Maddie’s POV
The campus study room is almost empty when Ava and I settle into it — just the two of us, the buzzing overhead light, and a table covered in score sheets, competition reports, and my stack of printed evidence.
Ava slides the top sheet toward me and taps the column with her pen. "Look at this athlete," she says. "Clean skate, strong execution, good crowd response. The component score still drops."
"I know," I say, leaning forward. I've been staring at variations of this same pattern for two hours and it bothers me like it's brand new every time.
Ava studies another sheet, brow furrowing as she works through the numbers. "And it keeps happening," she says. "Different competitions, different seasons."
"Same judge," I add, sitting back in my chair.
She exhales slowly and leans forward, elbows on the table. "Victoria," she says, the name landing like a period at the end of something. I nod once, slowly.
"You saw signs earlier, didn't you?" Ava finally asks.
The question lands softly but directly. I stare at the numbers in front of me before answering. "Yeah," I say. "I noticed things that didn't add up. I filed them under things I didn't want to think about."
She raises an eyebrow. "And you ignored them. Why?"
"Because I wanted it to work," I say. "Victoria was supposed to be the path forward. She was supposed to be the thing that fixed everything."
"Isolation as a training method," Ava says slowly, like she's reading the sentence off a warning label. "And you believed her."
I nod, pressing my fingers against the edge of the table. "She said cutting distractions made champions stronger. Friends, family, relationships — everything had to go. I organized my life around that for months."
Ava folds her arms and studies me with the kind of calm that somehow lands harsher than anger would. "So you pushed everyone away because you thought that would fix things," she says. "Even Emily."
My throat tightens slightly. "Especially Emily," I say.
"It's convenient," Ava says. "Isolation always sounds productive when someone else benefits from controlling you."
"You're not wrong," I say, rubbing my forehead. "Part of me knew. I just didn't want to look at it directly."
Ava watches me for a moment before picking up another page. "Regret is a good starting point," she says. "But redemption takes more work than that."
I look up from the papers and meet her eyes.
"Feeling bad doesn't actually fix anything," she continues. "Actions do."
"That's why we're doing this," I say, gesturing to the pile between us, which is starting to look less like a research project and more like evidence.
She turns another sheet around so we can both read it. "Those same athletes," Ava murmurs, scanning the column, "keep getting called 'distracting' in the notes. Funny how that works."
I lean closer to the page. We both sit back for a moment, staring at the growing stack without speaking.
Ava glances at me. "Emily found the pattern too, didn't she?"
"Probably," I say, and feel the weight of that settle in my chest.
Ava hums thoughtfully. "She'll figure it out fast," she says, in the tone of someone who has watched Emily Harper do something impressive and filed it for future reference.
I don't answer right away. Instead I start reorganizing the papers — competition results on one side, athlete profiles on another, scoring breakdowns in the center.
Ava watches before leaning forward again. "You know this is going to explode if you expose it," she says. "And it might explode on you too."
"I know," I say, still sorting. "I've thought about that."
She rests her chin on her hand. "Victoria has influence. Connections with judging panels, sponsors, national committees." She studies my face carefully. "You could lose opportunities you haven't even applied for yet."
"I already lost most of them when I left Lakeview," I say.
"That's not the same thing," Ava says slowly.
"Maybe not," I reply. "But hiding this doesn't help anyone."
Ava smiles slightly. "That sounded almost heroic."
"Don't ruin it by saying that," I reply, which makes her laugh.
My phone vibrates on the table. I glance down and see my dad's name on the screen.
I pick it up. "Hey," I say, trying to keep my voice not too tired.
"Did you get the files I sent?" he asks immediately, skipping any preamble.
"Not yet," I say, already reaching for my laptop. "Hold on."
"They should be in your email," he says. "Archived interviews with Victoria.”
I open the inbox and refresh. Three new attachments appear.
"Got them," I say, clicking the first one open. "What am I looking for?"
"Read the transcripts," Dad says. "She says things on record that never made it into the final published versions." There's a pause. "Just be careful," he adds, and hangs up.
Ava leans across the table the second the call ends. "Show me," she says, already angling toward my screen.
I open the first transcript and scroll through it. Halfway down, Ava lets out a low whistle and points to a paragraph without saying anything. I read the lines carefully.
Victoria's quote sits buried in the middle of the interview: 'Certain lifestyles create distractions that weaken the discipline required for elite sport.' My stomach twists at the careful ugliness of the phrasing.
"That's subtle," I say dryly.
"Subtle like a brick through a window," Ava replies, reaching for the next document.
We keep reading. Each transcript adds another layer of confirmation. The language shifts depending on who's asking, but the message stays consistent. By the time we finish the third document, the pile of evidence looks disturbingly complete.
Ava leans back. "Well," she says. "This is officially a case."
I close the laptop slowly and look at the pile. "Yeah," I say. "It is."
She gathers a few pages into a neater stack. "We'll figure out what to do next," she says. "But tonight I'm going to bed before I start reading judging notes in my sleep."
We pack everything into folders and slide them into my bag. When we step outside, the campus is nearly empty, the air cool and quiet.
As we pass the athletic complex, a familiar glow catches my eye. The rink lights are still on.
We step closer to the windows. Inside, Emily skates alone, cutting clean arcs with the precision of someone for whom practice has become something else entirely.
She launches into a combination — first jump clean, second snapping into place, third transition flowing perfectly into the exit.
Ava exhales quietly beside me. "She's gotten better," she says.
"She has," I say, watching Emily circle and launch again — faster, more aggressive, landing flawlessly.
Watching her feels like looking at a record of everything I missed. For months I believed shrinking myself down would make me stronger. Instead it just made me smaller.
Emily did the opposite. While I was disappearing under Victoria's control, she was becoming more herself.