Emily's across the room in seconds, reading over my shoulder. The email blurs together—anonymous complaint, inappropriate relationship, unfair competitive advantage, pairs competition, statement required within seven days. "Who the hell would do this?" Emily's hand grips my shoulder.
"Derek, or maybe someone connected to Jenna. Someone who looked at our situation and thought, you know what would be fun? Let's destroy their skating careers." I'm spiraling now, the possibilities multiplying.
Emily paces like a caged predator. "Okay. We need to think strategically. How do we respond?"
"I don't know." I'm still staring at the email. "Admitting the relationship could hurt us. Lying could be worse if someone has proof."
Emily stops pacing, determination etched on her face. "We tell the truth. We explain the timeline—that our relationship began after we were paired for competition."
"You really think honesty is the best policy here? Because honesty has been working out great for us lately." I set my phone down before I throw it.
"Lying would be worse if it comes out later, and it will come out, Maddie. Better to control the narrative now than have it explode during competition season."
I hate that she's right. "We need Coach's help to draft something official. Something that doesn't sound like two terrified college students trying to save their asses."
"Email her now. Ask for a meeting first thing tomorrow." My fingers shake as I type—urgent matter, federation complaint, need advice.
Coach responds within minutes: My office, 8 AM tomorrow. We'll handle this. Those three words make me want to cry with relief.
That night, sleep is a theoretical concept. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, my brain running disaster scenarios. Emily's across the room doing the same—I can tell by her breathing, the way she shifts every ten minutes. "You awake?" I whisper.
"Unfortunately. Thinking about whether our skating careers are about to implode or just severely crater. Light bedtime thoughts." The sarcasm is thick enough to cut with a skate blade.
"Same. Think we'll survive this?" In the darkness of the room, it’s easier to be vulnerable. So I use it to my advantage.
"We survived everything else.” I hear a ghost of a smile in her voice. “What's one more disaster? We're basically collecting them at this point."
The next morning finds me outside Coach's office at 7:55 AM, clutching my phone like a security blanket. The athletics building is mostly empty—just distant footsteps and humming fluorescent lights.
Coach opens her door exactly at eight, takes one look at my face, and says, "Show me." No preamble, no small talk, just straight to business.
I hand over my phone. Her expression transforms from curious to absolutely furious in three seconds flat. Her jaw clenches so tight I'm worried about her dental work.
"This is discrimination disguised as concern about fairness. Someone's targeting you because of your relationship, not because there's any legitimate competitive concern. This is bullshit." Hearing Coach swear is both terrifying and deeply reassuring.
She gestures me into her office, already pulling up a document with the focused intensity of someone preparing for war.
"We're drafting a response.” It sounds more like an order, but I’m happy to oblige. Relieved, actually. “Professional. Factual. Airtight. Your relationship began after you were paired. The skating partnership preceded the romance. Your personal life has zero bearing on your skating ability."
We spend the next hour crafting the response, me providing details while trying not to have a complete nervous breakdown.
She types each word like she's carving it into stone, building an argument that's clean, powerful, impossible to dispute. When we're finished, the statement is exactly what it needs to be.
"I'm submitting this directly to the federation, and copying the athletic director and legal counsel. If anyone wants to make an issue of this, they'll go through official channels." The way she says it makes it clear that it would be approximately as fun as skating blindfolded through sharp objects.
Walking back to the dorm, I feel marginally less like I'm drowning. At least one disaster is being handled. Emily's in class—I texted her an update—so I try to do homework. The organic chemistry equations might as well be hieroglyphics for all the sense they're making.
My phone rings that afternoon. Dad. The name flashes on screen like a warning siren. Every instinct screams don't answer, but my hand moves anyway, hitting speaker to record because I've learned documentation matters.
"Maddie. I wanted to inform you that I've contacted the university. I've withdrawn financial support for your education and revoked permission for any charges to my account." Just like that. No buildup, no softening. Just the financial nuclear option.
The world tilts sideways. I can’t believe it, can’t live with it, but it’s a reality that I need to deal with. "You're really doing this?"
"You made your choice.” His voice is harsh, unforgiving. I never heard it directed at me like that before. “This is the consequence. You have two weeks to arrange alternative payment or you'll need to withdraw from school."
"I can't believe you're actually doing this. I can't believe you're cutting me off because I won't break up with my girlfriend." I admit, and it’s equal part outrage and heartbreak.
He doesn’t budge. Of course he doesn’t, he’s the man. If he said something, he can’t admit he was wrong. Bullshit. "I gave you an opportunity to reconsider. You refused. You're on your own now."
"So that's it? I don't do what you want so you cut me off completely? Financial extortion?" I taunt him in disbelief.
"I won't fund a lifestyle I don't support." Cold, final. Just like that, it’s that easy to disown your own child after all these years.
"It's not a lifestyle, it's my life. And you know what?” The rage fills my throat, spills through my lips with molten fire. “I'll figure it out. I don't need your money if it comes with conditions like this."
"We'll see how you feel when you realize what you've given up." I hang up before he can say more. The phone drops onto the bed.
My hands shake violently, my whole body trembling. The apartment is too quiet. I need to do something, take action, not just sit here spiraling.
I call the financial aid office with shaking fingers. The woman who answers has that particular brand of institutional sympathy. I explain the situation—parents just cut off support, emergency, please help.
She schedules an emergency meeting for tomorrow at nine. After hanging up, I just sit there, phone in lap, staring at nothing.
When Emily returns from class thirty minutes later, she finds me exactly where I've been—sitting on the bed, phone in hand, looking like someone who's just had their entire financial future pulled out from under them. "What happened?" Emily's voice cuts through my fog.
"My father called. He withdrew financial support for my education. I have two weeks to arrange alternative payment or I need to withdraw from school." Saying it out loud makes it more real.
Emily's face goes through several rapid transformations—confusion to comprehension to absolute fury. "He's really doing this? He's actually cutting you off?"
"He said I made my choice. This is the consequence. He said he won't fund a lifestyle he doesn't support." The word lifestyle drips with his particular brand of disappointment.
"That's not a parent, that's a manipulative asshole." Emily's voice shakes with rage as she sits beside me and pulls me against her. "What can I do? How can I help?"
I lean into her warmth, letting the physical contact ground me, letting her presence remind me I'm not completely alone in this disaster. "Just be here," I whisper, closing my eyes. "I just need you here."