#figure skater!reader

You and your mother weren't close, but you were always together. Long training sessions, almost 13 hours a day, ensuring you were as graceful as you were elegant on ice. And because of that, you were homeschooled. Your mother, of course, being your strictest and only tutor. 

There was no space for mistakes. 

And when you did make a mistake, your mother would curse at you and shame you. Frequently telling you, “What do you think your father must be feeling now? In a place like heaven, and he’s looking down at a disappointment like you.”

People around you had always told you how they couldn't stand the cold, but you found it quite comforting.

You were surrounded by the cold for nearly 14 years, forced to find comfort within it.

And stepping on the ice made all your thoughts go away; it was a place where you found inner peace. 

Which was ironic.

When you were three, your mother coached you for the first time, and you absolutely hated it. Kicking and screaming, eyes filled with tears. You didn't want to! You had been woken too early for your liking and it was cold. 

She harshly grabbed you by the shoulders, which silenced your cries instantly and told you that you would get on the ice or you weren't going to have dinner that night.

It was a frequent occurrence, taking your meals away.

She often told you about her figure skating career, and you've seen the old newspaper clippings in photo albums, you both knew she was at the height of her career when she fell pregnant with you.

And as you grew older, things only got worse. Your mother had gotten obsessed with your body, constant weight checks that resulted in her refusing to feed you (if she had even bothered to buy food) if she wasn't happy.

But all that suddenly stopped.

She wasn't around as much, and you didn’t really see her boyfriend anymore, leaving you 20 dollars to get food and you even got a new coach! (but she wasn't as good as your mom, though…) But you loved it, the freedom of it all, although you were feeling a little guilty inside. You still missed your mother.

And when she was home, she was either drunk or high or both. You helped her as much as you could, giving her some coffee and some food, helping her change into fresh clothes and tucking her into bed. 

And in those moments, she actually felt like a mother to you. She asked you how your day was, if you finally got your triple axel or if you were doing well in school, all while speaking in a soft voice you never knew she had in her. 

So when she didn't come home for 5 days, that's when you actually started getting worried. You usually saw her every 2 days, or when you didn't see her face-to-face, there was either some money on the kitchen counter or one of her shoes lying around. But there was no sign of her.

You took your phone out of your pocket and, with shaky hands, dialled the Gotham police department’s non-emergency number. 

Holding the phone to your ear, the rhythmic ring that seemed to drone on forever, did nothing to ease your worries. 

“Gotham Police Department, how may I help you?” The woman's monotone voice answered the phone. 

“Um, Hi. I was wondering if you guys maybe have my mom in custody? Her name is Catherine Lebedeva.” You struggle even letting the words leave your mouth, your leg shaking in anticipation.

She stayed quiet, but you could hear her typing on her keyboard. 

“No, there's no Catherine in our system.” She said, boredom lacing her voice. 

Then, you called the hospital, struggling to even breathe properly as the phone rang. 

“Gotham General Hospital, how may I help you?” The woman’s cheery voice came through. 

“H-hi, is there a Catherine Lebedeva in your hospital?” 

“I’ll check for you, baby,” on the other line, she typed on her keyboard as you walked in circles, trying to calm your nerves.

But that didn’t help in the slightest when you heard her stop typing and her breath hitched, “What?” 

“Are you family to her?” she started typing again.

“Y-yes, I’m her daughter,” 

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

The next few moments are a blur.

You don’t remember getting in a taxi. 

Fatal car accident. 

You don’t remember walking into the hospital, your legs guiding the way.

Room 33 

Your mom's lucky number.

The scene before you was something you’d never wish upon your worst enemy.

Your mom lay in the hospital bed, the white sheets making her look incredibly small. 

Her breathing was shallow as a ventilator stuck out of her mouth, trying its best to bring life back into her lungs. 

Ropes of dried blood had rushed down from her hairline, covering her face and matting her hair into dark, heavy clumps.

She looked unrecognisable, far from the high standards she held for herself.

Not being able to look at her any further, you turned your head to wipe your teary eyes, then looked around the room.

The bright fluorescent lights blinded your eyes, the sharp smell of antiseptic hitting your nose as the nurses rushed down the hallway outside your mother's room.

“Y/n?” You turned around to see your mothers on again, off-again boyfriend standing in the doorway, his face pale, exhausted even, an abrasion adorning his temple.

“Luca?” You asked in confusion, “What happened? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Your vision blurred as tears now threatened to spill out of your eyes, but you swallowed them back.

“Let’s talk outside?” He gestured and walked further into the hallway. 

“I’m so sorry I didn’t call you Y/n, but every time I pressed on your contact, I-” He shook his head, “I just couldn’t”

He glanced at you, expecting you to say something, but you stayed silent.

You sat on the cold, metal chairs that lined the hallway, and the silence stretched between the two of you until Luca gained the confidence to speak up. 

“Your mother and I were driving back from the diner, and um,” he let out a broken laugh. “She insisted she should drive, and there was a drunk driver,” 

And that was all you could listen to before tears blurred your vision again. 

An uncontrollable sob escaped your lips.

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It was the sound of blaring monitors and nurses shuffling around that woke you up.

Taking a moment to adjust to the fluorescent lights and to remember where you were, you sat up in the hospital chair and slowly opened your eyes. 

You scanned the room until they landed on your mom. She was now awake, the ventilator out of her mouth, propped up in the hospital bed, her eyes treary as she looked at you.

Scrambling up to your feet, you rushed to her bedside, almost tripping, and took her hands in yours.

