Competition morning arrives with the subtlety of a fire alarm in a library. The rink buzzes with nervous energy—skaters warming up, coaches clutching clipboards, parents radiating anxiety from the stands.
I stretch at the boards, running through my program mentally.
Every element mapped, every transition memorized. My left quad threatens to cramp, which feels like a personal betrayal.
Across the rink, Maddie is stretching too. Our eyes meet briefly like two people recognizing each other at a crime scene. I look away first, which annoys me more than it should.
My mind immediately betrays me, rewinding to that closet—the darkness, the heat, her breath against the corner of my mouth. The almost that's been playing on loop like a song I didn't ask to memorize.
I shake my head and force myself to focus on the ice.
"You're up in twelve," Ava says, appearing beside me with a water bottle. "How are you feeling? Confident? Terrified? That specific mix of both that makes competition uniquely horrible and addictive?"
"All of the above." I take the water, grateful for something to occupy my hands. "Plus my quad is staging a rebellion. Very reassuring before I need to land a triple axel."
"Classic quad behavior. Mine does that too. I think they enjoy psychological warfare." She pats my shoulder with easy comfort. "You've got this though. Your axel alone is worth the price of admission to this whole event."
"Admission is free," I point out, allowing myself a small smile despite the nerves coiling in my stomach.
"Metaphorically expensive in skill though. Very costly in talent dollars. The exchange rate is brutal." She grins, backing toward the boards. "Now go make every other skater here regret ever picking up skates."
"Aggressive pep talk. I appreciate the energy you're bringing."
"I have range. Supportive friend, aggressive motivator, snack provider. Now go destroy them completely."
The announcer calls my name and the world narrows. I take my starting position, breathing slowly, pushing everything to the margins.
Maddie, the closet, the crisis brewing in my chest.
The music begins and my body takes over. Crossovers, spread eagle, the first combination spin. Everything feels right. My edges are clean, my timing precise. Then comes the triple axel.
The jump that got me recruited. The jump that changed everything.
I set up, push off, and rotate. Three and a half turns, suspended where physics and faith intersect. The landing is silent, perfect. The crowd murmurs—surprise mixed with grudging respect.
I was the only one who attempted it today and that fact settles like a small victory.
When I finished chest heaving, I know it was good. The kind that reminds me why I wake before dawn, why skating matters more than anything.
Maddie skates next and I watch from the boards, telling myself it's professional interest.
Her program is beautiful. Polished, elegant, technically clean. But she plays it safe. No triple axel. Just clean doubles and a secure triple flip. Beautiful execution of calculated choices.
The scores post.
Emily Harper: 72.34.
Madison Reyes: 69.87.
I take first and the rink goes quiet. Maddie's face stays composed, but I catch her knuckles whitening against the boards. That small tell speaks louder than any reaction could.
Chris finds me near the team area, distracting me from Maddie. His face splits with enthusiasm, his whole body vibrating with energy.
"Emily! That was incredible!" He's bouncing like a golden retriever who just discovered treats exist. "Your program was insane. Like, actually insane. I don't have adequate words."
"Thank you." I manage a smile.
His excitement is sweet, uncomplicated in ways I'm not sure I deserve right now.
"Also, we won our hockey game! Five to two. Derek scored the winner, which means he'll be insufferable for approximately half of the month." He's still bouncing. "We should celebrate! Dinner?"
"Maybe." I hedge, exhaustion creeping into my bones. "I'm pretty tired. Competition crash incoming."
"Totally get it. Rain check then. No pressure whatsoever." He nods, undeterred. "Seriously though, that jump… How do you make it look so easy? Is there some kind of secret? Can it be taught?"
I consider the question, the years of training it would take to answer honestly. "Years of falling badly until falling became optional. The secret is failing enough times that success becomes the path of least resistance."
"Philosophy of sport. I love it. Very stoic. Marcus Aurelius would be proud." He squeezes my shoulder, warm and friendly. "Get some rest. Champion treatment tonight."
"I'm not a champion yet," I point out, but he's already shaking his head with certainty.
"You literally just won. That's what winning means. Champion behavior confirmed. Undeniable evidence."
I watch him head off, waiting to feel something. The flutter that's supposed to happen when nice boys say nice things. Still nothing. My romantic wiring remains spectacularly broken and focused only on one person who’s not him.
On the bus, I claim a window seat and Ava slides in beside me without asking. She squeezes my shoulder as a silent ‘great job’ and launches into a story with no preamble,
"So get this," she says, launching into a story. "Professor Walsh literally fell asleep during his own lecture. Mid-sentence. Eyes closed, head dropped, completely unconscious at the podium."
"Did anyone wake him up?" I ask, grateful for the distraction from my spiraling thoughts.
"No! We sat there for three minutes watching him nap. Someone took a video." She laughs. "It's on the department meme page. He's been tagged several times. The comments are absolutely brutal."
"Academia is unforgiving," I observe, feeling my shoulders relax into the seat.
"Ruthless. Also, the hotel coffee this morning tasted like someone dissolved a tire in hot water. Did you notice? Very aggressive flavor profile."
"I thought it was just me. I assumed my taste buds were malfunctioning from competition stress."
Ava makes it all easy. The competitions, the ‘I’m supposed to like Chris, but I can’t’, the college in general.
"Definitely the coffee. I saw a hockey guy try to use it as an industrial cleaner. Claimed it worked better than actual cleaning products." She shakes her head. "And did you see that one judge? The older guy with glasses?"
"The one who looked like he was solving differential equations in his head?"
"Yes! I swear he was sleeping through half the performances. His clipboard was completely blank. Just paper. Not even pretending."
I chuckle at the appropriate points, and Ava doesn’t call me out on being a mediocre interlocutor. "Quality officiating. Very professional. Inspiring standards for our sport."
"The highest standards. Truly reassuring about competitive integrity. He saw you skate, though. I think he even looked impressed."
She bumps my shoulder and I can’t help but smile.
We talk about nothing important for the next hour and it's exactly what I need: mindless chatter requiring no emotional excavation.
When Chris passes through the aisle, obviously looking for me, I close my eyes immediately, letting my head fall against the window. Ava—God bless her—catches on instantly.
"She crashed hard," Ava whispers. "Competition exhaustion. The adrenaline dump is brutal."
"Oh. Yeah, totally." His footsteps pause. "Tell her congrats again when she wakes up. And that the dinner offer stands."
"Will do. Go celebrate with your team, buddy. You earned it."
His footsteps retreat and I keep my eyes closed. Through the window reflection, I catch movement from further back in the bus. Maddie's face, the row behind mine, watching me.
Our eyes meet in the darkened glass—her looking at me, me looking at the ghost of her reflection.
I don't turn around. The bus rumbles through gathering dusk, and I stare until Maddie becomes just another shadow in the glass.