[Maddie’s POV]
The ice at Lakeview feels different than it did a week ago. Or maybe I'm different.
It's Tuesday afternoon and I'm running through my program for the third time, and every element lands exactly where it's supposed to, which should feel good but instead feels like I'm a well-programmed robot executing commands.
Jump, land, spin, hold, transition. I stick a triple lutz that would've made me scream with joy two weeks ago, and now I just think: cool, another thing that doesn't matter when the judges have already decided you're not worth their time.
Coach watches from the boards but doesn't say anything, which is somehow worse than criticism.
I finish the program and skate over, breathing hard but not winded. "Good work today," Coach says, and her tone suggests she's trying to convince both of us. "Clean landings on everything."
"Thanks," I say, because what else is there? She pats me on the shoulder and lets me go. In the locker room, I'm peeling off my practice gear when Ava Thompson appears next to my bench.
We've existed in the same orbit for months—teammates, but she's Emily's friend first, which made her off-limits when I was still pretending to be the ice queen.
"Hey," Ava says, sitting down without asking. "That was some bullshit at the competition."
I glance at her, trying to gauge if this is sympathy or pity. "What was?"
"The scoring," Ava says, like it's obvious. Like it's not a massive understatement wrapped in profanity. "What's happening to you and Emily isn't fair. Everyone knows it."
I pull my sweatshirt over my head, buying myself a few seconds to construct an appropriate response. Something dismissive, something that keeps the walls up. "Life's not fair. Breaking news at eleven."
It comes out more bitter than I intended, and Ava's expression shifts. "Sure," she says slowly. "But you don't have to pretend it doesn't bother you. That's some ice queen shit, and I thought we were past that."
The observation lands like a slap because it's accurate. I'm doing it again—performing unbothered when I'm actually drowning.
"I'm not pretending," I lie, and Ava gives me a look that suggests my acting skills have seriously deteriorated. "I'm just... it is what it is."
"Right." Ava leans back against the lockers. "Look, I know we haven't really talked much before. You were busy being terrifying, I was busy being Emily's friend, classic social dynamics. But that scoring was garbage, and if you ever want to grab coffee and complain about it, I'm available."
I stare at her, genuinely surprised. "You want to get coffee with me?"
"Sure. Why not?" Ava stands, shouldering her bag. "Unless you're still doing that whole lone wolf thing. But the offer stands."
"Okay. Yeah. Maybe."
"Cool." Ava grins. "Text me when you're free."
She leaves, and I sit there alone, staring at my phone. It buzzes almost immediately—my father's name flashing across the screen. The contact photo is from years ago, me at twelve, mid-jump, all enthusiasm and potential. I let it go to voicemail.
The walk back to the dorm feels longer than usual, or maybe I'm just moving slower, dreading the inevitable conversation. Emily's already there when I arrive, sprawled on her bed with a biology textbook she's definitely not actually reading.
"Hey," she says, sitting up immediately. Her eyes scan my face like she's trying to read a particularly complex equation. "How was practice?"
"Fine," I say, dropping my bag by the door. "Landed everything. Coach seemed pleased."
"That's great." Emily's smile is careful, measured. She's treating me like I might break. "Did anything interesting happen?"
I kick off my shoes and move to my side of the room, putting physical space between us because that feels safer. "Ava talked to me."
Emily's entire face lights up, and I feel a strange combination of warmth and guilt. "Really? What did she say?"
"Just that the scoring at the competition was bullshit. That what's happening to us isn't fair." I pull my hair out of its bun, running my fingers through the tangles. "She offered to get coffee sometime."
"That's amazing!" Emily says, and she means it. She's genuinely happy about this small development in my social life, like it's a sign of progress or healing or whatever we're calling it now. "Are you going to go?"
"Maybe." I sit on my bed, mirroring her position. We're facing each other but not touching, and the distance feels both necessary and awful. "She called out my ice queen bullshit pretty efficiently."
Emily laughs, and the sound eases something tight in my chest. "Ava doesn't mess around. She's good at seeing through defenses."
"Apparently." I pick at a thread on my comforter, focusing on the mundane task instead of Emily's worried expression. "How was your afternoon?"
"Boring. Studied, went to the library, contemplated the meaninglessness of cellular respiration." She pauses, and I can feel the shift in the air—the transition from surface conversation to real questions. "Maddie, how are you really feeling about the competition?"
There it is. The question I've been dreading, wrapped in Emily's soft concern and genuine worry.
The question that requires me to admit I'm not okay, that I'm actually pretty far from okay, that sixth place with perfect technique feels like proof that I'm not good enough and never will be.
"I'm fine," I say automatically, and even I don't believe it. "Just tired."
Emily's face does something complicated—hurt and frustration and resignation all mixed together. "You keep saying that."
"Because it's true." I stand up, suddenly unable to sit still under her scrutiny. "I just want to get ready for bed, okay? It's been a long day."
The lie tastes bitter. It's been a perfectly normal day. Practice was fine, Ava was nice, nothing catastrophic happened.
But admitting that would mean admitting that the problem isn't external events—it's the constant loop in my head that says you're not good enough, you're dragging Emily down, you're the problem.
Emily watches me for a long moment, and I can see her weighing whether to push or retreat. She chooses to retreat, which somehow feels worse than if she'd fought with me. "Okay. Yeah. Long day."
I escape to the bathroom, taking longer than necessary to change and wash my face and stare at my reflection like it might have answers.
When I come back out, Emily's already in bed, phone in hand, pretending to scroll through something that definitely doesn't require that much concentration.
We move through our nighttime routine in careful silence—setting alarms, turning off lights, climbing into our respective beds. The space between us feels infinite even though it's just a few feet of dorm room floor. "Goodnight," Emily says softly.
"Goodnight," I reply, and I close my eyes against the darkness and the weight of everything I'm not saying.
My phone buzzes again on the nightstand—another call from my mom that I ignore because I don't have the energy to perform daughterly affection right now. The voicemail notification pops up, and I turn my phone face-down so I don't have to see it.
Tomorrow I'll deal with it. Tomorrow I'll figure out how to explain to Emily that I'm drowning in guilt and inadequacy. Tomorrow I'll be better at this.
Tonight, I just lie here in the dark, counting my heartbeats and trying not to think about how everything feels wrong even though technically everything is fine.