“Easy, Dochenka,” she smiled softly despite her eyes being teary and her voice hoarse.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, rubbing small circles in the palm of her left hand. 

“Of course,” she affirmed, but her jaw was tight, and her whole body was stiff.

“Mama,” you gave her an expectant look, but she waved your concern off, insisting that she’d be fine.

After a moment of silence, your mom spoke up despite her strained breathing.

“I want to apologise,”

You looked up from her hands, “Mama, you don’t need to apologise-”                              

“No,” she cut you off, “The way I treated you was unacceptable, and I wish I could make it up to you, but there is no time left for me.”

“What?” Confusion riddled your body.

“The doctors say that I am dying, and I have decided not to fight anymore,” she said simply, as if this wasn’t the most life-changing news ever, as if there wasn’t anything that could be done so that she could live longer.

“Mama, no,” tears filled your eyes, as you shook your head. “No. You can't just- You can’t go. No, you’re lying”

Her breathing became more ragged, and she held both sides of your face, ignoring the again blaring monitors.

“Underneath my bed is a box, and it will explain everything,” she wiped the ever-flowing tears from your eyes, bringing your head closer to hers and gave you a light kiss on the forehead.

“I’m sorry, Dochenka,” she whispered, “But I know that you will achieve great things and I am already so proud of you.” She smiled softly, closing her eyes as she let out her last breath, her hands falling from your face.

You held her in your arms, trying to shake her awake. “Mama, no- this isn’t funny. You have to wake up now. Please? You have to,” 

The monitors finally fell silent, barely leaving you and your mother alone until nurses eventually filtered through the room, gently prying you away from her body.

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The next few days passed by in a blur of guilt and grief.

Barely being able to get out of bed, Luca was so incredibly sweet. He brought you food and water, not that you had much of an appetite, and made sure your figure skating coach and ballet teacher were aware that you wouldn’t be attending practice.

The sky had already turned dark when you woke up, laced with fog so thick you could only see the soft glow of the streetlights outside. 

Slowly getting out of bed, your legs shook slightly as you walked out of your room and into the hallway.

The house was dark, the soft hum of the fridge filling the silence.

Looking at your mother's room, you took a deep breath, deciding to finally go in and see what’s inside the box.

Her room smelt faintly like her favourite cherry perfume, messy with clothes and cigarette packets littering the floor.

You closed your eyes for a moment, taking in her scent before shaking your head.

You bent down, reaching underneath her bed to carefully grab the box.

You sat on the bed and took a deep breath before opening the box.

Inside was a letter with your name on the front, another letter with a B on the front and a small velvet box among other things.

Dear Y/n, My only Dochenka,

If you are reading this, I’ve already crossed the bridge to the afterlife.

I’ve seen you grow up from this small, premature baby to the beautiful young girl you are now, and I’m grateful to be your mother.

There are many things I wish I could change while raising you, but I might have realised this far too late, and I could only hope for your forgiveness.

I have also been lying to you.

Your father is not dead.

While he is dead to me, I now understand how selfish that was of me.

His name is Bruce Wyne-

“You’ve got to be kidding me,”

-and if you’d like to get in contact with him, please call my lawyer.

In the velvet box is a necklace that has been in my family for generations. 

If you do not wish to wear it, I hope you will still keep it safe.

I’ll forever love you,

Your mama.

You stared at the letter for a few minutes, your mind racing a thousand miles per hour.

Your father isn’t dead. He’s freaking Bruce Wayne.

The billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne.

The one that just collects children for fun.

There’s no way you’re gonna contact him, much less stay with him.

But why would your mother lie about that?

Why is he dead to her?

Did he not want to be your father?

But that doesn’t make any sense.

After folding the letter back in its original state and placing it back in the box, you reached for the black velvet box, caressing the material slightly before opening it.

The necklace had a golden link chain, connected to a vintage-style gold metal cap. The cap has swirling, elegant patterns and a fan-shaped motif, right where it meets the base of the necklace.

The base was an iridescent, oval shell that shimmered with silver, green and pink tones. The front of the shell was smooth, whereas the back hid a detailed golden mermaid inside, with long hair and a curved, scaled tail.

The mermaid looked familiar, like something you saw in a dream, and her wavy hair reminded you of your mom.

Smiling softly, you decided to put it on.

As you tried clipping the necklace, a whining moew sounded from your mother's door.

You slightly turned your head, seeing your rescue Bengal cat that Luca gifted you for your birthday last year.

He made his way to you, letting out an irritated meow as you finally finished clipping the necklace in place.

“You must be hungry, huh, Raja?” cooing, you scratched underneath his chin, and he nuzzled his face further into your hand.

You stood up, taking Raja in your arms as you went to the kitchen.

Raja kept nuzzling your leg, demanding attention.

You tried turning your full attention to him, but you couldn’t help but think, your father is alive, and he’s Bruce freaking Wayne.

And somehow, learning your mother lied to you about your father’s death when she once used it against you, hurt almost as much as losing her.

You knew how Trinity could be. True, in your nearly five months of dating she’d been nothing short of doting towards you, bringing your breakfast in the mornings, picking you up from classes, running you warm baths after long practices. Still, you knew her reputation. The second she turned away from you, her smile would drop into a practiced look of disdain.

You were quite the opposite, in many ways. You were pink, frilly, and polished. You knew how to get a crowd to root for you, how to impress judges, how to be the brightest star in the room.

Where Trinity’s instinct was to scowl, yours was to beam. You liked keeping fresh flowers around your apartment, while Trinity didn’t see the point of keeping something that would die in less than two weeks. Still, she brought them to your dates. And she always laughed at the signs people waved in the stands at hockey games (“as if the players pay attention to those”) but she still covered a posterboard in glitter and is the loudest supporter at any of your competitions.

So, no, Trinity wasn’t always a fuzzy teddy bear. But you had each adapted to your environments.

Her focus and drive made her a great doctor. You hadn’t had a chance to see her in her element, in her preferred environment surrounded by beeping machines and constant traumas, but she’d had plenty of opportunity to demonstrate her know-how at home. This was due mostly to the fact that you were the world's biggest klutz.

On the ice? You were an angel. At least according to your girlfriend, and the forty or so medals and trophies you accrued over your career. You could glide around a rink like you were floating on air, executing the most precise of jumps, spins, and poses. Your balance was unmatched, timing impeccable. You had to have complete control over every muscle in your body to hold your leg above your head while teetering on a fraction of an inch’s worth of metal.

So how was it that the second you set foot outside the slipper, slidey surface, gravity turned from a mastered tool to a greatest enemy?

You often attracted odd looks in the warmer months when you let your skin breathe, what with all the bruises in varying states of healing littered about, accompanied frequently with scratches on your knees, elbows, and hands, mostly. Trinity always said you looked like a walking punching bag. All jokes aside, you had been questioned privately with social workers in ERs.

But you always assured concerned parties that you were completely safe. In fact, with the muscles your sport gave you, you might have been in a better position than most to defend yourself.

Besides, Trinity would never let anything happen to you. Her deep mistrust of people, specifically men, had her acting like a guard dog from time to time. If a man dared take a second glance in your direction, she’d be placing her body between you, wrapping a protective arm around you and enacting the trademarked Trinity Glare until left alone.

You were always on the inside of the sidewalk. She insisted on walking close behind you in a stairwell, both to block view of your ass from pervy perversons, and to be at the optimal position to catch you should you slip. Which you frequently did.

Maybe it was her increased presence for the past half year that explained how you’d managed to go so long without an ER visit, but really it was inevitable. That didn’t mean you were excited to pull up in front of the entrance labeled emergency in big red letters. Even worse knowing that Trinity was working.

“Thanks, Liv,” you said tiredly to your chauffeur, a young, prospective olympian you’d been coaching.

“Why don’t I help you in?” she asked anxiously as you gathered your things and opened the door.

“Oh, no, no, I’m fine,” you waved away. “I’ve had plenty of time to rest on the drive, this’ll be a piece of cake.”

If you hoped you could trick your ankle into agreeing with you by being delusional, you were wrong. The second you shifted your weight to the edge of the seat, a searing pain shot right up your leg and you gasped.

“Right,” said Liv, opening her own door. “I’m coming to help you.”

She ignored your protests as she rounded the car, wrestling your bags from your hands and taking your arm.

“Don’t get a ticket just for this,” you sighed, though accepted her assistance. “I can hop!”

“I’m not letting you hop into the ER,” said Liv. “Now lean.”

Still grumbling, you hobbled along at her side, trying to be as light as possible and subsequently yanking poor Liv’s neck as you crumbled. Very slowly, you made your way to the door. As you reached for the handle, a yell came from behind you.

“Hey, you can’t park here!”

You groaned.

“Go,” you said, then when Liv still hesitated, in your coach voice, “get outta here! I’m fine.”

Liv made sure you had a good grip on the doorframe before carefully hanging your bags over your shoulders.

It was certainly harder without the two extra legs. You bumped into several disgruntled people and had said sorry more times than you could count before a nurse spotted you. She was a little older, short and wearing a hijab. She was just handing a man a sandwich when you caught her eye.

“Oh, here you go, hun,” she said, moving like lightning to provide you with a wheelchair. “Have a seat.”

Feeling slightly embarrassed at the looks you were attracting, you plopped down without one iota of grace, heaving your duffel onto your lap. Peaking around your mountain of gear, you tried to reach the wheels, but the nurse got there first, pushing you to the end of a long line.

“Thank you,” you said, and she smiled.

“Of course,” she said kindly. “Had a little accident?”

“Guilty,” you chuckled. “I’m a figure skater.”

“Wow,” said the nurse, Perlah, her nametag read when you craned your head around. “I’m sure stuff like this happens all the time. I can’t even walk down my driveway in wintertime.”

What really happened was this.

You were just finishing up Liv’s practice, demonstrating a perfect triple axel. As you slipped on your skate guards and stepped onto the rubber matting, the tip of your shoe got caught in the strap of Liv’s backpack. You hadn’t made it two steps off the rink before taking a spectacular tumble into the bleachers, ending with your affected ankle tangled in nylon and velcro at an unnatural angle.

However, it was always easier to let people assume you fell doing some elaborate trick on the ice. For someone who could land three triple axels in a row, walking shouldn’t be a major feat. Yet here you were, probably about to be served an outrageous bill for a completely avoidable fall.

You didn’t like how big and clunky the wheelchair was, but at least it was a chair.

After you checked yourself in, and the waiting began, the stress of injury finally started taking its toll on your body. Perlah brought you a bag of ice to prop in the crook of your foot. You spent the next several hours jerking yourself awake every two minutes, arms tightening over your bags in a panic. The chances of getting robbed in a crowded ER waiting room full of sick and injured people were low, but skating gear was expensive enough to keep you on edge. 

