The triple lutz is a jump I’ve landed a thousand times. It’s muscle memory at this point, something my body executes without conscious thought. Approach, edge change, toe pick, rotation, landing. Simple. Except today my body decides to forget every step.

I hit the ice hard, my hip taking most of the impact. The cold seeps through my practice leggings immediately. Around me, practice continues—blades carving ice, music playing, Coach calling corrections to Sarah. Everything keeps moving forward while I’m stuck here on the ice.

I push myself up and shake it off. Just a fluke. Lost concentration for a second. I circle back around, build speed, and set up for the jump again. This time I’m focused, every detail of the technique running through my mind. My ankle feels solid, my edges clean.

Except my body still doesn’t cooperate. My timing is off, my rotation wrong, and I hit the ice again. This time I land on my shoulder.

“Reyes!” Coach’s voice cuts across the ice, sharp and immediate. “Take a break.” I don’t want to take a break. I want to land this jump that I’ve landed literally thousands of times before.

But Coach is already skating over, her expression concerned rather than frustrated.

“Is your ankle bothering you?” she asks, stopping in front of me. Her eyes drop to my left ankle, the one I spent months rehabilitating, the one that’s supposed to be healed now.

“No-no,” I say, and the word comes out too fast, too defensive. “I just lost focus. That’s all.”

Coach studies me for a long moment. Finally she says, “Get some water. Clear your head. Come back when you’re ready.” The words are kind, but they feel like a dismissal, like even Coach can see something’s wrong.

I nod and skate off the ice, my legs feeling unsteady. In the locker room, I sit on the bench with my head in my hands and try to breathe normally.

My phone buzzes in my bag. I ignore it at first, but it buzzes again. And again. When I finally pull it out, I see Dad’s name on the screen. Three missed calls.

The locker room suddenly feels too small, too warm. I grab my jacket and head outside, pushing through the doors into the winter cold.

The shock of it against my overheated skin makes me gasp. My hands shake as I call him back.

“Madison.” His voice is warm when he answers, concerned. “I was getting worried when you didn’t answer.”

“Sorry, I was at practice.” I lean against the building’s brick exterior. “What’s up?”

“Just checking in. How did practice go?” The question is so normal, so dad-like, that for a second I forget everything that’s happened between us.

I hear myself saying, “I had a bad one today. Fell on everything.” It’s an admission that sits wrong in my throat, but one I never hid from Dad.

“Oh, sweetheart.” The sympathy in his voice is immediate and genuine, wrapping around me like the warmth I’m craving. “That’s rough. Have you been feeling stressed?”

“I guess.” My breath comes out in white puffs that disappear into the gray afternoon. “Yeah, I have been.”

There’s a pause, and I can almost hear him choosing his words carefully, the way he always does now. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot since last weekend. Worried about you, honestly.”

“I’m fine, Dad.” The words are automatic, reflexive, and probably not even remotely true.

Maybe it’s Victoria’s concern relayed through Dad, wrapped in offers of help that should feel more like manipulation.

Maybe it’s the way he sounded so genuinely worried, so different from the father who cut off my funding months ago. Or maybe it’s because I’m so fucking tired of feeling like I’m drowning everyone around me.

I sit down on the concrete steps outside the rink, not caring that they’re freezing or that I’m still in my practice clothes. The cold air burns my lungs with each breath, but at least it’s real. At least it’s something I can feel besides the endless weight of trying to hold everything together.

My phone buzzes again—probably Emily wondering where I am. I can’t look at it right now. Can’t face going back inside and pretending I’m fine, pretending those falls were just a fluke.

Except maybe that’s not fair. Maybe he’s genuinely concerned. Maybe Victoria genuinely wants to help. Maybe I’m so messed up right now that I can’t tell the difference anymore.

I don’t know anymore. I don’t know anything anymore except that I’m sitting on frozen concrete in the cold, crying over a phone call that should have felt supportive but instead feels like one more thing pulling me in a direction I’m not sure I want to go.

The door opens behind me and I quickly wipe my face, but it’s just a maintenance worker who nods and keeps walking. I stay where I am, shivering in the cold, unable to make myself move.

Unable to make myself go back inside and face Emily’s concerned questions or Coach’s watchful eyes or another attempt at that goddamn triple lutz.

So I just sit. And cry. And wonder when everything got so complicated that a simple phone call from my father could break me this completely.