Chapter Text
The rink lights reflect off the freshly resurfaced ice, turning it into a bright, glassy stretch beneath your blades. Every sound feels sharper in the nearly empty arena—the low hum of the refrigeration system, the scrape of your skates, the soft exhale of your own breathing as you circle back toward center ice again and again.
Your body aches in that deep, constant way that comes from weeks of overtraining, but you ignore it like you always do. The Winter Olympics are only 6 months away, and there is no room for exhaustion, no room for hesitation, and definitely no room for mistakes.
“Again,” your coach says from the boards.
You nod once and push forward, jaw tight. You have lost count of how many times you have tried the same jump tonight. Ten? Fifteen? More than that, probably. It does not matter anymore. All that matters is landing it cleanly, perfectly, without wobbling, without scraping, without that ugly little pause that keeps happening right before your landing.
You skate faster, shoulders tightening with focus as you build speed across the ice. You take off, turn in the air, and for a second it almost feels right. Almost.
Then your landing falters.
Not enough.
“Too slow,” your coach says immediately.
You lower your head, breathing hard. “I know.”
“You hesitated.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been hesitating all week.”
Your fingers curl around the edge of the boards as you skate back into position.
The word Olympics feels huge in your head, almost too huge to hold. People say it like it is a dream already waiting for you, like simply reaching that level means everything is solved.
They don’t see the hours of repetition, the sore muscles, the bruised ankles, the nights you spend replaying every mistake in your head until you cannot sleep.
They don’t see how much pressure gets packed into every single practice, how everyone suddenly has expectations once your name is attached to that level of competition.
Your parents talk about it like it is inevitable. Your sponsors expect results. Your coaches expect precision. The judges will expect perfection. Yeah, not nerve wracking at all..
“Hundreds of skaters can land that jump,” you mutter, more to yourself than to your coach. “So why should they pick me?”
Your coach’s expression softens, but only slightly. “Because you’re more than a jump, you’ve got star quality.”
“Star quality..?”
‘Star quality my ass.’ You think to yourself.
Where would star quality get you? It won’t perfect your axels, it won't fix unbelievable expressions, it won’t help your balance on the ice, and it most certainly isn’t helping you now. So what's the point of it?
It's easy for anyone to just say that. ‘Not more than a jump’
They are not the one standing on the ice with a dream that feels like it could shatter if you smile wrong. Not the one who keeps wondering whether someone else is training harder, skating cleaner, landing better. And certainly aren’t the ones who replays every mistake at two in the morning until every failure feels bigger than the last.
You try your triple axel one more time, your landing better, but you knew something was still wrong.
“The posture for your axel is off. Let me see your back spin.”
You walk along the rail for a moment, your feeling lightheaded.. maybe its the missing sleep? You take a deep breath before pushing off the rail You release the railing and carve across the ice, settling into a backspin so smooth it almost feels effortless.
“Perfect! Now, you need to do that in the air, like you always did.”
“I know.. I don’t know why I can't get it right anymore” you reply, looking down at the ice while gliding around slowly.
“You’re overworking yourself. It wears on your confidence, y/n, get some sleep after this..”
Your coach glances at the clock and suddenly freezes. “Oh no.”
You look up. “What?”
“My daughter’s recital starts in thirty minutes.” She grabs her bag quickly, already skating toward the exit. “I completely lost track of time.”
You stare at them. “You’re leaving?”
“We’ve been here for hours.”
“I can keep practicing.”
“You can also relax a bit.”
“No.”
“Y/N.”
“I just need a few more tries.”
They let out a tired sigh, one that sounds more worried than annoyed. “You’ve been saying that all month.”
“And I mean it this time.”
“You need sleep.”
“I need to land this.”
“You need balance.”
“I need to stop messing up.”
Silence hangs between you for a moment, thick and uncomfortable. Your coach studies your face for a second, and their voice softens when they speak again. “You don’t ave to be perfect.”
The words hit harder than they should.
The doors close behind them, leaving you alone in the quiet rink. You stand still for a moment, staring at the ice beneath your skates as though it might answer you if you look long enough.
Maybe your coach is right. Maybe you should go home. Maybe you should rest. But the restless, stubborn part of you that has carried you this far refuses to let tonight end like this. Not after all that work. Not after all those failed attempts. Not when you’re just so close.
“Its just a triple axel, if I can do doubles, I can do triples..” you say to yourself as motivation, of course it wasn’t too effective.
One more try.
You push off again, faster this time, harder, your muscles burning as you build speed. The air feels cold against your face as you move across the ice, every part of you focused on nothing but the jump ahead. Takeoff. Rotation. One turn, then another—
Your blade catches.
“Ouch—!”
Pain flashes through your ankle, sudden and sharp, and before you can fight it, your balance disappears. The ice rushes up to meet you, and you hit it hard enough to knock the breath out of your lungs. For a few seconds, you do not move at all.
You just sit there beneath the bright arena lights, staring upward and trying not to think about how badly that landing went, how badly everything feels right now.
“Damn it..!” You ball your hand into a fist and hit it against your head a couple times. “Stupid y/n! Can’t get anywhere like this..!”
You hate this feeling. The helplessness. The doubt. The ugly little voice in the back of your head that keeps whispering maybe you are not enough. Maybe you never were.
Maybe all this training, all this effort, all this pressure is going to end with you falling flat on the ice and watching someone else take the spot you wanted so badly.
“I'm not good enough for this. Why do I still try? Why can’t I just quit already?”
You sit up slowly, wrapping your arms around yourself, and try not to cry.
Then you hear it.
The scrape of skates.
You freeze for a second, turning toward the sound just as a blond man in hockey gear glides to a stop a few feet away.
He has a helmet tucked beneath one arm, and he looks like he has just arrived for practice, except he is standing there like he is not entirely sure whether he should speak at all.
Something about him is immediately noticeable, even before he says a word. Maybe it is the way he looks a little uncertain, a little shy, or the way he is clearly trying very hard not to interrupt.
But what catches your attention first are his eyes—soft, bright, and unexpectedly striking in the harsh light of the rink. They are gentle, but there is something thoughtful in them too, something warm enough to make your chest loosen just a little.
He glances at you, then away, as if suddenly embarrassed to be standing there.
“Um,” he says quietly.
You wipe at your eyes before he can pretend he did not notice. “Great. You saw that.”
His face turns pink almost instantly. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to stare. I just got here for practice.”
“Lucky you,” you say, though your voice comes out more tired than sharp.
He shifts awkwardly, then rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t really know much about figure skating, but…” He hesitates, then looks at you again, and those eyes of his are impossible not to notice a second time. “I don’t think people who aren’t good enough stay after everyone else leaves.”
You blink at him.
“…”
He frowns a little, clearly worried he said the wrong thing. “I mean—sorry, that probably sounded weird.”
A small laugh escapes you before you can stop it. He looks relieved, like that was the first right thing he had said all night.
“No,” you say softly, pushing yourself up from the ice. “It was actually kind of nice.” You wipe a tear that tried to fall
His expression warms, and he offers you a hand. “I’m Matthew.”
You take it, and for some reason, the moment your hand meets his, the knot in your chest loosens just enough to let you breathe again.
“Y/N.”
And in the middle of a ruined practice, with your ankle aching and your dreams feeling heavier than ever, you cannot help but think that maybe meeting him is the first good thing that has happened tonight.