[Emily’s POV]

The kiss-and-cry area is misnamed. Should be called the sit-and-contemplate-your-existential-crisis zone. Or maybe the smile-for-cameras-while-dying-inside booth.

I’m holding Maddie’s hand—have been since we sat down—and the reporters are swarming like particularly aggressive mosquitoes, except instead of blood they want quotes about how it feels to get screwed over by biased judging.

I count at least seven microphones pointing at my face. Seven different opportunities to say something that’ll get clipped and shared on social media by people with very strong opinions about things they don’t understand.

“Miss Harper, your technical execution was flawless. Any comment on the scores?” A woman with a microphone shoves it toward my face.

Her press badge says something about Sports Weekly, but I’m too focused on not saying what I’m actually thinking, which is that the scores are bullshit and everyone knows it.

I plaster on my media smile, the one I’ve been perfecting since I was twelve and my first coach told me that judges remember attitudes. “We’re proud of our performances regardless of placement. The bias is disappointing but not surprising.”

I squeeze Maddie’s hand, hoping for some kind of response, some sign that we’re in this together. Her face stays carefully neutral, like she’s watching a moderately interesting documentary about paint drying.

Another reporter jumps in, this one male with an aggressive energy that makes my teeth clench. “Miss Reyes, coming back from injury to land all your elements—how does it feel to place sixth?”

Maddie’s smile is professional and completely empty. I wait for her to say something—anything—but she just nods slightly, and the smile doesn’t waver. It’s the same smile she used to give Derek back when she was pretending to be the ice queen.

My stomach drops somewhere around my ankles. This is bad. This is Maddie checking out, and I know that look, know what happens when she retreats inside herself like she’s building a fortress and burning the bridge behind her.

“We’re grateful for the support we’ve received,” I say, filling the silence because someone has to. “The skating community has been incredible.”

The reporters keep firing questions but I’m on autopilot now, giving them sound bites while watching Maddie from the corner of my eye.

She sits perfectly still, her hand limp in my grip, and it’s like holding hands with a mannequin. A very well-dressed, beautifully made-up mannequin who just happens to be having an internal breakdown.

When the reporters finally disperse, Coach Marquette swoops in like some kind of avenging angel in a Lakeview jacket. She pulls us both aside, her face tight with barely controlled fury.

“We need to talk about filing a formal complaint,” Coach says, her voice low and intense. “These scores are absurd.”

I nod immediately, gripping Maddie’s hand harder in mine. “Yes. Absolutely. We should—” I want to explain all the reasons the scores are bullshit, even if both Maddie and Coach know that themselves, but Maddie cuts me off.

“What’s the point?” Maddie’s voice is flat, empty. She shrugs, the motion mechanical. “They’ll score us how they want.”

Coach’s expression shifts from anger to concern, and I feel a hot, pulsing panic rising in my chest because Coach sees it too: the resignation, the defeat.

The way Maddie’s checking boxes on some internal list labeled ‘reasons why I’m not good enough.’ “Maddie,” Coach starts, but Maddie’s already standing, already moving toward the exit.

“I need to change,” Maddie says, and she’s gone before Coach can finish her sentence.

Coach looks at me, and I read the question there: ‘what’s going on?’ I wish I knew. I wish I could explain that the girl I love is disappearing right in front of me, and I don’t know how to pull her back.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify