Amy’s POV
The sound of the school bell had never made me so nervous before. I gripped the sides of my wheelchair as James rolled me through the front doors, my backpack resting on my lap and a knot in my stomach. It wasn’t the pain that bothered me the most. It was the looks.
Students turned their heads. Some whispered. A few smiled politely, but most just stared. I could tell they didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to disappear. Another part of me wanted to sit up straighter and remind them I was still me—even if I wasn’t walking yet.
James didn’t leave my side. He pushed me through the hallways without hesitation, nodding at the people we passed like this was just another normal day. He didn’t act like I was fragile. He didn’t try to make it a big deal. And somehow, that helped.
By the end of the first week, I had traded the wheelchair for crutches. It was hard—harder than I let anyone see—but every step I took was a step away from the girl who had been lying in a hospital bed wondering if she would ever feel strong again. I was healing. Slowly. Stubbornly. But I was healing.
Coach had kept her promise. I wasn’t performing, but I wasn’t sidelined either. Not really.
I stood—or sat—front and center during practices now, clipboard in hand, eyes sharp, watching every movement like a hawk. I had choreographed an entirely new routine. It was fast. Fierce. Complex. And it demanded everything from the girls who danced it.
“If I can’t dance,” I told them on the first day of rehearsal, “then you’ll dance harder. You’ll move like my fire is in your feet. Got it?”
They got it.
Harper stepped up in ways I hadn’t expected. She took counts like a pro and encouraged the girls without trying to take control. She reminded me a little of myself—before the breakdown, before the fall. Focused. Determined. Brave.
Camilla, on the other hand, was another story.
She showed up late. She rolled her eyes when I gave direction. She half-heartedly marked routines and spent more time adjusting her hair than learning her counts. It didn’t take long before Coach noticed.
By the third practice, Coach blew the whistle mid-run and shouted, “Camilla, off the mat. You’re benched for the week.”
The look on Camilla’s face was pure disbelief.
“You can’t be serious,” she snapped.
Coach crossed her arms. “Poor attitude, poor effort. Sit down.”
Camilla didn’t argue again. She just huffed and walked off, shooting me a glare like this was all my fault. Maybe it was. But I didn’t care.
Because for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel invisible. I didn’t feel broken. I felt in control. I wasn’t flipping through the air or landing on a mark, but I was leading. I was creating. I was taking up space.
This version of me didn’t rely on perfect turns or winning smiles. She commanded the floor without ever stepping on it.
And James? He noticed.
Every night, he texted me after practice. Sometimes just a “proud of you” or a selfie of him making a dumb face with the caption “your #1 fan.” It always made me smile. But one night, a different kind of message popped up on my screen.
James: Big news. If I beat Central at Friday’s game, I get a full-ride. QB scholarship. Everything paid.
I stared at the message for a few seconds, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.
Me: Then let’s win.
That Friday couldn’t come fast enough.
The energy at practice was electric. The girls were sharper, stronger, louder. I called counts from the sidelines, voice firm, clipboard in hand, my crutches resting beside me like they had become part of the uniform. I didn’t feel weak anymore. I felt powerful.
But of course, some things never change.
As practice wrapped up and the girls jogged off to grab their water bottles, I saw him.
Charlie.
He walked past the edge of the gym, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his eyes landing on me like we were still in the middle of some war neither of us had declared peace on.
He didn’t stop walking, but as he passed, he tilted his head and gave me that same arrogant smirk I used to find charming.
“Hope your boyfriend’s ready to lose,” he said.