[Emily’s POV]

The bus smells like athletic tape and someone’s aggressive body spray.

Four hours of this. Four hours of recycled air and highway monotony and Chris claiming the seat next to me like he’s staking a flag on undiscovered territory.

He talks the whole way. About hockey, about philosophy classes, about his grandmother’s recipe for miso soup that apparently cures hangovers.

He’s nice. He’s genuinely, aggressively nice in a way that should be refreshing. His shoulder brushes mine when the bus takes a curve. His hand finds excuses to touch my arm during animated stories.

But I feel nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Like someone forgot to plug in the machine that generates romantic interest. The hardware exists but the software crashed spectacularly.

My brain, meanwhile, has decided to run a continuous highlight reel of the party.

Maddie’s eyes locked on mine while she kissed Derek. The heat in my stomach that had nothing to do with anyone else in that room. The way she looked at me like I was something she wanted to destroy and devour simultaneously.

That look keeps replaying on loop, unbidden and relentless.

The fact that she didn’t spend the night in our room doesn’t leave my mind as well.

“You okay?” He’s studying my face with genuine concern. “You seem kind of far away.”

“Just tired.” The lie tastes stale. “Pre-competition nerves.”

He accepts this because he’s nice and nice people don’t push.

When we finally are, the hotel is generic in that specific way all competition hotels are generic. Beige walls, industrial carpet, artwork chosen by a committee of the deeply indifferent.

Mercifully, I share a room with Ava, who claims the bed near the bathroom and almost immediately jumps into talking about a pre-competitions party.

Room 847, hockey guys hosting and Chris already texts me the details with a winky face emoji that feels presumptuous. I almost skip it, until I see Maddie heading down the hallway with Derek, and suddenly attending seems essential.

Strategic awareness. Keep your friends close and your mortal enemies closer.

Or something.

The hotel room is packed with bodies and bad decisions. Someone’s bluetooth speaker blasts music I don’t recognize. The hockey guys have procured alcohol through mysterious channels.

Ava hands me something that tastes like regret and artificial fruit flavoring and I position myself across the room from Maddie.

Perfect view of Derek’s hand on her thigh. Of his attention wandering to every other girl who walks past. Of Maddie’s smile that never quite reaches her eyes. Performative contentment.

“Seven Minutes in Heaven! Let’s gooooo!” Some bro in a backwards hat is waving an empty vodka bottle, shit-eating grin firmly in place.

“What is this, middle school?” someone protests, but they’re already arranging themselves in a circle.

Ava shoving me there too, whispering something about Chris and his strong arms that probably itching to explore me properly since the last party and bus ride.

The bottle spins and Derek gets picked first, disappearing into the closet with a brunette whose name I don’t know. Someone starts a timer on their phone and I watch Maddie’s face for any reaction.

Jealousy. Hurt. Anything at all.

But her expression stays perfectly blank, smooth as fresh ice.

When the closet door opens, Derek emerges looking satisfied with himself. The brunette follows, lipstick smeared. Nobody comments and the bottle spins again, landing on Maddie.

The room watches as she picks it up, flicks her wrist with practiced elegance.

It spins again, slowing, wobbling, and then pointing… At me.

The room explodes. I’m pretty sure someone’s recording on their phone, ready to post the impending bloodbath on their story. My pulse is pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.

Maddie’s eyes meet mine across the circle. Challenge burns in them—scared?—and something else I can’t name.

“Well?” Her voice carries perfectly. “You coming?”

I should laugh it off. Claim a headache, retreat to my room, save myself while I still can.

But then Maddie stands up and saunters towards the closet without a backwards glance, and before my better judgment can tackle my pride to the ground, I’m following her like a woman possessed.

The door closes behind us with a very final click, and suddenly I’m in a closet that’s way too fucking small with my nemesis-slash-roommate-slash-repressed crush.

Fuck.

“Fuck you,” I hiss, shoving her back against the wall. “You’re the one who spent the whole night dry-humping your boyfriend while staring at me.”

I want to shove her away, want to pull her closer, want to scream in her smug, perfect face. But my traitorous body is already arching into her touch, seeking more contact, more friction, more.

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