The dining hall is packed for dinner. Emily’s beside me as we grab trays, and we end up at a table with Ava and three other teammates—girls who’ve watched my entire trajectory from ice queen to public disaster to whatever I’m attempting now.

“Maddie!” Ava grins, patting the seat next to her. “Come tell everyone about your graceful performance that time.”

I slide into the chair, arranging my face into something approximating good humor. Different role, same stage. Back then I was untouchable perfection. Now I’m performing relatability, vulnerability, likability. Same skill set, different mask.

“Oh god, you heard about that?” I say, going for mortified amusement. The table leans in, curious, and I launch into the story.

“So Ava decides that teaching me TikTok dances on ice is somehow beneficial for footwork. Which is already questionable logic, but I’m committed to the bit.”

“It builds coordination!” Ava protests, laughing, her hand lands between my shoulderblades, and I ignore it as if it’s supposed to be that way. “Tell them what happened.”

“I’m getting there. So there’s this move—this ridiculous jump-spin thing that looks easy when fourteen-year-olds do it—and I’m trying to follow along.”

I gesture with my fork, demonstrating. “My brain is screaming that this is a terrible idea, but my competitive instincts won’t let me admit defeat to viral choreography.”

Emily’s grinning now, watching me with something that might be pride. The other girls are leaning forward, invested.

“And?” prompts Sarah, one of the sophomores who used to give me a wide berth when I was queen of the rink.

“And I ate shit spectacularly. Straight-up yard-sale fall, the sort that’d make a toddler on training skates cringe.” I’m making it funny, self-deprecating, the kind of story that makes people laugh with you instead of at you. “Ava was crying, Coach was giving me shit. The whole package.”

The table erupts in laughter, and I feel that familiar satisfaction—the performance landing exactly as intended. They’re seeing the version I want them to see: approachable, funny, self-aware. Not the mess underneath.

“I wish someone had filmed it,” Ava says, wiping her eyes. “That would’ve been viral for all the wrong reasons.”

“Please don’t manifest that nightmare into existence.” I steal a fry from Emily’s plate, casual and comfortable, playing the role of girlfriend who’s completely fine. “I don’t need that kind of internet fame.”

“How’s your ankle holding up?” asks Megan, genuinely concerned. “Coming back from that injury—you’ve been skating amazingly.”

“Thanks. It’s good, actually. Physical therapy worked wonders.” I remember Megan had a knee injury last year. “How’s your knee doing? I know you were worried about it during summer training.”

Her face lights up. “Oh my god, so much better! I did the whole PT routine Coach recommended and it’s been great. No pain during practice anymore.”

I ask follow-up questions, remember details about each person’s training. Sarah’s working on her triple Salchow.

Ava’s struggling with footwork sequences. I catalog it all, responding with warmth that feels almost real.

Emily’s watching me with that expression—pride mixed with something else I can’t quite name. She reaches under the table and squeezes my hand, brief and grounding.

The dinner stretches on, and I’m performing so well even I almost believe it. By the time we clear our trays, I’m exhausted from maintaining the facade but weirdly satisfied. The performance was flawless.

Walking back to the dorm, Emily loops her arm through mine. “That was nice,” she says, genuine happiness in her voice. “Everyone really likes you now.”

“Character growth through public humiliation,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Very narratively satisfying.”

“We keep it. We’re not playing it safe.” My voice comes out more intense than intended. “If we want to win, we need the difficulty. I can land it. I will land it.”

That I deserve to be here. That I’m not just dead weight. “You seem really fired up about this,” Emily observes, questioning in her tone.

“Of course I am. We’re going to kill it at Regionals.” The words come out fierce, certain, and I mean them because I have to mean them.

This is the only thing I have control over—landing jumps, executing lifts, performing routines. “We’re going to show everyone that we’re actually good, that the bias at the last competition was complete bullshit, that we deserve to be there.”

Emily grins, matching my energy. “Hell yeah we are. Okay, so Tuesday morning—six AM?”

“Six AM,” I confirm, typing it into my calendar. “And we run the full program twice. No stopping for mistakes, just push through.”

We spend the next hour mapping everything out—specific elements to drill, timing adjustments, technical refinements. My brain is focused and purposeful in a way it hasn’t been since the competition. This I can do. This I can control.

“This is good,” Emily says finally. “We’ve got a solid plan. If we stick to this schedule, we’ll be ready.”

“We’ll be more than ready,” I say, and I believe it because I need to believe it. “We’ll be perfect.”

Emily leans over and kisses me softly. “I love when you get competitive like this. Reminds me of when we first started training together.”

I kiss her back, tasting determination and hope and all the things I’m trying to feel instead of the void. “We’ve got this, Em. We’re going to prove everyone wrong.”

And I mean it. I have to mean it. Because if I can’t do this—if I can’t even skate well after everything I’ve sacrificed—then what’s the point of any of it?