I freeze in the doorway, Emily beside me like a statue carved from righteous fury. For a moment, neither of us moves, both suspended in that particular brand of rage that makes your blood run hot and your vision narrow to a single point of crystallized anger.
Then my feet are carrying me forward, straight into the locker room like I'm walking into battle armed with nothing but my own exhaustion and Christina's audacity. "If you have something to say to me, say it to my face."
Christina spins around so fast she nearly loses her balance, clearly not expecting to be heard. Her mouth opens and closes like a fish trying to remember how breathing works.
Beth looks absolutely mortified, her face cycling through shades of pink that would be impressive if they weren't so pathetic.
Christina recovers quickly though—I'll give her that much credit for basic survival instincts. "I'm just saying it makes people uncomfortable," she says, lifting her chin with the false confidence of someone who thinks having opinions makes them brave.
I step closer, close enough that she has to look up slightly to meet my eyes. "Then be uncomfortable. I'm not apologizing for existing." My voice comes out steady, controlled, which is honestly impressive considering my pulse is attempting to break the sound barrier.
"And for the record,” I barely stop myself from spitting in her face. “I wasn't checking anyone out in the locker room. I was too busy trying to survive being bullied by Jenna and her friends—you know, the ones who got expelled for assault."
Christina's face flushes deep red, like someone's adjusted her internal thermostat to maximum embarrassment.
Beth mumbles something about needing to go, already backing toward the door like she's suddenly remembered an urgent appointment with literally anywhere else.
"Whatever. Just know that not everyone is okay with this." Christina's trying to maintain her righteous indignation, but it's crumbling faster than her moral high ground.
"I don't need everyone to be okay with it." I'm still standing there, refusing to back down, refusing to make myself smaller for her comfort. "I just need them to leave me alone."
Emily's standing beside me now, radiating protective anger like she's a human space heater set to fury. The energy coming off her could probably power a small city if we figured out how to harness rage as renewable energy.
Christina grabs her bag with jerky movements, slinging it over her shoulder with enough force to suggest she's imagining hitting someone with it. She leaves without another word, Beth trailing after her like a particularly spineless shadow.
After she's gone, my hands start shaking with the delayed reaction that adrenaline always brings. It's like my body waited for the threat to pass before informing me that we're actually terrified and possibly about to fall apart.
The adrenaline that kept me upright and confident is draining away faster than water through a sieve, leaving behind the cold reality of what just happened.
I grip the edge of the nearest bench, focusing on the feeling of cool metal against my palms while my body processes the confrontation like a computer trying to run too many programs at once.
"Are you okay?" Emily asks, her voice soft with concern that makes my chest ache in ways I'm not ready to examine.
"I don't know." The honesty surprises me. "But I'm tired of being afraid. Tired of hiding." The words taste like freedom and terror in equal measure, like I've just jumped off something high without checking if there's water below.
Emily's expression shifts into something fierce and proud that makes me feel simultaneously vulnerable and invincible. "I'm proud of you for standing up to Christina. That took guts."
We change quickly, both of us eager to escape the locker room and its lingering hostility like it's a crime scene we don't want to be caught at.
The walk back to the dorm is quiet, comfortable in that way that happens when you've survived something together.
By the time we're back in our room, the afternoon has melted into evening, and we've both settled into our usual spots—Emily on her laptop at her desk, me sprawled on my bed attempting to convince my homework that it deserves my attention when my brain is clearly elsewhere.
Emily's scrolling through social media with the casual efficiency of someone who's perfected the art of digital procrastination, her thumb flicking across the screen in that mindless rhythm everyone our age has mastered.
Then she stops suddenly, her entire body going rigid. Her expression darkens like storm clouds rolling in over what was previously a sunny day. "Derek posted something."
I look over from my calculus problem that I've been staring at for ten minutes without actually solving, my stomach already sinking with that specific dread that comes from knowing you're about to see something you can't unsee.
It's the digital equivalent of watching a car crash in slow motion. Emily shows me her screen, angling it so I can read clearly, and there it is—Derek's latest contribution to making the world a worse place, his digital middle finger to anyone who thought he might take his expulsion with dignity.
The post doesn't mention our names directly, which I'm sure he thinks makes him clever and legally protected. "Funny how some people get away with lying and manipulation while others get punished for telling the truth. Guess it matters who you're sleeping with."
I read it once, then twice, my stomach sinking lower with each pass. "Should we report it?" Emily asks, her finger hovering over the screen like she's ready to go to war on my behalf.
"To who? He's already expelled." I lean back against my headboard, suddenly exhausted. "And he's not technically lying—we did lie to everyone for months."
"That doesn't make this okay," Emily protests, her voice sharp with protective anger that would be touching if it weren't so futile.
"No, but it also doesn't matter." I close my eyes briefly, trying to summon energy I don't have. "He's bitter and he's lashing out. People who know us will ignore it."
Emily looks unconvinced but drops it, and we both try to refocus on our respective work. The silence stretches between us, comfortable but charged with the awareness of Derek's words hanging in the digital ether like toxic smoke.
And then my phone buzzes with an email notification. I open it absently, expecting spam or something from campus services about updated dining hall hours.
Instead, my vision tunnels, and the world narrows to the words on my screen.
"What's wrong?" Emily's voice comes from somewhere far away, like she's speaking through water.
My face has gone pale—I can feel the blood draining away, can feel my heart attempting to relocate to my throat where it definitely doesn't belong. "The skating federation. Someone filed a complaint about us."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and impossible. I stare at the email, reading it again and again as if repetition will make it say something different.
As if I can force reality to rearrange itself into something less catastrophic through sheer willpower and denial.
But the words don't change. Someone filed a complaint. The federation wants answers. And everything we've built, everything we've fought for, is suddenly hanging by a thread that feels far too fragile to hold the weight of our entire future.