[Maddie’s POV]

The eggs on my plate look like they’re auditioning for a horror movie role. Scrambled, lukewarm, congealing into something that resembles rubber more than food. If eggs had feelings, these would be filing a complaint.

Emily sits across from me in the hotel restaurant, nursing her third coffee like it holds the secrets to the universe. She’s pretending she’s not watching me push food around my plate, which is generous considering I’m being worse than a seven-year-old right now.

At least seven-year-olds have the excuse of not knowing better. I don’t even have that going for me.

“You should eat something,” she says, voice carefully neutral in that way that means she’s trying really hard not to sound like she’s nagging. The concern bleeds through anyway. “Competition day. You need energy.”

I stab a piece of egg with my fork. It doesn’t protest, just sits there looking dejected and rubbery. “I’m not hungry.” My stomach is too busy forming knots that could qualify for advanced origami to consider accepting food.

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday lunch.” Emily’s fingers drum on her coffee cup, a nervous rhythm that matches the anxiety crawling up my spine. “At least have some toast.”

“I said I’m not hungry.” The words come out sharper than intended, but Emily just presses her lips together and looks away, and the silence that falls between us is thick enough to spread on the untouched aforementioned toast.

Which, honestly, might improve its appeal at this point.

After another five minutes of me rearranging food like I’m creating abstract art and Emily not looking at me, she stands up. “I’m going to get the car. Meet you in the parking lot?”

“Actually, I was thinking Dad will drive me.” I don’t look up. “I’m going to get more coffee and then we’ll get there.”

Emily’s pause stretches long enough that I could perform an entire short program. Her expression is carefully blank when I finally glance up, which somehow feels worse than if she’d just looked hurt. “Okay, sure, it makes much more sense.”

She leaves, and I sit alone with my rubber eggs and mounting dread. The waitress refills my water glass with sympathetic eyes, clearly recognizing the pre-competition anxiety spiral when she sees one.

She’s probably seen this exact scene a hundred times. I’m not special.

The drive to the venue is just me, silent Dad and the radio playing songs I don’t hear, and my phone sitting in the cup holder like a loaded weapon.

Every red light feels like the universe giving me time to reconsider my life choices. Dad ignores all of them, which is probably a metaphor for something.

The rink appears through the windshield like salvation or possibly doom—honestly hard to tell the difference.

He finds a parking spot three rows away from Emily’s car, which feels both too close and not close enough. The parking lot version of our relationship status: complicated.

I thank Dad, say goodbye to him and promise to skate my best. He hugs me, lingering, before leaving, and I don’t feel any better.

Inside, the venue buzzes with that specific pre-competition energy that usually makes my blood sing. Today it just makes me nauseous.

I head to the locker room, change into my practice dress, and try not to think about the last time I competed here and I fail miserably.

When the warm-up ends, I head off the ice and straight to the locker room. My phone feels heavy in my bag. I pull it out, stare at the screen, and before I can think better of it, I’m typing. ‘What if I mess up?’

Victoria: ‘Even if you do, one competition doesn’t define your career, Victoria responds. Sometimes the most important thing is knowing you have options.’

My phone buzzes again. ‘Think about what we discussed. The offer stands.’ Victoria’s words sit there on my screen like a dare, or possibly a lifeline.

“Maddie?” Emily’s voice makes me jump hard enough that I nearly drop my phone. I look up and she’s standing in the locker room doorway, already in her competition dress. “Where were you? I’ve been looking everywhere.”

“Here.” I shove my phone in my bag like it’s evidence of a crime I haven’t committed yet. “Just texting. Getting in the zone.”

“Getting in the zone.” Emily repeats the words slowly, testing them for truth. She doesn’t believe me—I can see it in the way her jaw tightens. We’re terrible at lying to each other, which would be romantic if it weren’t so inconvenient.

“Yeah. Writing out the moves, helps getting your mind in the game. Coach’s suggestion.” The lie tastes like battery acid and poor life choices.

Emily nods slowly, but her eyes stay on me for a beat too long. “Right, writing them out helps. Definitely.”

We stand there in silence that’s somehow louder than any argument we’ve ever had. She wants to say something—I can see it building behind her eyes—but then the announcement comes over the speakers.

“First warm-up group for ladies’ singles, please report to staging.” Our group. Our cue to leave this conversation.

“That’s us.” I grab my blade guards, my water bottle, everything I need to walk away from this moment. “We should go.”

“Yeah.” Emily steps aside to let me pass, and the space between us feels exactly like the distance on the ice during warm-ups—oceanic, impossible, growing wider with every breath.

I walk toward staging, Emily trailing behind me. She doesn’t call me out. I just hear my own breathing and that increasingly loud voice in my head asking if Victoria’s right—if maybe the most important thing really is knowing you have options.