[Emily’s POV]

Ava’s couch is approximately seven feet of uncomfortable truth wrapped in floral upholstery. I’ve been here since yesterday night, ignoring seventeen texts from Maddie and reconsidering my life choices.

The texts start apologetic, progress through defensive, and land somewhere around passive-aggressive. I know because I read them all while telling myself I’m definitely not reading them.

Ava brings me coffee in the morning without comment. She’s good at that—the not-commenting thing. Just hands me the mug and says practice is in two hours.

The practice is where I discover that skating angry is actually a legitimate training technique. Who knew that channeling relationship drama into triple lutzes could be so effective?

I land everything. Every jump, every spin, every transition is sharp and precise and borderline violent. The ice practically cracks under my blades.

Coach Marquette watches from the boards with that expression she gets when she’s deciding whether to be impressed or concerned. Today, apparently, she’s going with concerned.

She waves me over after my run-through, and I skate over feeling like a kid being called to the principal’s office.

Except instead of getting detention, I get a very serious conversation about how my personal life is bleeding into my skating.

“Emily,” Coach starts, and I already know from her tone this isn’t going to be fun. “Whatever’s happening off the ice is affecting your performance on it. You’re skating like you’re angry at the ice itself.”

“The ice and I have a complicated relationship,” I say, because apparently even when receiving legitimate coaching feedback, I can’t help myself.

Coach doesn’t smile. “Regionals is this weekend. I need you to be focused, not fighting demons during your program.” She pauses, expression softening. “You’re too talented to let relationship drama derail your skating.”

The words land like a slap, not because they’re cruel but because they’re true. I open my mouth to respond but what comes out is just a weak “I know.”

“Do you?” Coach’s gaze is penetrating. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re letting personal issues compromise years of hard work. And I won’t watch you throw away your skating career for a relationship, no matter how much you care about her.”

Movement catches my eye near the locker room entrance. Maddie. Standing there in her practice gear, face carefully blank in that way that means she’s heard every word.

Our eyes meet for half a second, and I watch something shutter behind her expression before she turns and walks away.

“Fuck,” I breathe, quiet enough that Coach might not hear. She does, obviously, because she has supernatural hearing when it comes to her skaters’ emotional breakdowns.

“Go,” Coach says, surprisingly gentle. “Fix whatever needs fixing. But Emily—” she waits until I look at her— “don’t lose yourself in someone else’s struggles.”

I nod and skate toward the exit, legs burning from the hard practice but heart burning worse.

The locker room is empty when I get there, but I catch sight of Maddie disappearing through the far door. I grab my guards and follow, catching up to her in the hallway between the rink and the parking lot.

She stops but doesn’t turn around. Just stands there, shoulders rigid, and somehow that’s worse than if she’d kept walking.

I close the distance between us, my skate guards clacking against the floor, and call out, “Maddie, wait.” My voice echoes in the concrete corridor.

“I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” I start, which is possibly the stupidest opening line in the history of difficult conversations.

“Coach is right.” Maddie’s voice is flat, carefully controlled. She turns to face me, and the distance in her eyes makes my stomach drop. “Your personal life is affecting your skating. I’m affecting your skating.”

“Your parents are really coming?” I ask, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly. “Yes,” Maddie says, the word defensive and sharp. “Why?”

“No reason.” I force something like supportive interest into my voice. “That’s… that’s good. That they want to support you.”

“It is good,” Maddie says, but she’s watching me like I’m a trap about spring. “They’re making an effort.”

I nod, because what else can I do? Tell her I think her father is manipulating her? That Victoria’s sudden mentorship and her father’s sudden reconciliation are too convenient to be coincidence?

That I’m watching her get pulled away by forces I can’t fight and don’t know how to compete with?

I did already, and the results were less than stellar. “I’m glad,” I say instead, and the lie tastes bitter on my tongue, settling heavy in my chest.

Maddie nods once, then moves to her bed. We settle into our separate spaces, her on her bed, me at my desk, the distance between us feeling wider than the few feet it actually measures.

I stare at my textbook without seeing the words, feeling like I’m losing Maddie to forces I can’t name and don’t understand. Forces that wear her father’s face and sound like reasonable concern and feel like quicksand pulling us both under.

But I smile and say supportive things, because what choice do I have? How do you fight ghosts? How do you compete with family and legitimacy and the promise of acceptance?

The answer, apparently, is that you don’t. You just sit there and watch, feeling helpless and terrified and completely, utterly lost.