[Emily’s POV]
Two weeks since Maddie's father cut her off, and the world hasn't ended. Surprising, considering how apocalyptic it felt. The financial aid plan Coach arranged is in place—loans, work-study, hardship scholarship.
Maddie's managing it all with determined efficiency, working ten hours a week in the athletics office on top of training and classes.
I can see the exhaustion in her face, but she refuses to complain, just keeps pushing forward like acknowledging the struggle would make her weak.
This morning she has a follow-up appointment with her surgeon—the one that'll determine if she's cleared for full training. I go with her for support. The medical building is the same depressing beige that all medical buildings aspire to.
We sit in the waiting room with Maddie's leg bouncing nervous energy. Her name gets called and we follow a nurse to an examination room. The surgeon arrives, pulling up Maddie's X-rays.
He reviews her progress—ankle healed well, swelling gone, range of motion good, strength tests positive. He turns to Maddie and says she's cleared for full training. All elements, including jumps and spins.
I watch Maddie's face transform, relief flooding her expression so intensely that tears threaten. Her hand finds mine, squeezing tight.
"Thank you," Maddie manages, trying not to cry in front of her surgeon, which is very on-brand for Maddie's pathological need to appear strong at all times.
After leaving, I can't stop grinning. The weight and fear that’s been in me since the Nationals, finally giving way to fresh air. "You can really skate again. Full training."
Maddie's smile is bright but there's tension underneath. "Regionals are in six weeks. I need to see if I can actually do this."
"You will," I say with absolute certainty, because watching Maddie doubt herself makes my chest ache.
That afternoon we go to the rink for Maddie's first full practice back. Coach is waiting, practically vibrating with excitement that she's spectacularly failing to hide.
She gives Maddie a quick hug—rare for Coach—then steps back like she's embarrassed by her own human emotions.
I help Maddie lace up her skates, my fingers working the laces while trying not to notice her hands are shaking.
"What if my ankle can't handle it?" she asks, voice small and vulnerable. "What if I've lost everything?"
I finish tying her laces and look up. "You haven't," I say firmly, channeling every ounce of certainty I possess. "You're going to be amazing."
I take position at the boards as Maddie steps onto the ice, my hands gripping the barrier probably hard enough to leave marks. She starts with basic movements, warming up.
Then she attempts her first spin—a camel spin that's slower than usual but solid, her ankle holding steady.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. She tries a simple jump next. Single axel. Launches, rotates, lands it cleanly. I want to cheer but stay quiet, letting Maddie focus instead of breaking her concentration with my overenthusiastic cheerleading.
Maddie builds up gradually. Double axel—lands it. Another one—cleaner, more confident. Then she sets up for her triple axel.
Her signature move. I hold my breath, my entire body tense like I'm about to land the jump myself through sheer force of sympathetic anxiety.
Maddie launches, rotating fast through three and a half rotations. Her ankle holds. She touches down, but it's shaky—not as clean as her triple axels used to be, not the effortless perfection she's known for.
I can see the frustration flash across her face as she skates back to try again, because Maddie Reyes doesn't do "good enough."
Better this time, but still not quite right. She tries a third time. Fourth. Each attempt incrementally better but none meeting her impossibly high standards, which is basically Maddie's entire personality distilled into athletic form.
After an hour, Maddie's clearly favoring her ankle, exhaustion evident in how she's moving. Coach calls that it's enough for today. Maddie skates off the ice to where I'm waiting, face tight with frustration.
"You did it," I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral because Maddie can smell false enthusiasm from a mile away. "You landed your triple axel."
"It was terrible," Maddie says flatly, yanking off her skates like they personally offended her. "I'm nowhere near where I was. Those landings were sloppy, my rotation speed is off, my ankle's already aching."
"It's been less than three months since surgery," I remind her, trying to inject some reason into her spiral of self-criticism that could power a small city. "You need to be patient with yourself."
"I don't have time to be patient," Maddie snaps, though the anger isn't directed at me so much as at the entire universe for not conforming to her preferred timeline. "Regionals are in six weeks. I need to be competition-ready."
I want to point out that landing a triple axel three months post-surgery is actually miraculous, but I know Maddie won't hear it right now, not when she's caught in this spiral.
That evening back at the dorm, Maddie's doing ankle exercises while icing the joint—the glamorous life of a competitive athlete, right up there with concussions in the "things they don't show you in inspirational sports movies" category.
I'm supposedly studying for my English midterm, but mostly I'm watching her over the top of my textbook.
"What if I'm never as good as I was before?" she asks suddenly, voice quiet. "What if the injury changed everything?"
"Then you'll be good in a different way," I say, setting down my textbook because this conversation matters more than whatever Fitzgerald was trying to say about the green light. "You'll adapt."
"That's not how skating works," Maddie says, shaking her head with the kind of certainty that comes from years of competitive pressure. "You're either good enough or you're not."
"You're good enough," I say firmly, needing her to believe it. "You're always going to be good enough." The words come out fiercer than I intend, like I can force her to believe them through sheer intensity alone.
Maddie doesn't respond, just keeps working through her ankle exercises like if she does them perfectly enough, everything else will magically fall into place.
I watch her for another moment, then reluctantly return to studying because one of us needs to pass our classes.
My phone buzzes twenty minutes later, vibrating against the desk hard enough to make me jump. I glance at the screen and my stomach immediately drops like I'm the one doing triple axels.
Coach: "Need to talk to you tomorrow morning. About Regionals and pairs."
I stare at those words, each one hitting like a separate punch. I know exactly what this conversation is going to be about—the pairs competition, my partnership options, the decision that'll force me to choose between competitive advancement and staying loyal to Maddie.
Know that whatever happens tomorrow morning will change something fundamental between us, will add another layer of complication to an already complicated situation.
I don't tell Maddie about the text. Don't want to add to her stress tonight when she's already spiraling, already drowning in self-doubt. Don't want to face the conversation we'll have once I talk to Coach, don't want to see the guilt in her eyes when she realizes I'm sacrificing opportunities because of her.
Instead I turn off my phone, close my textbook, and lie down across from Maddie's bed. The ceiling becomes my focal point as I lie awake, worrying about the conversation that's coming.
Knowing the decision I'm going to have to make. Wondering if I'll regret it, wondering if Maddie will hate me for it, wondering why everything about us has to be so impossibly complicated.