On hour three, after watching an older guy with a bad comb over disappear and return from behind the double doors three separate times with no update, and only one ice change, you considered texting Trinity. You were sure she would be able to push your case along, and would be mad you had waited the time you already did, but you shook the idea off. You had to remind yourself how insignificant a little sprain was compared to some of the things going on in the ward. There was a reason certain people went back before others. You had to wait your turn like everyone else.

By hour five, the windows were growing dark, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep your eyes open. In fact, if it weren’t for the nagging rumbling of your empty stomach, you probably would have been passed out.

Finally, as the clock struck six, your name was called. You snapped upright, looking around until you spotted a tough looking blonde woman, reading off of a tablet with readers perched on her nose.

“That’s me!” you said gratefully, making to stand.

“You stay put,” she said in such a stern voice you promptly planted your butt firmly on the plastic seat.

She wheeled you expertly around the maze of people, bags, and IVs and through the heavy double doors. Your head was on a swivel as you entered the department, eyes searching for the familiar head of dark hair, unsure if you were hoping you did or didn’t see it. You didn’t, though, and Dana deposited you onto a bed in a small curtained area.

Compared to the borderline stifling air of the busy waiting room, this one was chilly. Perhaps it felt even colder than it was because of the stark white tile covering every surface, or the strong stench of antiseptic tickling your nose.

“Alright, ma’am,” said the nurse, rubbing in a dollop of hand sanitizer and clicking into a computer. “My name is Dana, I’m the charge nurse on staff, and I’m gonna be taking a look at you today, is that okay?”

“Great,” you said.

“Okay, good,” she said typing away already. “So, what’s the story.”

You cleared your throat. You wondered what she could possibly be writing about before you’ve even spoken a word. It made you nervous, but you recounted the tale as best you could, trying and failing to minimize the parts that made you sound like just as much of an idiot as you were sure you were.

“So when you fell, did you hit your head?” You shook your head no. “No loss of consciousness? Any dizziness? Okay, good.”

She sat down on a stool and rolled over to your bedside.

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Go ahead.”

She tossed the now lukewarm back of melted ice in the bin behind her. You rushed to remove your sock, embarrassed about how sweaty it still was.

“Sorry,” you said. “It’s — I just came from the rink, so I’m not the freshest.”

“Kid, I’m an ER nurse,” Dana chuckled. “Your sweaty foot wouldn’t even make the top one hundred list of worst smells. Besides, you just spent hours sitting in the damn waiting room, that couldn’t have helped anything.”

You laughed along, and tried to relax. Dana put on gloves and slid your leggings up to your knee. She inspected the skin there.

“You’ve got some old bruises here,” she noted.

“Yeah, not an uncommon occurrence,” you said. “I’m always a little banged up.”

Dana was just moving her attention to your purple ankle when you spotted the thick locks you were looking for between the narrow gap in the curtains. Your heart leapt, in relief, and uncertainty. You weren’t sure how Trinity would react to seeing you here, especially knowing you hadn’t texted her to let her know, but before you could help yourself you were calling her name.

“Trinity!”

Both Trinity’s and Dana’s heads turned at your cry. You could see your girlfriend’s swiveling around desperately, unable to spot you. Dana pulled the curtain open to reveal the source of the noise, and the second Trinity’s eyes locked onto you, you could see the panic behind them. They hardened slightly as she marched toward you, completely abandoning a conversation with a blonde, bespectacled doctor.

“You two know each other?” asked Dana, looking slightly amused.

“We’re, um,” you hesitated as Trinity drew closer. “Dating.”

When she reached you, she yanked the curtain back closed, didn’t even glance at Dana, and began questioning you.

“What happened? How long have you been waiting? Can you walk? How’s your pain?”

You smiled fondly at her antics as she quickly pulled on a pair of gloves. 

“I’m fine, just tripped over a backpack,” you said soothingly. “No big deal.”

She snorted as if to say I’ll be the judge of that and continued firing questions, this time at Dana. Dana didn’t need to be told, just stood from the stool so that Trinity could take her place.

“Have you conducted an anterior drawer test?”

“No, I —”

“What about a talar tilt test? Ottawa assessment?”

“No, kid, none of that,” said Dana. “I barely got a visual assessment before you came barreling in.”

You glanced between the two.

“What are all those things?” you asked.

Trinity didn’t answer, just bent over your foot, poking and prodding it. Dana sighed, and started untying your other shoe, waving away your attempts to help.

“Range of motion, essentially,” said the nurse. “To assess the extent of damage to the ligaments in your foot.”

You nodded.

“And if it — ah, fucking hell, that hurt!”

Trinity had pressed above your ankle knob and sent pain spiking up your foot. She finally looked up at you.

“Here?” she pressed again.

“Yes, there,” you hissed.

“How about here?” she asked, pressing hard on the bony bump. You shook your head. “Here?”

She moved her nimble fingers from the ankle, to the top of the foot, to the pinky toe. You just kept shaking your head. She slowly tilted your foot inward, and you yelped.

“Stop!”

“I’m thinking ATFL,” she said directly to Dana, who seemed to concur. “Alright, upsy daisy. I need to see you walk.”

“Really?” you sighed. “Need to?”

“Need to,” she said, and for the first time there was a hint of the familiar, soft Trin you were used to. “Just a couple steps. To the curtain and back, okay?”

You nodded, gritting your teeth, and she and Dana helped you rise gingerly to your feet. You were reluctant to put any weight on your injured ankle, but an encouraging nod from Trinity, and the squeeze of her hand as she held you up, had you take a deep breath.

