[Emily’s POV]

Saturday morning arrives with weak sunlight filtering through our dorm window. I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet while Maddie sits on her bed staring at her phone.

“We should go out,” I suggest. “There’s that new brunch place downtown, or we could hit the farmers market.”

Maddie doesn’t look up from her screen, thumb scrolling endlessly. “I’m tired,” she says flatly. I wait for elaboration that doesn’t come.

“Okay, but you’ve been tired all week.” I sit on my own bed, facing her. “We haven’t done anything that wasn’t school or practice in forever.”

She finally looks up, something hollow in her expression that makes my stomach twist. “I’m just not up for it today.”

I could push, should probably push, because this distance between us feels like it’s growing every day. But pushing hasn’t worked before, so I try a different approach.

“What about pairs practice?” I ask. “Regionals is coming up, and we haven’t run through the routine together in days.”

Something flickers across her face—guilt, maybe, or resignation. She sets her phone down. “Fine. Yeah. We should.”

I stand, reaching for my gym bag. “Let’s grab some food first. You need to eat.”

“Emily—” she starts, but I cut her off and wink at her, as if everything’s actually okay and we’re just joking around. “Non-negotiable. Coach’s rules.”

That gets the ghost of a smile from her, barely there but present. “Fine,” she says, standing up from the bed.

We end up at the campus dining hall. Maddie pushes scrambled eggs around her plate while I demolish a bagel. I still don’t push.

At the rink, we change in silence. I can’t tell if it’s companionable or uncomfortable anymore. We lace up and step onto the ice, Maddie immediately slipping into that blank, professional mask.

“Let’s start with basics,” I suggest, skating backward. “Warm up, run through the footwork, then we’ll work on the lifts.”

She’s already moving, executing crossovers with mechanical precision. Nothing wrong with her technique—it’s flawless. But there’s no life in it.

We run through the footwork, and she hits every mark perfectly. Which should feel good but instead feels wrong.

“That was good,” I say when we finish, even though it wasn’t really. “You want to try the twist lift?”

She nods, already positioning herself. I skate up behind her, hands finding their familiar places on her waist. We’ve done this lift a thousand times. “Ready?” I ask, and she responds, “Ready.”

I count us down and launch her into the air. Except her timing is off, and suddenly I’m scrambling to adjust my grip. She comes down heavier than expected.

I manage to catch her, barely, my arms screaming. We stumble but stay upright, and I step back to give us both space.

“What happened?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended. “Your timing was completely off.”

Maddie’s face is carefully blank. “Sorry. Let me try again.” She skates back into position before I can protest, spine rigid with stubborn determination.

Every instinct screams that we should take a break, but she’s already waiting. Fine. We’ll try again.

I skate up behind her, tense. Maybe she feels it through my grip, or maybe she’s that far in her own head, but when I lift her this time the same thing happens.

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