[Emily’s POV]
"Put it on speaker," I tell Maddie, because if her mother's calling to cause problems, I want to hear it coming. Call it emotional preparedness or just basic survival instinct.
Maddie hesitates, her finger hovering over the screen like it might burn her, then taps it. "Mom?" Her voice is carefully neutral, the kind of tone you use when you're expecting disappointment and preparing for it in advance.
"Maddie." Hanna's voice fills my dorm room, and I watch Maddie's face carefully for signs of emotional damage. This could go a thousand different ways, most of them terrible. "I've been thinking about what you said. About choosing. About being your mother."
I hold my breath. Maddie's grip on her phone tightens, knuckles white against the case. "And?" Maddie prompts when the silence stretches too long.
"After everything you went through, I want to be there for you. I want to come to Regionals," Hanna says, and I see something flicker across Maddie's face—hope, or fear that hope will hurt. "I want to watch you compete. Your father doesn't know. I haven't told him yet."
"You want to come," Maddie repeats slowly, like she's making sure she's got the words right. "To Regionals. To watch me skate."
"Yes," her mother says, determination in her voice. "I know I haven't been there for you the way I should have been. I know I've let your father's opinions dictate my actions, and that's not fair to you. It's not what a mother should do."
I watch Maddie's expression cycle through about fifteen different emotions. "And you'll actually show up?" she asks, years of disappointment layered under those words. "Because you've said things before. You've promised things."
There's a pause. When Hanna speaks again, her voice is quieter. "I know I have. I know I've let you down. But I'm promising now, Maddie. I will be there. I will watch you compete."
Maddie closes her eyes, deciding whether to believe this, whether to let herself hope or whether hope is just another way to get hurt. "Okay," she says finally. "Okay."
"I'm proud of you," Hanna adds. "For coming back from the injury. For not giving up. I should have said that sooner."
"Yeah," Maddie agrees, bitterness creeping in. "You should have." They say their goodbyes with careful politeness, and when Maddie ends the call, she stares at her phone like it might start ringing again with a retraction.
"Well," I say, breaking the uneasy silence. "That was unexpected."
"She's not going to come," Maddie says flatly, setting her phone down with more force than necessary. "She'll change her mind. My father will find out and talk her out of it, or something will come up. She won't actually show."
I move closer, sitting on the edge of her bed so I can see her face properly. "Maybe she will."
"Maybe she won't," Maddie counters, and I can see the defense mechanisms clicking into place, the way she's already preparing herself for disappointment because that's easier than letting herself hope. "I'm not going to count on it. I'm not going to expect anything."
"That's probably smart," I agree, because sugar-coating this seems cruel. "But if she doesn't show, that says everything about her and nothing about you. You know that, right?"
"Sure," Maddie says, in a tone that suggests she knows it intellectually but doesn't quite believe it emotionally. "Sure."
* * *
The next day at practice, I watch Maddie attempt her triple axel approximately seven thousand times, and every single one lands wrong. Close, but wrong. The kind of wrong that's more frustrating than complete failure.
After an hour of this, I see frustrated tears on Maddie's face as she circles the ice one more time. She rotates, lands hard, her ankle wobbling on impact, and then she stops. Skates off with her jaw clenched and her hands balled into fists.
I follow her to the locker room, finding her sitting on the bench with her head in her hands, shoulders shaking. "Hey," I say softly, sitting beside her. "Talk to me."
"I'm not ready," Maddie says, her voice muffled. "I'm not ready to compete. My skating isn't good enough. I'm going to go to Regionals and embarrass myself, and my mother won't even be there to see it because she's not actually going to show up."
"Okay, first of all, that's a lot of negativity to pack into two sentences," I say. "Secondly, you're ready. You're just scared."
"I'm not scared, I'm realistic," Maddie argues, lifting her head to glare at me through tear-streaked eyes. "I can't land the triple axel consistently. I can barely complete a full program without my ankle screaming at me. I'm going to fail."
"You're not going to fail," I insist, reaching out to take her hand. "Your skating is beautiful. You're pushing yourself too hard, expecting to be exactly where you were before the injury. That's not fair to yourself."
"I need to be where I was before," Maddie says stubbornly. "I need to be better than I was before. Otherwise, what was the point? What was the point of the surgery and the physical therapy and the months of work if I can't even compete at the level I was at?"
"Maddie—"
"Emily." Coach Marquette's voice comes from the doorway, making both of us jump. "I need to talk to Maddie."
I look between them, then squeeze Maddie's hand once before standing. "I'll be outside," I tell her, even though leaving feels wrong.
I wait in the hallway outside the locker room, leaning against the wall. Twenty minutes crawl by. I check my phone approximately fifteen times, send three texts to no one in particular, and seriously consider wearing a groove in the linoleum from pacing.
When Maddie finally emerges, she looks calmer. Not happy, but less like she's on the verge of complete breakdown. "What did Coach say?" I ask immediately.
"She said I'm pushing myself too hard," Maddie explains, falling into step beside me. "Expecting to be exactly where I was before the injury when it's only been six weeks. She said I'm ready to compete safely even if I might not win. That competing is about proving to myself I can do this, not about proving anything to anyone else."
I study her profile, looking for signs that she believes this. What I find instead is the stubborn set of her jaw, the tight line of her mouth, the tension in her shoulders.
It's not good enough for Maddie—being ready to compete safely isn't the same as being ready to win, and I can see in her face that she won't settle for anything less than perfection. "Maddie," I start, but she shakes her head.
"I heard what Coach said," she tells me. "I understand what she meant. But understanding it and believing it are two different things."
"Right," I say quietly, because I know that stubborn look well enough to know when arguing is pointless. "Right."
We walk toward the exit in silence, and I try not to think about how Regionals is less than a week away, how Maddie's mother may or may not show up, how nothing about this situation feels remotely ready.
But Maddie's competing anyway, whether she believes she's ready or not, and all I can do is be there when she falls apart or flies higher than she's ever flown before. Or maybe both.