Emily’s POV
After the practice ended, I made my way to the library which is quiet in the particular way that feels like it's trying to contain something.
I sit at a corner table with my laptop open, pretending to read while I rearrange my notes for the third time. My phone vibrates and Coach's name appears on the screen.
"Coach," I say quietly, "if this is about my study habits, I'm currently being very responsible."
"It's not about studying," she replies. "I need you in my office between classes. Now, if you can."
I close my laptop and gather my books without rushing, because rushing would suggest this is something I'm not prepared for. "Is this an emergency?" I ask.
"Emily," she says, in the voice she uses when she's already had this conversation in her head and is skipping to the part where I comply. "Come to my office."
I walk through the hallway with controlled steps, textbooks pressed against my chest. Cold air drifts from the rink corridor when I knock and step inside Coach's office.
She gestures toward the chair. "Sit," she says.
I sit. "This feels like the kind of meeting where I get grounded," I say, which is my way of telling her I already know something is coming and would prefer to meet it standing up but am choosing to be cooperative.
Coach opens the folder in front of her. "Maddie has officially re-enrolled at Lakeview," she says.
My expression stays neutral but I blink once. "Okay," I say, in the voice I've been practicing.
Coach watches me the way she watches athletes before a difficult jump — looking for the thing they're not showing. "She's been placed in your dorm building," she adds. "Emergency transfer. Limited housing options."
My fingers tighten slightly around my textbook. "Efficient," I say. "Housing always appreciates a dramatic solution."
"There are probation terms," Coach continues. "Reinstatement discussions will come later. The priority is team stability."
I nod slowly. "Stability," I repeat. "Good word."
"Maddie is not reinstated as co-captain today," she says. "That depends on consistent behavior and rebuilding the team's trust. Your responsibility is leadership. The team cannot fracture because of a personal situation."
I sit back slightly. "And her responsibility?"
"To follow probation," Coach says. "To earn back what she gave up." She holds my gaze. "You don't have to welcome her emotionally. But you do have to skate with her."
I breathe out once, quietly. "She'll be at practice today, then."
Coach nods. My stomach drops about three floors, but my voice stays steady. "Fantastic," I say.
"If you need space, take it," she says. "If you need support, ask. But don't skate like you have nothing left to lose."
I stand, collecting my books. "So no dramatic revenge jumps."
"No revenge," she says. "Just good decisions."
I nod once and leave. The hallway feels longer on the way out. By the time I reach the rink, my face is calm again.
Practice begins normally. Warm-up laps. Edge drills. Footwork. The ice is sharp beneath my blades, honest and indifferent.
I'm halfway through a step sequence when the rink doors open. Conversation falters across the team in a ripple, the sound moving outward from somewhere behind me. I feel it before I see it.
Then I glance toward the entrance.
Maddie steps inside, still in her street clothes, holding her gear bag. She looks thinner. Tired in a way that has settled into her posture rather than just her face.
She holds her left wrist slightly away from her body in the unconscious way of someone who has learned not to bump it.
Our eyes meet for one second. Something tightens in my throat. I look away first and push straight into the combination entry, launching cleanly, landing with precision, already circling for the reset before the team has time to react.
Maddie practices like someone half-dead on ice. I notice even though I don't want to look. I do my best to avoid her side of the rink for the rest of the hour.
When practice ends, I switch my guards on without looking at anything in particular. The locker room tension follows us inside.
Chris sits unlacing his skates with the careful expression of someone who has learned that saying the wrong thing to me costs him forty minutes of silence.
"So," he says eventually. "Today was eventful."
"It was," I reply, pulling off my gloves.
Ava leans against her locker with her arms crossed, eyes moving between me and the door with the practiced attention of someone running contingency plans.
"Emily," she says.
"I'm fine," I say smoothly.
Chris snorts. "That sentence is genuinely terrifying when you say it like that."
The locker room door opens. The room goes still — the specific stillness of twenty people who have just discovered urgent reasons to examine their equipment.
Chris grabs his bag with the speed of someone who has identified an exit.
"Hi, Maddie," he says, already moving. "Welcome back. I was leaving already, so–" He disappears without a second glance. Ava follows him after a second.
Maddie walks toward me slowly and stops a few feet away, at the precise distance that acknowledges she hasn't earned the rest of it yet.
"Emily," she says quietly, tone unsure and hesitant.
I look up just enough, not wishing to meet her eyes. "Maddie."
"Can we talk?" she asks with a voice of someone guilty.
"We can discuss team logistics," I say, keeping my voice light in the way you hold something carefully because you're aware of what happens if you don't.
Her face tightens. "Emily, please. I just need a few—"
"No," I say, my tone harsher than I intended yet somehow just right.
She holds my gaze for a moment. "You won't hear me out?"
"Team logistics," I say. "That's the conversation available right now."
She exhales slowly, tense. "And the other one?"
"Practice schedule is posted," I say. "Captain duties remain the same until further notice."
Maddie nods slowly, taking a small step back. "Okay," she says. "Team logistics."
The distance she leaves feels enormous, and I let it.
That evening Ava drags me to movie night in her room — not mine, which is a deliberate logistical choice — and Chris arrives with popcorn in a bowl that is clearly too large for three people and is therefore perfect.
"Sit," Ava orders, pointing at the couch with the authority of someone who has thought this through.
I drop onto it. "If this is an intervention," I say, "I want a lawyer."
"It's popcorn," Chris says. "Eat."
The movie is ridiculous. Chris laughs too loudly. Ava snorts once and pretends she didn't. Eventually I laugh too, at something I don't even register consciously, and the sound surprises me a little.
"Congratulations," I say when the credits roll. "I was emotionally stable for ninety minutes."
"We fixed her," Chris says, satisfied.
I return to my room later and sit on my bed in the dark, replaying Maddie's face from the locker room — the tired eyes, the careful distance, the wrist held just so.
My laptop pings. Coach's name in the subject line. I read it twice.
Mandatory Co-Captain Strategy Meeting. Tomorrow, 7:00 AM. Co-captains only.
I close the laptop and stare at the ceiling. Fine, then.