It was excruciating, even more so than before. It was as though something large and spiky, like an enlarged version of a jack, was stuck in between your bones. You limped forward, spun on your good heel, and came right back to the bed. You kind of cheated, doing a sort of half jump onto the mattress in lieu of your last step, but Trinity didn’t call you on it.

The next few minutes were uncomfortable, but nothing compared to walking, so you pursed your lips and didn’t complain as Trinity, or Dr. Santos, here, pulled and twisted your sore joint every which way. Her frown deepened slightly as she worked, and despite the implications of that, and the pain, you couldn’t help but smile at how cute her concentration face was.

“What’s the damage, doc,” you said when she seemed done. She shot you a less than amused look.

“Ottawa negative, no x-ray indicated,” she said, and Dana immediately started clacking away at the keyboard again. “ADT showed moderate mechanical laxity, approximately seven centimeters. Significant ecchymosis and swelling, tenderness and excessive gapping above the anterior talofibular ligament, most likely grade two. Could require up to six weeks of healing.”

“Woah, woah,” you said, holding up your hands. “Honey. English, please.”

She sighed deeply, ripping off her gloves with more force than strictly necessary, you felt.

“It means no skating!” she said, tugging at her ponytail. “No running. No tots classes. A lot of rest, ice, and gentle range of motion exercises!”

You blinked. She was very worked up over a little sprain. It wasn’t like you hadn’t had one before, actually, you had had much worse than a grade two sprain before. You looked at Dana, and the two of you smiled.

“I hope you don’t talk to all your patients this way,” you said, voice alive with mirth.

Her eyebrows fell into a straight, rigid line, and her arms crossed. At that point, unable to hide the smile on her face, Dana left the makeshift room mumbling something about fresh ice.

“This is serious,” said Trinity, and you tried to school your face.

“Trin,” you said, pulling one of her hands free and cradling it in your own. “Baby. I’m sorry. But it’s really, really not.”

She wrenched her hand back and began pacing. It was hard with the limited space, and she made tight little circles around the vacated stool.

“How can you say that?” she said. “You could have been seriously hurt! You could have needed surgery! You could have —” she paled “— you could have been operated on by my ex-situationship.”

At that, you let out a loud laugh. You tried to stifle it, but when you saw the corner of Trinity’s mouth turn just the slightest bit up, you just let it out. As you laughed yourself silly, she sat down on the edge of your cot, trying not to smile too much. Eventually, though, she let out a chuckle or two.

“Oh, wow,” you gasped when the giggles finally died down, wiping your eyes. “Yeah, no, you’re right, Trin. That would have been a real emergency.”

She shook her head, but couldn’t regain the stony disposition she’d had before. She laced her fingers with yours.

“Next time this happens, ’cause we both know there’ll be a next time,” she said, and you nodded. “Call me. Okay?”

Your smile turned tender as she let some of her worry through.

“I’ll let you know, but I don’t want you — pulling rank, and giving me someone else’s spot, I know that goes against the… doctor code of… rules, or whatever.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” she said, and you raised a brow. “I mean, I care. But I care about you, too. And, baby, when I saw you all laid up over here, and I just got out of a trauma, and as far as I knew you were safe at home, it —”

Careful of your ankle, you scootched towards her on the bed. You cupped her tense face in your hands.

“I know,” you said, rubbing her cheek where she leaned into you. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make you worry by telling you, but I guess I just made you worry more?”

She huffed.

“I think I’m just gonna worry no matter what,” she said, gently gripping your wrists. “But less, if I have details.”

“Noted,” you said.

Sneaking a quick glance around, and listening for footsteps that weren’t coming, you pressed a quick peck to her lips.

“I need to wrap you in bubble wrap,” said Trinity, smirking a little. “Only way to protect you from yourself, apparently.”

“I’d manage somehow,” you said.

Her hands slid down to your waist.

“Any chance I could convince you to use the employee entrance next time?”

“Not a chance,” you said seriously. “Don’t go giving short cuts, Dr. Santos.”

She rolled her eyes.

“God, you’re so honest, it makes me sick,” she jested. “I’m gonna go find out where Dana is with that ice. Be right back.”

With one last kiss to your forehead, she stood and reached for the curtain. But the second she pulled it back, she snapped it shut again, shoulders tensing. You shot her a confused look as she turned back around, a hand creating a canopy over her reddening face.

“Okay,” she said, so quietly you had to strain to make out the words. “About half of the Emergency Department staff are gathered just outside, watching our curtain.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, but your lip quirked at how anxious she seemed to be all of a sudden.

“Why do you think that is?” you asked.

“I’m guessing Dana told them all who you were,” she said. “To me.”

“Ah ha,” you said, mockingly tapping your chin. “Alright, well. I think there’s only one way to solve this.”

Much to Trinity’s horror, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and began hopping towards the curtain, she stepped in front of you, trying to steer you back.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. “You don’t even have a pair of crutches!”

“Um, I’m pretty sure you should start ambulating as soon as possible after injury,” you said. “To avoid complications. There was a poster about it in the hallway.”

Utilizing some of your speed and agility usually exclusive to the ice, you reached around her and pulled back the curtain. Indeed, an impressive group of people stood leaning against a cluster of desks, eyes trained in your direction. They quickly flitted away, trying to pretend they hadn’t been, but you didn’t mind. You thrived in the spotlight.

“Hi! You must be Trinity’s coworkers!”

At your direct address, some shoulders relaxed, and some smiles reciprocated yours. Dana rushed out, holding a baggy of ice and a large boot.

“Oh, here, doll,” she said, pulling a chair. “If you’re gonna mingle, you need to be sitting down.”

