[Emily’s POV]

My gear bag looks like someone performed surgery with a chainsaw and poor impulse control. The slashes run diagonal, creating ventilation nobody requested. My favorite jacket, the one Mom saved for three months to buy, hangs from the ruins like a flag of surrender that got confused about which war it was surrendering to.

“That’s an interesting design choice,” I tell the destroyed fabric. “Very avant-garde. Very ‘my equipment developed sentience and chose violence against itself.’ I’m sure this will start a trend among people who enjoy their belongings looking like crime scenes.”

Jenna’s laughter carries across the locker room with the subtlety of a foghorn auditioning for a stealth mission. She’s positioned with Carol and Mary like they’re posing for a brochure about synchronized cruelty. Their coordination suggests they practiced this formation, possibly with diagrams.

“Some people just can’t take care of their things,” Jenna announces to the air molecules, loud enough for the building’s foundation to hear. “You’d think scholarship kids would be more careful with their limited possessions. Very careless behavior from someone who probably can’t afford replacements.”

“Right,” Carol agrees with enthusiasm that suggests she just discovered agreeing exists. “Maybe if certain people stayed where they belonged, their equipment wouldn’t spontaneously develop separation anxiety and fall apart. Natural selection through sporting goods, really.”

Mary nods like her neck is trying to escape her shoulders through repetitive motion. “The universe has ways of correcting mistakes. Sometimes those ways involve sharp objects and synthetic fabrics having irreconcilable differences.”

I gather my destroyed belongings with the care of someone collecting evidence at their own funeral. The jacket feels heavier destroyed than it ever did intact, which seems physically impossible but emotionally accurate. Physics and feelings are having a jurisdictional dispute.

“This is fascinating,” I say, matching their volume. “My equipment apparently attempted suicide while I was skating. Very dramatic. Very attention-seeking behavior from inanimate objects that should really seek therapy instead of self-harm.”

The entire team has assembled now, drawn by the frequency of barely concealed conflict. They arrange themselves like an audience that didn’t buy tickets but showed up anyway. Coach Marquette stands near the door, clipboard in hand, expression suggesting she’s calculating whether intervention falls within her pay grade.

“Whoever did this,” I continue, holding up my bisected jacket like evidence in a trial about fashion crimes, “has excellent knife skills but terrible understanding of property law. Also probably some unresolved issues with synthetic fabrics that should be addressed professionally.”

“That’s a serious accusation,” Jenna says, her smile suggesting she’s been waiting for this moment like Christmas morning for sociopaths. “You’re suggesting someone deliberately destroyed your things? That would require proof. Evidence. The kind that holds up in theoretical court proceedings about athletic equipment homicide.”

“Proof?” I look directly at her, then at the knife marks that look remarkably similar to the box cutter she’s sported earlier today. .

“You mean besides the fact that I’ve seen you with box cutter this morning? That kind of proof seems pretty self-evident, like gravity or your personality disorder.”

The rink goes silent with the specific quality of silence that precedes either explosions or faculty intervention.

Coach watches with the detached interest of someone whose contract doesn’t cover interpersonal warfare. The team forms a circle that feels less like support and more like spectators at a gladiator match where both contestants forgot their weapons.

“Are you calling me a vandal?” Jenna’s voice rises to frequencies that make nearby glass consider career changes. “Based on what, exactly? Your paranoid delusions about popular girls targeting you? Maybe you destroyed your own things for attention. Scholarship kids do desperate things for sympathy sometimes.”

“I’m calling you someone who coincidentally discusses destroyed property while having the exact tool necessary for said destruction in the bag,” I respond, maintaining eye contact like it’s a competitive sport. “The correlation seems statistically significant, even accounting for coincidence having a really productive day.”

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