[Maddie’s POV]

Afternoon practice has turned into an endurance test I didn’t sign up for. I’m running the same triple-triple combination for the eighteenth time, maybe the hundredth—I’ve lost count.

The entry is perfect. First triple toe loop lands clean. Transition flows. Second triple salchow—clean. I should stop. Instead, I set up for another run.

Coach left twenty minutes ago after telling me not to overdo it. The rink is mostly empty except for stragglers and the Zamboni guy giving me concerned looks.

I launch into the combination again. My legs shake on the landing, my ankle screaming protests I’m ignoring because stopping means thinking, and thinking means confronting the phone calls and everything unraveling.

“Okay, that’s enough.” Ava’s voice cuts through my focus. She’s standing at the boards in street clothes, bag slung over her shoulder, watching me with an expression that suggests she’s been there a while.

“You’re going to burn yourself out before Regionals, and then Coach will murder both of us.”

I skate over, breathing hard, grabbing the board for support. “I’m fine. Just drilling.” I know it doesn’t look like I’m fine, and I don’t feel fine, but fake it ‘till you make it, right?

“You’re drilling the same combination like it personally offended your entire family.” She leans against the boards. “That was, what, twenty times? Thirty?”

“I lost count around fifteen.” I grab my water bottle, chugging half of it. “It needs to be perfect.”

“It is perfect. You’re landing it clean every single time.” Ava’s eyebrows raise. “Which means you’re not actually drilling—you’re punishing yourself for something. Want to grab coffee and tell me what’s going on?”

The offer catches me off guard. Coffee with Ava has become a thing lately—actual friendship instead of just teammate proximity. “Yeah, okay. Let me change.”

Twenty minutes later we’re at the campus coffee shop. We claim a table near the window, and I wrap my hands around my latte.

“So,” Ava says, dumping sugar packets into her coffee with reckless abandon, “want to tell me why you were trying to drill yourself into the ice like you’re searching for buried treasure?”

“Just stress.” I watch the foam patterns dissolve. “Regionals is coming up, and I need to be ready.”

“You are ready. You’ve been landing everything consistently for weeks.” She stirs her coffee. “This isn’t about being ready.”

I should deflect. Make a joke, change the subject, perform the version of myself that’s fine and handling everything. But Ava’s looking at me with genuine concern, and the words are suddenly right there, pressing against my throat.

“My dad’s been calling,” I hear myself say. “A lot. Like, every few days. Being all supportive and concerned and acting like he didn’t cut me off completely two months ago.”

Ava’s eyes widen slightly. “Shit.” It feels like an understatement of the century, but I don’t point that out. “What’s he saying?”

“That he’s been thinking about how he reacted, that maybe he was too harsh. That he wants to have dinner, just talk things through as a family.”

I trace the rim of my cup. “He keeps mentioning this coach he knows, wants me to meet with her, get a second opinion on my training.”

“And you think it’s manipulation.” It’s not a question, and I hate it. Ava doesn’t know my family’s dynamic, and she still nails it without having to ask.

“Should is a bullshit word.” Ava leans forward. “Look, I don’t know your dad. I don’t know if he’s genuine or scheming. But you’re allowed to miss your family. You’re allowed to want them back. That doesn’t make you weak.”

“Anytime. And Maddie?” She pauses. “Whatever you decide about your dad—just make sure it’s actually your decision, not what you think everyone else wants you to decide.”

I nod, and we part ways. The walk back to the dorm is quiet, my brain churning through everything unsaid.

Emily’s at her desk when I get back, laptop open and surrounded by highlighters in various colors. She looks up and smiles. “Hey. How was practice?”

“Good. Productive.” I drop my bag and sit on my bed, suddenly exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with physical exertion. “How’s the essay going?”

“It’s going.” She makes a face at her screen. “Currently arguing that Shakespeare was making a statement about gender roles in Twelfth Night, except I’m not sure I actually believe my own thesis.”

“Academic honesty is overrated.” I lie back against my pillows, staring at the ceiling. “Sometimes you just have to commit to the bit.”

Emily laughs softly, and we fall into comfortable silence. She types occasionally, I stare at the ceiling, and it should feel peaceful. Instead, there’s this weight pressing down on my chest—everything I’m not saying, everything I’m actively hiding, the performance I’m maintaining even now.

My father’s voice loops through my head. We both miss you terribly. Maybe we could have dinner. My mother supposedly cried, missing me. Victoria Hughes offering professional guidance. Emily skates better without me weighing her down. The biased scores at competitions that proved I’m not good enough no matter how perfectly I perform.

And underneath it all: what if I just went home for one weekend? Sat down with my parents, let them say whatever they need to say, proving I’m fine. Then everything would be settled. Clean break or clean reconciliation—either way, I’d know.

The thought doesn’t leave me alone. It sits in my chest while Emily types and I stare at the ceiling and the space between us fills with everything I’m not saying.