[Maddie’s POV]

Morning practice begins with the kind of energy that precedes disasters. Everyone knows tonight matters. The showcase determines everything—captaincy, positioning, the entire architecture of power I’ve spent years constructing.

Jenna finds me at the boards during warm-up, her smile bright as a blade catching fluorescent light. She’s flanked by Carol and Mary, all of them radiating that specific malice disguised as friendliness.

“Maddie, you’re so generous,” she says, loud enough for nearby skaters to hear. “Taking in a roommate who clearly needs the help. Not everyone would share their space with someone less fortunate. It’s very charitable of you. Very on-brand.”

The words land with precision and several girls exchange glances.

I feel the information spreading like poison through water—the private single that isn’t, the father’s money that doesn’t exist, the cracks in my carefully constructed facade.

“Housing assigns roommates,” I say, keeping my voice light and unbothered. “I don’t exactly get veto power over administrative decisions. Though I appreciate you thinking I have that kind of influence. Very flattering.”

“Of course.” Jenna’s smile sharpens. “I just remember you mentioning your father arranged for privacy. Must have been a misunderstanding on my part. These things happen.” She pauses, letting the doubt settle. “Good luck tonight. I’m sure you’ll be incredible. You always are.”

She skates away with her entourage, which is ironic, considering she’s usually my entourage, leaving me at the boards with my pulse hammering against my ribs.

The walls are closing in and I can feel them pressing from every direction—tonight’s showcase, Jenna’s weaponized observations, the growing awareness that my position is crumbling.

Practice passes in a blur. I hit every mark, land every jump, smile at corrections like the model captain I’m supposed to be. Inside, I’m calculating distances to exits. Measuring how many hours until everything falls apart completely.

Then one wrong move, and I almost fall on my side. Coach’s brows furrow.

I escape to the bathroom, my pulse hammering in my ears. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like witnesses and I grip the sink, staring at the drain, breathing deliberately.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

The kind of measured respiration they teach you for panic attacks.

The door opens behind me, but I don’t look up. Whoever it is will leave if I ignore them long enough.

“Maddie?” Emily’s voice, cautious and quiet. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” The word comes out shaky, betraying me. “Just tired. Pre-showcase nerves. Normal stuff that doesn’t require an audience.”

She steps closer and I watch her reflection in the mirror—the careful distance she maintains, the way she doesn’t reach out.

And something cracks inside me, because Emily remembers.

When we were kids, I hated being touched when I was upset. Physical contact made everything worse, amplified the panic instead of soothing it. She remembered even after eight years of silence.

My eyes sting with something dangerous and I grip the sink harder, knuckles going white.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Emily says softly. “I know what your fake-fine voice sounds like. It hasn’t changed much since you were eleven and insisted you weren’t scared during thunderstorms.”

“I wasn’t scared. I was merely concerned about structural integrity. Very rational fear. Architecturally sound paranoia.”

“You made me stay on the phone for three hours once. During a mild drizzle.”

A sound escapes me—half laugh, half sob. My hand lifts off the sink, barely a movement. A reaching toward something I can’t name. Emily sees it and closes the distance, wrapping her arms around me before I can retreat.

The contact should feel wrong. Should trigger the old panic responses. Instead, I fold into her like I’ve been waiting years to collapse somewhere safe. She holds me while I shake, chin resting on top of my head.

“So there’s this squirrel,” Emily says, her voice rumbling against my temple. “On the quad. I think he’s running some kind of surveillance operation. He watches me every morning with deeply suspicious eyes.”

I choke out a laugh against her shoulder. “A squirrel.”

He’s dead weight I’m dragging toward acceptability.

We finish to polite applause and I smile brilliantly at the donors. Derek waves like he contributed something meaningful.

Then Emily and Chris take the ice. They’re solid from the first note. Chris has improved dramatically—he’s actually trying, actually present. Their synchronization isn’t flashy, but it’s genuine.

Two people who practiced together instead of one person practicing alone.

When they finish, the applause is warmer. More surprised. Coach Marquette makes a note on her clipboard.

I watch Emily skate to the boards, flushed and pleased. Our eyes meet across the ice. She gives me a small nod—acknowledgment, maybe. Understanding. Something that passes between us like a secret language we’re still learning to speak.

Coach approaches both pairs afterward. Her expression stays neutral, professional, impossible to read.

“Good work tonight,” she says. “Both teams showed improvement. The decision about captaincy will come after I’ve reviewed everything properly. I’ll need some time to come up with the final decision.”

She walks away without elaboration and the uncertainty hangs in the air.

Derek’s already checking his phone and the donors are filtering out as Emily stands with Chris, accepting congratulations from Ava. The evening ends without resolution.

Tonight decided nothing except that some day will decide everything. The waiting is its own kind of torture—elegant, prolonged, perfectly calibrated to maximize anxiety.

I did what I could. Carried who I had to carry. Performed the version of Maddie Reyes that everyone expects.

Now all I can do is wait for the verdict and hope the facade holds long enough to matter.