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.

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