of going back to my dorm, I wander across campus. The night air carries a chill that feels almost honest after the rink's manufactured cold, and my footsteps slow without deciding to. I pass the study hall. The faculty offices. The squat administrative building with its side entrance propped open by a rubber door wedge, the kind someone jams in place to avoid fetching their keycard a second time.
I pause for a moment, which is really the beginning of the problem.
The overheard phone call from weeks ago surfaces before I can stop it. Relocation options. Better isolation. Long-term development. I'd filed it away under none of my business. Standing here in the dark, I'm reclassifying it.
"Great," I whisper to myself. "Let's make one more questionable decision tonight."
The filing cabinet in the outer administrative room sits with one drawer not quite closed, a manila folder tab catching the dim light. My name is printed across it in neat block letters. Of course it is.
I pull the folder and open it, scanning fast. Transfer evaluations. Training projections. And one page with a bold heading centered at the top.
Future Placement Recommendations.
Different facilities. Different countries. Different relocation timelines — none of which I've agreed to, or been asked about, or even been told exist.
I close the folder carefully and set it back exactly where I found it.
Victoria isn't just training me. She's planning where I go next, and the plan doesn't appear to include asking me first.