Maddie’s POV
The coffee shop sits two streets from campus, tucked between a bookstore and a bike repair place in the way that suggests no one planned it.
I'm already at a window table when Dad walks in, scanning the room before spotting me. He heads over with two cups and sets one down in front of me before sitting.
"You still take it black?" he asks, tone gentle.
"Yeah," I say, wrapping my fingers around the warmth of it. "Thanks for coming."
He studies my face for a moment, the way he's been doing since I came back — like he's trying to count what's changed. The concern is there, but this time it doesn't have pressure attached to it. That's different.
"So," he says with an exhale. "What did you find?"
I slide the folder across the table toward him. Dad opens it slowly, flipping through the printed score sheets first.
His eyebrows draw together the farther he reads, small lines forming at the corners of his eyes that weren't there two years ago.
"These are official competition records?" he asks, without looking up.
"Multiple seasons," I tell him, watching his face. "Keep going."
He moves to the transcript pages. Then the interview excerpts. Then the scoring analysis Ava built from five years of data. Finally he sets the whole stack down and sits back in his chair, rubbing one hand across his forehead.
"That's bad," he says quietly. Not dramatic but just honest.
"I know," I say.
He's quiet for a moment, and then: "I should have seen this earlier." He says it like he's been thinking it for a while, and is finally letting it out.
I look at him. "What do you mean?"
"The warning signs," he says. "Victoria pushing isolation as a training method. The language she used about discipline and emotional control. I wanted to believe it was rigorous. I didn't look closely enough at what it actually was."
For a moment I don't know what to do with that. Months ago he would have defended the decision.
He would have cited credentials and pipeline programs and the names of athletes she'd coached to podiums. Instead he's sitting in a coffee shop at eight in the morning admitting he got it wrong.
"I prioritized opportunity," he continues. "Olympic programs. Sponsorship potential. All the things that look like success from the outside. I didn't ask what it cost." He looks at me. "I'm sorry for that."
The silence between us isn't hostile. It's just heavy with things that needed to be said a long time ago.
Dad taps the papers. "So what's the plan?"
"A formal complaint," I say. "To the federation oversight committee."
His eyebrows rise slightly. "Before finals?"
I nod. He exhales slowly, leaning forward. "Maddie, if you file this now, it won't just affect Victoria," he says, voice careful.
"Judging committees, federation boards, sponsors — people protect their own. You could be flagged. Future placements, competition assignments, coaching access — all of it could be affected."
"I know," I say. "Staying silent already cost me something bigger."
He doesn't argue that. He closes the folder and pushes it back across the table.
"If this is your decision," he says, "I'll support it. No conditions."
Something in my chest loosens slightly. "No lecture about the risks?"
"I gave you enough of those," he says, quietly. "Just promise me you're doing this for the right reasons. Not anger. Not to burn something down."
"Not anger," I tell him. "The right reasons."
He finishes his coffee and stands, straightening his jacket. "Keep me updated," he says. "And be careful." He pauses with one hand on the back of his chair. "I mean it. Victoria has a long reach."
When he leaves, I stay at the table for another minute, looking at the folder. Then I pack it into my bag and go find Ava.
She's already in the study lounge when I arrive, laptop open, looking like someone who slept three hours and considers that sufficient.
"Please tell me it went well," she says, without looking up from her screen.
"It did," I say, dropping the folder on the table beside her keyboard.
Ava gives me a rare smile which eases the tension for whatever reason. Perhaps she believes me not arguing with my dad lightens the situation. I can't disagree on that.
She sighs softly. “I finished cross-referencing the scoring timeline. Five seasons. The pattern holds across almost every event she judged."
I lean closer to the screen. Rows of numbers stretch across the columns in a shape that is unmistakably deliberate once you know what you're looking for.
"Consistent underscoring," Ava says, pointing to the presentation categories. "Subjective enough to hide bias behind taste, but the data makes it structural."
"This is going to explode," I say, sitting back.
"It's also solid," she says. "You okay with that?"
I take a slow breath. "I'm terrified," I say honestly.
Ava grins faintly. "That's usually a good sign."
We spend another hour organizing the documents into a clear chronological timeline. By the end, the folder feels heavier than when we started.
"Okay," Ava says, closing the laptop. "That's a case. What happens next?"
"I file the complaint," I say with surprising confidence. "Tonight."
She studies me for a moment. "Then let's hope the oversight committee likes a clean paper trail."
The dorm is quiet when I get back. Most of the hallway lights are dimmed to their nighttime setting. I sit at my desk, open my laptop, and pull up a blank email window.
Subject: Formal Complaint — Competition Judging Bias.
I start typing. Evidence summaries. Attached documents. Transcript excerpts with timestamps. Each sentence lands with more weight than the one before. I reread the whole thing twice, then attach the files one by one.
My finger hovers over send.
The door opens. Emily steps inside, moving toward her side of the room without looking at me. The distance between us is as precise as ever — not hostile, just maintained.
"Emily," I say. She doesn't stop. "I need to tell you something. Please."
She sets her bag down slowly. Doesn't turn around, but she's listening. I can tell by the stillness in her shoulders.
"I was wrong," I say. "About Victoria. About all of it. And I filed a formal complaint with the federation tonight — scoring bias, documented, five years of records."
Emily turns. She looks at me for a long moment with an expression I can't fully read.
"I believe you," she says finally, and turns back to her desk.
It isn't forgiveness. But it's something real. I face my screen, press send, and watch the email disappear.
Then my phone vibrates on the desk.
Victoria: We need to talk. Private meeting. Urgent.