[Maddie’s POV]

The practice rink after hours has that specific silence that amplifies every thought I’ve been avoiding. Overhead lights dimmed, casting shadows that look judgmental.

I’m running through my triple Salchow combination for the fifteenth time. My legs are screaming, lungs burning. The Zamboni operator saw me come in but politely pretended not to notice.

My phone buzzes. I consider ignoring it—nothing good comes from phone calls after eight PM—but muscle memory makes me skate over. My father’s name glows on the screen.

I stare at it for three rings, thumb hovering over decline. But avoiding him hasn’t stopped the calls. And maybe I’m exhausted enough, lonely enough, to want to hear someone who sounds like they care. I answer. “Hello?”

“Madison.” His voice is warm, measured—but different. There’s weight beneath the warmth. “How are you, sweetheart? I hope I’m not calling too late.”

The endearment makes my throat tight. It never fails to do so, which is becoming a big issue. “I’m fine. Just finishing practice. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to check in on you.” He pauses. “Your mother and I have been talking. We’re worried about you.”

My stomach drops. I lean against the boards. “Worried? I’m fine. Training is going well—”

“Not about your skating.” He quickly cuts me off. “Your skating looks great. We follow your results. No, we’re worried about your wellbeing. About you as a person, not just an athlete.” The careful distinction feels both manipulative and genuine simultaneously.

“I’ve been seeing more of those articles,” he continues, voice protective. “About the discrimination. The comments online about you and Emily—Madison, people are cruel. It also makes your mom really upset.”

“Mom’s upset?” My voice gets smaller. I love my Dad, always, but Mom’s always been the more present, more forgiving parent.

“She cries sometimes,” he says. “She’s worried you’re sacrificing your future for a relationship that’s making everything harder. Not that Emily is a bad person. But this situation, the backlash… it’s not fair to you.”

He’s too smart to make Emily the villain. Instead he’s building something more insidious—concern for my wellbeing, the implication that maybe love shouldn’t cost this much.

“I can handle it,” I say, but the words sound hollow even to me. “It’s just politics. Discrimination. It’s not—”

“Have you thought about what life would look like if you could focus solely on skating?” His voice is gentle. “Without all the external pressure? Without fighting these battles on top of training?”

I open my mouth and find no answer. The silence stretches—Emily is worth fighting for, I love her, backing down feels like betrayal.

But also: I’m so fucking tired. The discrimination is wearing me down. Sometimes I wonder if he’s right.

“I know it’s complicated,” he says when I don’t answer. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do. But your mother and I think maybe we should talk in person. Sit down like a family. You, me, and your mom. No agenda. Just talk. Would you consider that?”

The word ‘yeah’ falls out before I can stop it. “Really?” Relief floods his voice. “That would mean the world to your mother. We don’t have to figure out timing now. We can talk later, and find a weekend that works. But just knowing you’re willing—that’s huge.”

But my father’s voice is in my head. Your mother cries sometimes. The future you’re sacrificing. Focus solely on skating.

So she keeps talking about the routine, and I keep performing interest, and the space between what I’m showing and what I’m feeling grows wider.

I’m so fucking tired. Tired of performing, tired of fighting, tired of wondering if my father’s right that maybe love shouldn’t cost this much. Tired of being the problem that needs solving, the weight Emily has to carry.

I need to tell her. About the calls, about tonight’s conversation, about saying ‘yeah’ to sitting down with my parents. About how confused and exhausted and lost I feel. She deserves to know I’ve been hiding this, that I’m not actually as okay as I’ve been pretending.

But the words stick in my throat, trapped behind weeks of carefully maintained performance. Emily’s still talking about Regionals, about how good we’re going to be, about our future together on the ice, and every word makes the guilt heavier.

“Em?” The word escapes before I lose my nerve, cutting through her explanation of entry angles.

She stops mid-sentence, expression shifting from excited to concerned instantly. “Yeah?”

I open my mouth, and for a moment everything hangs there—all the truth I’ve been avoiding, all the conversations we need to have, all the ways I’ve been falling apart while pretending to be whole. The confession sits on my tongue, ready to spill out and change everything.

But then I look at her face, at the worry already in her eyes, at the way her hands have stilled on her laptop, and I know that once I start talking, I can’t take it back. Once I admit my father called, that I’m considering seeing my parents, that maybe I’m not sure if this is worth it—everything changes.

So I just stare at her, the beginning of a sentence hanging in the air between us.