[Maddie’s POV]

Afternoon practice is going well—landing everything, feeling nothing about it. Very healthy. I’m running through my program when my phone buzzes on the boards, loud enough that Ava glances over.

I finish the combination before skating to the edge. The caller ID makes my stomach drop. My father again. Regular check-ins now, pretending we’re a normal family who didn’t spectacularly implode two months ago.

I grab my phone and blade guards, heading outside. The cold air hits immediately—October in all its miserable glory—and I’m in practice clothes without a jacket. I might as well get this over with.

“Hello?” I answer, trying for neutral and probably landing somewhere around wary and defensive.

“Madison.” His voice is different this time—quieter, more careful. “I know you’re busy, and I know you may not want to talk to me still, but your mother and I wanted to know if you’re okay.”

The shift catches me off guard. No pleasant small talk, no easing into it. Just straight to concern. I watch my breath fog in the air, counting heartbeats while I figure out how to respond.

“I’m fine,” I say, automatic defense kicking in. Then, because something in his tone demands more: “Thanks for worrying.”

There’s a pause. Long enough that I check my phone to make sure we’re still connected.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” he says finally. “About everything. How things ended between us. How I handled it.”

Another pause, and I can practically hear him choosing words. “That wasn’t truly parental of me, Madison. I’ve had time to think about it, and it sucks. The way I reacted, the things I said. Cutting you off like that.”

My brain tries to process this—my father admitting fault, using words like “sucks” instead of his usual clinical precision. It’s so unexpected that I don’t have a prepared response, no performance ready to deploy.

“Okay,” I say carefully, because what else is there? I’m not ready to forgive him, not ready to trust this isn’t some new angle. But I’m also not ready to hang up.

“Your mother cries sometimes,” he continues, and there’s something raw in his voice that makes my chest tight. “About not seeing you, not knowing how you’re really doing. And I—”

He stops, clears his throat. “I was wrong, Madison. About how I treated you. About cutting you off for being honest with us. That’s not what parents should do.”

The admission lands with unexpected weight. I shift my weight, my feet going numb in the cold. Part of me wants to believe him. Part of me remembers exactly how cold he was.

“I’ve been busy with training,” I offer, which is true but beside the point. “Regionals are coming up.”

“I know. I saw your results online.” His voice softens. “Coming back from injury like that—that takes real strength. I should have been there to tell you that instead of making it worse.”

I don’t know what to say to this version of my father. The one who admits mistakes, who says he should have been there. It feels like talking to a stranger wearing my dad’s voice.

“I just wanted you to know that,” he continues when I don’t respond. “That I’m sorry. That what I did wasn’t okay, and you didn’t deserve it. You don’t have to say anything back. I just needed to tell you. I know I apologized last time, but it wasn’t, wasn’t sufficient enough, I guess.”

My throat feels tight. Part of me wants to believe him. Part of me remembers exactly how cold he was, how easily he cut me off when I wasn’t what he expected. “Okay,” I say again, because it’s all I can manage. “I heard you.”

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