Ignoring Trinity’s protests in the background, you hopped right into the chair, grinning around at everyone. They examined you, almost clinically, like it was habit. Their gazes lingered on your pink athletic wear, pink headband, and done up nails. Despite the harsh lighting of the hospital, your appearance seemed to brighten the place.

“So, you’re Trinity’s…” said a young looking girl, Victoria, once names had been exchanged.

“Girlfriend,” you chirped, enjoying the general air of bemusement over the doctors. “Almost five months.”

“It’s lovely to meet you,” said the tall one, Robby.

“And you,” you said sweetly, pressing a hand to your heart. “Trin’s told me so much about you guys. You do amazing work here.”

Everyone seemed to preen, but Trinity had had enough.

“Okay,” she said, cutting in. “I know you like talking, but if we don’t get that boot on you soon, you’re gonna, I don’t know, sprain your other ankle. I know you’re the ice queen, but we’re on solid earth, right now.”

She wheeled you away while you waved, rather like royalty on a float.

“That’s funny,” snorted Javadi.

“What?”

“Calling her ‘ice queen’,” she said. “That’s usually a nickname for Santos.”

---

requests open! want more of this pairing?

trinity masterlist

Sirius mutters something too low for you to hear, but he’s obviously pleased by Remus’ attention. You don’t think all that color in his cheeks can be blamed solely on the cold. 

You do really enjoy watching the community come out to skate like this. It’s sweet, different from anything you usually see at your rink even during free skate hours. There’s a towering Christmas tree on a platform at the center of the ice, packed with balls and baubles and lights that twinkle faintly even in the bright day. Patrons skate in a jumbled circle around it; partners holding hands, groups of friends, parents with their children. It’s messy, and of course if you looked you could critique anyone’s form into oblivion, but it’s joyful. The laughs each time someone falls echo back to your own childhood, Sirius’ hand in yours to pull you back up. 

“It’s a dying art,” Sirius says. He scoffs, gesturing towards the rink, “Look at that. That girl’s boyfriend lets go for one second and she’s done.” 

You follow his gaze. “Sirius,” you laugh. 

“What?” 

“That’s Lily.” 

“No it’s—oh.” Sirius blinks as the boyfriend—James—spots you all and starts waving. You wave back. A moment later, James has to return both hands to an unsteady Lily, and Sirius snorts into his cup. “Amateur.” 

“I think they’re trying to make the circuit to come talk to us,” Remus notes. Amusement coats his voice as he watches the pair begin advancing wobbily around the circumference of the ice. “Might take a while, though.” 

“Oh—whoa!” You put up your hands as an out-of-control kid comes skidding towards you, fully off of the ice. She manages to stop before you have to catch her. 

“Sorry!” she squeaks. 

Sirius looks stricken. “This is why boards are necessary,” he mutters to you behind Remus’ head. 

“That’s alright,” says Remus, with his infinite patience. He looks at the small girl kindly. “Do you know how to stop?” 

She grins sheepishly. “Grab onto something?” 

You swallow a laugh. She can’t be more than ten; she reminds you of Sirius at that age, always throwing himself into things and figuring it out as he went, consequences be damned. 

Remus’ mouth ticks. “Would you like to learn?” 

And so, even though your purpose for sitting down was giving Remus a rest, you lose him to the ice. You probably should have seen it coming. None of you can be near ice for long without tracking down a pair of skates, even the disgusting, communal monstrosities they rent out (as Sirius refers to them). Remus couldn’t be expected to resist. You and Sirius move closer with his space on your bench vacated. 

“Oh my god,” you murmur, watching as Remus demonstrates a beginner’s stop. He keeps a close eye on the girl to see that she understands. 

“Yeah,” Sirius replies. 

“He’s so cute.” 

Sirius chuckles and kisses the side of your head. “He’s a good coach.” 

“Ooh, careful. He might hear you.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“It’s okay, I’ll keep your secret.” You smize at him. “But it’s a good thing someone saw all that potential early on and asked him to coach for us, isn’t it?” 

Sirius narrows his eyes back at you. He squeezes your waist warningly. “Have I told you how insufferable you are lately?” 

“Not that I can recall.” 

“Hm.” He pecks you on the lips. “Well, remind me to do that later.” 

“Is this before or after I wrap your gifts for you?” 

“Oi.” His brows come down as he looks back to the rink, the levity dropping from his tone. “What’s happening?” 

You follow his gaze to find that Remus’ school of pupils has grown. Now, in addition to a couple of kids, there’s a man of about your age holding onto Remus’ shoulder as Remus keeps him upright. 

“He’s fucking batting his eyelashes at him,” Sirius seethes. 

You frown. “He can’t lean on him like that—he’s going to hurt his hip.” 

“Also that!” Sirius stands, shoving his cocoa into your hand. “Watch the bags. I’m putting a stop to this.” 

You watch as Sirius marches around the rink to where Remus is, getting your boyfriend’s attention. They exchange a few words—even from a ways away, you think you catch Remus rolling his eyes—before Sirius is stalking over to the skate rental counter. 

“Bloody—fucking—uneven ice,” he gripes as he sits down next to you, putting them on. “These things smell like a hundred other feet. Fuck’s sake, I’m going to have to shower when we leave here.” 

You watch him, immensely entertained. 

“Baby, you’ll watch our stuff while I show this prick how you’re actually supposed to skate, won’t you?” 

You grin, fond despite yourself. Your idiots. “Yeah, of course.” 

You have been running on empty so long your bones have started to keep time with the blades of your skates.

