[Maddie’s POV]

The next afternoon I text Victoria back: ‘Coffee sounds good. Does today work for you?’

Her response comes fast: ‘Perfect. There’s a café called The Bean Counter about ten minutes off campus. 2 PM?’

The Bean Counter turns out to be one of those aggressively aesthetic places with exposed brick and plants hanging everywhere like some kind of caffeine jungle.

Victoria is already there, sitting at a corner table with two cups. She stands when she sees me, all warmth and professional polish. “Maddie, thanks for meeting me.” She gestures to the second cup. “I got you a latte. Hope that’s okay.”

I sit, wrapping my hands around the cup. “Yeah, thanks.” The warmth feels good against my palms, grounding. “So, um, how are you?”

“I’m well. More importantly, how are you?” She leans forward. “Regionals is coming up. That’s a lot of pressure.”

The question hits different than when Emily asks. No edge of worry, no undercurrent of here-we-go-again. Just curiosity, professional concern.

“It’s fine,” I say automatically, then catch myself doing the thing where I pretend everything’s fine when it’s objectively a dumpster fire. “Actually, no. It’s kind of terrible.”

The admission surprises me, but once it starts I can’t stop. “I feel like I’m constantly being watched. Like every mistake I make isn’t just a mistake—it’s proof that queer athletes don’t belong, that we’re too distracted, too controversial, too much of a liability.”

Victoria nods slowly, doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t try to fix it. That alone makes my throat tight.

“And the worst part is I know people are rooting for me to fail,” I continue. “Not everyone, obviously, but enough. Enough that I see it in the scores, in the way certain judges look at me, the comments alone… It’s exhausting.”

“I’ve seen this before,” Victoria says finally. “Talented athletes in unsupportive environments. Sometimes the institution itself becomes the problem, even when individual people have good intentions.”

She pauses, takes a sip of her coffee. “Have you thought about what you want your skating career to look like beyond this season?”

The question catches me off guard. “I mean, I want to keep skating. Get better. Maybe make it to the Olympics eventually.”

“That’s ambitious. Admirable.” Victoria’s smile is genuine, the kind that makes you feel seen.

“I have connections at other programs. Better coaching infrastructure, more competitive environments. Less complicated politics.”

She says it casually, like she’s recommending a Netflix series, not suggesting I upend my entire life.

“Nothing you need to decide now. Just information if you want to explore options.”

My stomach does something complicated—part interest, part alarm, part trap-but-appealing.

“Other programs?” I manage, trying to sound less interested than I actually am. Which is, unfortunately, very interested.

“Universities with stronger skating departments. Coaches who specialize in pairs. Environments where you wouldn’t be fighting uphill battles.”

She meets my eyes. “You’re talented, Maddie. You deserve better than this.”

We talk for another fifteen minutes about training and coaching relationships. When we part ways, I feel lighter than I have in weeks. Like someone finally understood.

The drive back to campus passes in a blur. I park in the dorm lot and sit for a moment, hands still on the steering wheel, trying to hold onto this feeling of being seen.

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