Maddie moves first, and of course she does it like she’s auditioning for the Olympics and a Vogue shoot simultaneously.

She launches into a combination spin—camel to sit to upright—each position flowing like water. Like gravity is just a suggestion she’s politely declining.

The team whistles. Someone actually whoops.

It’s good. It’s very good. It’s the kind of spin that says ‘I could do this in my sleep, but I’m choosing to dazzle you anyway.’

I hate that I’m impressed. I hate it a lot.

My turn. I match her spin sequence because I’m petty like that—same transitions, same positions. But I snap the rotations faster, tighter.

When I finish, the clapping is polite but confused. Like they’re not sure if they’re allowed to be impressed by the peasant who dared to match their queen.

Maddie’s smile doesn’t even flicker. If anything, it gets brighter, which in Maddie-speak probably means she’s calculating exactly how to destroy me.

She takes her time skating back to center ice, building anticipation like she’s about to reveal the meaning of life instead of just doing another jump. Then—triple flip. Perfect extension, perfect landing, arms raised like she’s accepting an Oscar.

The team loses their minds. You’d think she just cured cancer with that landing.

And here’s where I should be smart. Strategic. Do a nice, safe triple lutz and call it a day. Live to fight another day. Be the bigger person.

Fuck that.

My body makes the decision before my brain can file an objection. One hand up triple axel—the jump that got me recruited, the one that made Coach Marquette literally gasp when she saw it on video.

The one that less than ten percent of female skaters can land consistently.

The takeoff is perfect. Three and a half rotations in the air, and for those seconds, nothing exists except me and the physics of defying gravity. The landing is so clean it’s almost silent.

And speaking of silence… The entire rink goes dead quiet.

Like, horror-movie-right-before-the-killer-appears quiet.

Fifteen pairs of eyes stare at me like I just pulled a rabbit out of my ass instead of a hat. The blonde who started this whole thing actually has her mouth hanging open.

Maddie’s face is a masterpiece of controlled nothing. Not surprise, not anger, just… nothing. Like I didn’t just out-skate her in front of her entire kingdom.

Then she laughs.

It’s light, airy, completely unbothered. She glides toward the boards with the casual grace of someone who’s decided this game is beneath her.

“Saving my ankles for the actual competition season,” she announces to no one in particular. “Some of us think long-term.”

Translation: I can’t match that jump and we both know it.

Technically, I won. The triple axel beats the triple flip in the invisible hierarchy of jumps that every skater carries in their head

But she walks away like she chose to end the game, like continuing would bore her. The victory sits in my mouth like ash. Like she let me win, which is somehow worse than losing.

Then Coach Marquette, clipboard in hand and whistle around her neck, calls for attention from the rink board she occupied during training.

“You all saw that triple axel up close, girls. That’s the standard I’m looking for this season. Study it.”

She says more after that, something about competition schedules and lineup considerations. Someone behind me mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “teacher’s pet,” but when I turn, everyone’s suddenly fascinated by their skate laces.

And I’m too aware of Maddie’s gaze burning into my back.

After practice, Maddie catches me near the locker room door. Her smile is bright and sharp, like something designed to cut.

Stop it, Emily. She’s evil now. Evil doesn’t get to have cute freckles.

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