You have pushed until there’s nothing left to push with.

The ice stutters beneath your blades like a tired engine. Your breath is small, calibrated, and draining away faster than you can refill it.

The lights above the rink melt into watery coins and throw haloes on the surface as you carve the same figure eight for the hundredth time.

You keep going because that’s what you do — because the program sits in your chest like a lit fuse and you cannot, will not, let it sputter out.

Weeks of intense repetitions have hollowed your edges and now your vision is fringing with that dangerous tunnel blindness that arrives when the world has been pushed past its patience.

Your phone has been a persistent nuisance in your pocket all day. Bucky’s name lighting up the screen, messages piled over one another. He’s called several times already. He’s left one of his signature gallows-humor voicemails and another that was just him trying not to sound foolish while telling you to drink water.

You saw them. You read them in the awkward pause between jumps, and you told yourself you’d reply once you hit one more clean triple. You told yourself this while your hamstring grew louder in protests and your lungs burned pleasantly at first, then sharply, then not pleasantly at all.

Weeks have stacked on top of each other like plates you never learned to set down. Early mornings. Late nights. Blisters that reopened and bled and scabbed over and split again. Ankles wrapped tight, calves screaming, a spine that feels like it’s been wrung out and never hung to dry.

And in between all that, there’s your overly concerned and overly protective boyfriend Bucky.

He warned you. He pleaded with you. He reassured you, you’re good enough without running yourself to ruin.

You glided past his concern and his fear like it was a defender you could outmaneuver.

And he might not give up, but you don’t either. Because you can’t let go of that obstinate faith that if you could land this program, the rest would line up like obedient dominoes.

You tell yourself one more run. One more clean run.

But your vision starts losing structure, and the corners of your mouth taste of metal. The music you used as a heartbeat thins to a single string. The rink reduces to the sound of your blades and painfully kindling echo of your own breath.

You try to call back a session — focus on your core, focus on the placement of your feet — but the inhale in your chest catches on something and decides to stay there.

There is that small, stupid thought — as if your brain, faithful to your stubbornness, insists on making a pun even as it betrays you — that collapses are dramatic, that fainting is a theatrical exit you will be remembered for, that this, too, will make for a good story later.

You let the idea pass because there is an actual, immediate pressure ramming through the back of your eyes.

Your knees give a soft, diplomatic no, and you go down.

The rink feels like it’s been waiting for you to stop moving.

Your body is finished negotiating with you, and the ice is too kind to hold you. Cold seeps through your clothes and settles in your bones.

Darkness doesn’t last because there’s a sound somewhere at the edge of your consciousness. It’s muffled and contorted, but you know what it is. It’s the door of the rink slamming open. Footsteps follow.

“Y/n?”

The sound of your name echoes across the rink and bounces back unanswered. You don’t answer because you can’t. Your mouth is sewn shut, as are your eyes, and your limbs are in a dreamland somewhere far away. They’ve been loaned out and forgotten.

“Hey, baby, come on.” He calls out again, and it’s only now that you realize it’s Bucky. “Are you mad at me? I know you’re here. Saw your car out front.” You know the voice he uses. It’s the one that has learned to try sounding casual and failed twenty times and then softened into something that always, inevitably, breaks when you’re involved. You hear the way his tone is slightly pitched too high.

Nothing answers him but the electrical buzz of the fluorescents. You hear his boots thud against the concrete as he moves farther in. You hear the way his breath kicks faster, getting louder in the refrigerated silence around you.

There’s a beat of silence, then an exhale that comes out a little shaky, followed by a bit of rustling and him tapping on his phone probably.

“C’mon, baby,” he whispers, but it sounds dragged out of a dry throat, strained through gritted teeth. “Pick up. Just pick up, please.

The ringing echoes faintly.

And then something starts vibrating against your hip. You don’t understand what it means at first. It’s a trapped insect buzzing insistently from your pocket. It keeps going. Over and over. It’s muffled, but loud in the empty rink.

Bucky is calling you again.

“Baby?” Bucky’s confused voice sounds out once more. There are more footsteps. Coming closer to the edge of the rink. “Sweetheart, are you—”

There’s a sharp inhale. A gasp caught stuck in his throat and then choked out for a second try.

“Oh— no. No, no, no— Baby, shit.” Bucky’s voice is scraped raw completely. He calls your name, rougher, every syllable a rock thrown hard and failing to miss. Suddenly everything is movement. Shoes sliding on ice, a body hitting the rink hard, the scrape of frictionless panic.

You taste salt in the back of your throat and then a hand is under your shoulders, lifting you, solid and fast and careful and all wrong for someone who plays a sport on the ice.

“Hey, hey, baby! Come on, look at me!” Bucky’s voice is right above you, fractured and stumbling into horror, words tumbling over each other. He sounds wrecked, as though something in him cracked open.

“You were supposed to text me,” he croaks, but it’s not an accusation so much as an animal sound — distress turned into language. “God, why didn’t you—” He doesn’t finish. He coughs it away and leans down, breath hot and staccato against your ear. He checks you like someone trained to assess damage. Fingers under your chin, on your wrist, at the base of your throat. His hands are rough from hockey tape and practice, but the carefulness is exact, surgical even, belying the shaking in his jaw.

