After hours and hours of 4 a.m. alarms, bruised hips, sprained ankles, months of physiotherapy, saying no to every party invite, missing birthdays, holidays, every normal teenage thing, and being pushed to my physical and mental limits—this was all that was left: glory.

And I was planning to bask in every drop of it.

The crowd erupted in cheers and applause, like a dam had broken and they’d all been holding their breath with me. I blinked again, overwhelmed. Some people were even throwing things onto the ice. Teddy bears? That was new. I beamed and waved up at them, doing my best to look graceful—like I hadn’t just nearly vomited from nerves ten minutes ago.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her.

She didn’t look like your typical figure skating fan. No puffy jacket, no glittery posters, no soft smile or misty eyes. She actually looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. She had thick, curly hair that fell in dark coils around her shoulders and a chiseled, tan face. She was beautiful in an intimidating way, like an old Greek statue. She looked like the kind of girl people would go to war over.

Her dark brown eyes were locked on me. Watching my every move. Not smiling. Not clapping. Just watching.

When she caught me staring back, she scowled.

Seriously?

Whatever.

I bent down and picked up one of the smaller stuffed toys someone had tossed my way. A little girl, maybe six or seven, had thrown it from the second row—wide eyes, two messy braids, and a toothy grin. The toy was pink, wore a tutu, and even had little hand-knitted ice skates sewn onto its feet. Handmade, probably. My heart swelled a little. How sweet.

I looked back up and saw the girl pointing excitedly, bouncing in place, whispering something to her mom like I was famous.

That’s the part I never got used to. The way kids looked at me like I was more than human. It made me feel good of course, it would to anyone.

Skating over to the exit, I slipped on my hard guards, the clack of plastic against ice jolting me a little. My coach, David, met me with my warm-up jacket, helping me cover up my now slightly purple-tinged skin. The thin blue dress I wore—sleeveless, sparkly, freezing—didn’t do much to keep out the cold now that the adrenaline was fading.

“How do you think my program went?” I asked, pretending to be casual. “Do you think I could get first?”

David raised an eyebrow at me, always unreadable. He loved playing it down.

“I’m optimistic,” he said eventually. “Your spins were perfect and your edges were clean. But there are still four more skaters. Anything could happen.”

Optimistic. I smirked. That was basically a glowing review coming from him. I’d seen him call perfect routines “fine” just to keep his skaters humble. He had this whole ‘cooler than you’ persona going on. I didn’t really mind, though. It just meant his compliments meant so much more.

We walked toward the waiting area together. My legs still trembled a little beneath me, not quite sure if they were supposed to be performing or collapsing. I saw a big coach ahead of me. Collapsing it was.

The waiting room was small, warm, with cozy lighting and the soft hum of a heater. A sofa sat in front of a mounted TV where the scoreboard flickered gently. It was calm and peaceful and exactly what I needed.

We sat down and my nerves ratcheted up another level. My fingers drummed on my knee. David frowned at me; he didn’t like my nervous habits. I couldn’t really help it though. I was always sort of hyper aware of everything. I called it spidey sense. Dad called it ADHD.

The current first-place skater had a total of 183 points. She’d earned 116 in her free skate. That was a solid score. It wouldn’t be easy to beat. But I had scored a 68 in my short program—higher than her. I felt it in my frozen bones: my free skate had gone better than any rehearsal. I had done everything right, now it was all up to the judges.

I needed first if I wanted to qualify for nationals. It was everything. And then—there it was.

The screen changed. My score appeared in bold, white letters:

Junior Women’s Figure Skating

Florence Monroe – 189.80 points

I was first.

My throat tightened. I turned to David, eyes wide. “David, I won.”

He was grinning, but still tried to keep up his usual cautious front.

“Let’s just wait a little longer. It’s not over yet.”

I nodded, pretending to stay calm. My hands were shaking. If I kept my position on the scoreboard it would mean I could go to nationals. If I won Nationals…

I stopped myself from getting too hopeful.

“I’m going to the toilet. Watch the rest of the programs and call me if there’s a threat.”

I grabbed my skate bag and walked off, the corridor colder than I remembered. My jacket was doing very little at this point, and I curled my arms around myself for warmth. I pulled out my phone and dialed my dad. He picked up on the third ring.

“Dad, I think I’m going to win!”

“Are you serious?! That’s amazing, Flo—I knew you could do it.”

I beamed. Compliments always meant a lot, but coming from my dad? They hit different. He was my hero. He raised me on his own, drove me to every competition, scraped money together for coaching and gear. He believed in me before I ever had believed in myself, telling me I had something special. That I was something special.

“I just wish I could be there with you to celebrate,” he sighed.

“Oh, Dad, come on. I’ll see you in no time. And besides, I don’t even know I’m getting first. There are still four more skaters.”

“Alright,” he said. “But we both know you’ll win. How many points did you get?”

“Well, in the short program I scor—”

I stopped.

There she was again.

She’d moved seats. Now she was in the hallway. Near me.

Still watching.

Still frowning.

My pulse picked up again. It was subtle, but immediate. My body reacted before I had time to tell it not to.

Why? Why was she here, and why did she keep looking at me? Had I offended her somehow? Did she know me? Did she think I was arrogant? Was she another skater’s sister? A rival? A stalker? Was she going to kidnap me and put me in the boot of her car so I could never see the light of day again?

Okay, no. Calm down.

“Hang on, Dad, I’ll call you back.”

I didn’t wait for a reply. I hung up and walked quickly toward the bathrooms. I wasn’t sure what this girl wanted, but there was no way she’d follow me in. Right?

I locked myself in a stall and sat down on the closed lid of the toilet. My legs bounced with leftover nerves. I pulled out my phone and texted Lisa, my best friend. She was a skater too, but she hadn’t made it to this comp.

Me: Weird girl staring at me, maybe following me, what do I do?

Lisa: Relax Flo, she’s probably just a fan. Maybe a little awkward and doesn’t know how to approach you.

Me: You're right. I don’t know why I’m being so dramatic. Maybe I should go talk to her. I’ll take a selfie with her if she wants.

I stared at my reflection in the metal toilet paper holder. My previously perfect winged eyeliner had now smudged slightly from sweat. My lips were dry and my rose lipstick was peeling off. My cheeks still flushed with heat. I looked like someone who’d just skated her life out. Hopefully no one could see that on camera.

I splashed cold water on my face at the sink, giving up on any hope of looking put together. I took a few deep breaths, and pushed open the bathroom door. Showtime.

But she was gone.

Vanished. Like she’d never been there.

I guess there would be no selfie.

My phone buzzed.

David: Flo, you should come back. Last girl’s on the ice. No one’s beaten your score… but she just did three triples.

Three triples? Crap.

I had done three, but that's what had gotten me my score. If any of her components were better than mine she would win.

I took off running, the hallway a blur. My skate bag thudded against my hip with every step. It didn’t really matter whether I was there to witness my downfall or not, but I had always had this thing about control. Maybe I could talk the judges out of giving her more points than me. Sure it would be immoral, but I really needed this win. Plus, everyone always said I have a way with words.

I rounded a corner, nearly slipping on the polished floor—

And then bam.

I slammed into someone. Hard.

I went down like a sack of bricks, the wind knocked out of me.

God this was embarrassing. I really hoped there were no filming fans around. I couldn’t bear to watch that in a youtube compilation.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” I said automatically, trying to get up, but everything froze.

I looked up—and forgot how to breathe.

It was her.

She was towering over me. Muscles. Jawline. Presence.

She took two steps forward, closing the space between us with unnerving calm.

She looked down at me. Her expression unreadable.