Two weeks before Nationals, and I’m discovering that communal showers at ten PM have the specific ambiance of a horror movie that forgot to hire the killer. The tiles reflect fluorescent light like they’re auditioning for a migraine commercial. Steam rises with the enthusiasm of ghosts who’ve given up haunting for performance art.

“At least the water pressure doesn’t hate me personally,” I tell the showerhead, which responds by maintaining adequate flow like it’s doing me a favor. The hot water feels like absolution for muscles that have been staging a revolt since morning practice.

The door opens with the specific sound of premeditated violence wearing sneakers. Jenna enters flanked by Carol and Sophie, their synchronized movement suggesting they rehearsed this in a mirror while practicing their villain monologues.

My stomach performs the kind of drop usually reserved for discovering you’re related to your Tinder match.

“Well look what we found,” Jenna says, her voice achieving frequencies that make porcelain consider career changes. “The scholarship trash taking up space in our facilities. Very bold of you to exist where we can see you.”

“I’m literally just showering,” I respond, reaching for my towel that suddenly seems miles away across terrain made of social violence. “Unless you’re here to critique my shampoo technique, this feels unnecessarily aggressive even for you.”

Carol moves to block the exit with the efficiency of someone who’s watched too many prison documentaries. Sophie reaches for my shower control, and suddenly the water becomes liquid hatred at temperatures that violate Geneva conventions about skin preservation.

“Fuck!” The word escapes as I try to dodge the scalding stream, but there’s nowhere to go. They’ve formed a triangle of casual cruelty with better coordination than our actual skating routines. “Turn it off, that’s actually dangerous, not just mean girl theater!”

“You should learn your place,” Jenna continues, stepping closer while I press against the wall like I’m trying to phase through tile. “Scholarship kids who don’t know when to leave, taking spots from people who actually deserve them. Maybe pain will teach you what words haven’t.”

“This is assault!” I gasp, skin burning with the specific pain of flesh discovering new definitions of too much. “I will fucking report it, you bitches!”

Sophie laughs like someone taught a hyena about sadism. “Report it to who? Nobody cares about you or your reports. Just learn to live with it.”

I try to push past them but Carol shoves me back hard enough that my shoulder hits the tile with a crack that echoes. The water keeps burning, and my skin feels like it’s writing its resignation letter in first-degree burns. This is beyond mean girls. This is something else wearing a familiar costume.

“Stop.” The word cuts through everything like a blade made of absolute zero. Maddie stands in the doorway, and her expression could freeze hell while it’s still doing the paperwork. “Back the fuck off. Now.”

Jenna tries to laugh but it comes out like a death rattle auditioning for comedy. “Maddie, we’re just having a conversation about resource allocation. Very economic. You’d appreciate the free market approach to shower usage.”

“Turn off the water,” Maddie says, each word precisely calibrated to cause maximum psychological damage, as she’s stepping forward. Three vs one vs me, backed into the shower stall corner with scalding-hot water.

“Step away from her. Leave this building. If you’re still here in thirty seconds, I’m calling Coach, the Dean, and the police in that order. Your parents will get a detailed report about their daughters committing assault with intent to cause serious bodily harm.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Carol starts, but Maddie’s laugh contains no humor, just nuclear winter wearing emotional clothing.

“I’m done protecting you,” Maddie states with the finality of someone detonating their own bridges. “Done enabling this shit. Done pretending it’s just competitive spirit when it’s actually criminal behavior with athletic equipment as props. Twenty seconds.”

“Is this adrenaline or arousal? Very hard to distinguish when trauma and desire share nervous system highways.”

“Both, probably,” I gasp as she adds another finger with the urgency of someone racing against reality reasserting itself.

She moves down my body, replacing fingers with her tongue in a transition that makes my spine forget its structural responsibilities. The shower floor is hard against my back but her mouth on me makes architecture irrelevant. She licks with the desperation of someone trying to apologize through oral arguments.

“Maddie, fuck, your tongue—” I moan, hands tangling in her wet hair with probably too much force. She doesn’t complain, just grips my thighs harder and increases her tongue’s campaign against coherent thought.

My orgasm builds with the specific intensity of delayed justice finally arriving via oral administration. When I come, it’s with her name broken into syllables while my body tries to achieve levitation through muscle contractions alone. She doesn’t stop, just continues until I come again, shaking against her mouth.

She crawls back up and we hold each other on the wet floor, breathing hard while the fluorescent lights witness our complete abandonment of sense. “This doesn’t fix everything,” Maddie whispers, but she holds me tighter like she’s arguing with her own words.

“I know,” I respond, feeling her heartbeat against my chest like morse code for complications neither of us can decode yet. “But thank you for choosing this disaster over your carefully maintained safety.”

We stay on that shower floor, two people holding on like letting go might cause immediate disintegration. The water pooling around us reflects fluorescent light like it’s documenting evidence of choices that change everything through their terrible beautiful consequences.