The silence stretches like taffy pulled too thin. Hanna sits beside Maddie's bed, shoulders shaking.
David remains at the foot, jaw tight. Maddie's fingers are locked around my wrist, grip loosening as the painkillers drag her under.
My mother clears her throat from the doorway. "We should probably go. Give you all some time alone as a family." Time alone as a family. Right. Emily Harper is not family.
"Of course." I start to pull my wrist free, but Maddie's fingers tighten reflexively.
Hanna stands, dabbing at her eyes. She crosses to me and takes both my hands, squeezing tight.
"Thank you, Emily. Thank you for being there with her today, for making that call. I don't know what we would have done if—" Her voice cracks.
David straightens. "How long have you and Madison been roommates?" There's weight behind it—curiosity mixed with confusion.
"Since the start of the fall semester," I say. "We got assigned as roommates when I transferred to Lakeview."
He nods slowly. "We didn't know Maddie had a roommate." A pause. "We certainly didn't know it was you."
The words hang in the air. How do I explain without explaining everything? Without revealing that for months we could barely stand each other?
"I didn't realize she hadn't told you," I manage. "We've been getting along well this semester." Understatement of the century.
Getting along doesn't quite cover secret hookups and desperate kisses.
Hanna smooths Maddie's hair. "You should go rest, Emily. You have your performance tomorrow, don't you? Maddie will still be here later."
I look down at where Maddie's hand still circles my wrist. Her eyes have closed completely, chest rising and falling in medicated sleep.
Her fingers loosen, finally releasing me. "I'll come back later," I promise. "After my program."
David nods. "We'd like that." But there's something searching in his expression that makes my stomach twist.
My mother touches my shoulder, steering me toward the door. I take one last look at Maddie—pale and small in the hospital bed, one leg elevated in a brace.
In the hallway, my mother walks beside me in silence. Past nurses and doctors. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
She doesn't speak as we navigate through corridors, doesn't break the silence as we wait for the elevator.
The quiet grows heavier with every step. We make it to the parking lot before she speaks. "You care about her." Not a question.
"She's my roommate," I say automatically. "Of course I care."
"Emily." That tone that means I'm your mother and I'm not an idiot. She unlocks the car but doesn't get in. "I saw how you were with her in that room. How she reached for you."
My throat closes. I can't have this conversation. "Mom, please. Not now."
She studies my face, then nods. "Okay. Not now." But the way she says it makes it clear this is temporary.
The drive back is suffocatingly quiet. My mother keeps her eyes on the road, mind working. Her fingers tap against the steering wheel.
I stare out the window at passing streetlights, watching Toledo blur past. My mind won't stop racing.
But it's not just Maddie's fall I keep seeing—it's those whispers I overheard in the stands right after she went down. Those girls, two rows behind me.
"Look at Lakeview's captain trying not to crack like an egg dropped from space."
"I heard some Lakeview girls messed with the ice queen's skates. Karma's finally catching up. Someone loosened something important."
The words stuck like burrs. Loosened something important. Deliberately sabotaged.
Someone wanted Maddie to fail. Someone wanted her hurt.
I need to tell someone. Coach, maybe. Or competition officials. Someone who can investigate, check Maddie's equipment.
But if I speak up, questions will follow. They'll want to know why someone would target Maddie.
That will expose the bullying, the harassment, everything we've been keeping under wraps.
And maybe it will expose us. I can't say anything until I talk to Maddie first. We need to decide together what's safe to reveal. She deserves that choice. Even if waiting feels like swallowing glass.
The hotel looms ahead. My mother pulls into the parking garage, finds a spot, kills the engine.
Neither of us moves. "Get some sleep," she finally says. "Tomorrow's a big day."
Right. Tomorrow. My performance. The competition where I'm expected to be flawless while Maddie lies in a hospital bed with her ankle shattered and her season over. "Yeah," I manage. "Big day."
We head up to our room. My mother doesn't push for conversation, just wishes me goodnight.
I change into sleeping clothes mechanically. Brush my teeth, wash my face and crawl into bed.
The ceiling stares back at me, all popcorn texture and shadows. Tomorrow I have to compete.
Tomorrow I have to step onto that ice and execute every jump, every spin, every transition with technical precision and artistic grace.
Tomorrow I have to smile for the judges like my heart isn't in pieces.
Tomorrow I have to prove that these months meant something. All that time we spent pushing each other to be better—first as rivals who could barely stand each other, then as reluctant roommates, then as training partners, then as something we still don't have words for.
All those early mornings and late nights, all that competition and cooperation that blurred together until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
It has to mean something. It has to matter that we pushed each other, challenged each other, made each other better. If I fall apart tomorrow, then what was it all for?
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it without thinking. The number is unfamiliar. I open the message.
‘This is Maddie's mom. Maddie's asleep. Thank you for being with her today. Will we see you tomorrow?’
I stare at the screen, at those careful words that sound casual but feel loaded. Will we see you tomorrow?
Like she's testing to see how much I care, how involved I am, how deep this thing between me and Maddie actually goes. Or maybe I’m simply paranoid.
The message sits there, waiting. I type and delete three different replies before settling on something simple. Of course. I'll come after my performance.
Short and clear. Nothing that reveals the way my chest tightens at the thought of Maddie lying in that hospital bed, or how I can still feel the ghost of her fingers wrapped around my wrist.
I set the phone down on the nightstand, screen facing down. Close my eyes. Try to will my brain to shut down.
Sleep won't come easily. I know that already. Can feel it in the way my mind keeps circling back to the same thoughts, the same images.
Maddie's fall. Her shattered ankle. Those whispered accusations about tampered equipment.
The way her parents looked at me—grateful but confused, like they couldn't quite figure out what I was to their daughter.
The way my mother looked at me. Understanding beginning to dawn.
Tomorrow I have to be perfect. Tomorrow I have to skate. Tonight, all I can do is lie here in the dark and wish I was still in that hospital room, holding Maddie's hand while she slept.