You try to answer and your mouth shapes air into nonsense. He presses a palm to your forehead, then lifts it away as if measuring temperature by motion rather than touch. Blood rushes in your ears. For an absurd second, when his hand finds your wrist to count your pulse, you feel both terrified and small and fancifully precious. “Jesus, baby, come on— look at me, wake up, please—“

He is not calm. There is no quiet hero energy, no easy collectedness. He is in shock. He is terrifically, achingly on the edge of being undone. He kneels beside you like the world is a problem he will not surrender to. “Can you hear me, baby?” he demands gently, fiercely. “Y/N, look at me. Talk to me.”

You feel the warmth of him around you, his hand cupping your cheek, his arm around your middle. You feel the faint, harmless ring of hockey gear. Tape, leather, the brief rasp of his shoulder guard against your cheek. You feel his breath puff against your face in horrified, ragged spurts.

You hear him fumbling with his phone again and you manage to let out a soft groan. The sound is barely there, but it might as well be a siren.

“There you are,” he breathes, the relief in his voice so intense, it feels too much. “There you are, baby— Jesus, okay. Okay.” His thumb brushes your cheek. His chest rises and falls hectically against you.

When you stir, half-dreaming, his face is all angles and midnight hair, eyes blown wide and dark as if someone had poured worry into them and left it boiling there. Your eyes flutter open to a ceiling that won’t stay still. Light stabs. You blink against all of it, confused, disoriented, your brain struggling to catch up with your body.

“Hey,” he lets out, soft but no less shaken. “Hey. I’ve got you.”

You swallow. Your throat burns. “Bucky?” Your voice comes out weak, confused.

He exhales sharply, almost a sob, and nods over and over. “Yeah. Yeah, baby, it’s me. You passed out. You scared the hell out of me.”

You try to lift your head. The rink spins violently, and you hiss, clutching his jacket instinctively. His grip tightens immediately.

“No, hey, no. Don’t move,” he says quickly. “Don’t sit up yet, doll. Just stay right here for a moment, yeah?”

He rips his own water bottle from his bag with a motion that is almost violent. He pulls the cap and, without wasting time, tips it into your mouth while keeping one hand around you to support your head. The water is cold and sharp and exactly what you need. You cough and swallow, and let the fluid do its slow, saving work. He watches every swallow like a judge watching a verdict.

“You—” He interrupts himself, pushing the bottle away after you’re done and pinching the bridge of his nose. It’s like watching someone holding a collapse at bay. His hand is shaking. “You can’t keep doing this, baby.” He isn’t hard on you. His voice is anything but hard, really. “You listen to me. No more practicing alone until you sleep, eat, hydrate and I get to see the schedule. Yeah? Please, sweetheart.”

You let yourself slump against him with a sigh. “Buck—”

“You’ve been training flat-out for weeks,” he goes on, not accusing, but his tone gets a little rougher, his eyes a little more glassy. “You’re running yourself into the damn ice, sweetheart.” His hands remain utterly devoted and gentle as his thumb swipes away a bead of something that might be sweat or might be a tear. “You’re killing yourself for this, and I’m not here to stand by and watch, baby.”

There is a rawness to him, a tenderness that is sharpened by fear. He sounds like someone who’s been rehearsing how to ask for permission to love harder.

You think about being indignant, to say you’ve got it handled. But being examined by him — by those honest eyes that know the shape of your laugh and the way your shoulders fold when you’re tired — makes your defenses feel silly and thin.

And you are glad he came.

You are glad he cared enough to come looking for you.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” you whisper. Your fingers curl into his wrist, around the familiar calluses and the warmth of taped knuckles. His skin smells like the rink and aftershave and something else that is unequivocally him. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He looks back at you with shining eyes. “I know, baby,” he replies quietly. “But you can’t keep this up.” He is still shaken and angry at you and with you and at himself — an internal calculus that makes him move with an urgency that borders on brittle. “No more solo marathons,” he grounds out, determined. “You let me know. I want calls. I want texts.” He hunts for words and fails and swallows and licks his lips. “Please just— promise me you’ll call me next time before it gets like this.”

You squeeze his arm. “I promise,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.” You reach up and touch his cheek, soothing your fingers over his skin the way he did with you. He closes his eyes briefly at your touch.

He exhales as though he’s been holding his breath for weeks. But his jaw remains a locked door.

His forehead meets yours, pressing almost a little too hard. His eyes shine into yours with much more than the usual amount of worry. “You feeling dizzy? Something hurt? Talk to me,” he whispers into your skin.

“I’m tired,” you admit silently, only briefly meeting the depth of his eyes.

His face does a small crumple. “That’s what I’ve been sayin’,” he murmurs with his lips brushing your temple. “You don’t listen when I tell you, though.”

You will, now.

“I’ll do better,” you breathe as your lips meet, guilt making you press harder into him. “Promise.”

“Alright.” He lingers a little on your mouth and then leans back to smooth your hair away from your face and look you in the eyes. He still gazes down at you with a kind of affection you didn’t expect after your little stunt. “I’m takin’ you home. You’re done for tonight.”

You don’t even think about protesting.

A tremor runs through his shoulders when he moves to lift you. He doesn’t make a show of strength, he simply does it with the same unspoken competence that makes him lethal on the ice. You cling to him, and his hand steadies the small of your back while the other arm slinks under your knees.

You let your head rest against his shoulder, his heart loudly ticking against your ear.

You are light in his arms and heavy in your own skin.

The rink always smelled faintly like cold metal and sharpened blades.

It was the kind of cold that settled into your lungs when you breathed in too fast, the kind that made the air shimmer faintly under the fluorescent lights overhead. Freshly resurfaced ice stretched across the rink in a perfect pale sheet, smooth enough to reflect the lights above like scattered stars.

You loved it.

The rink wasn’t empty— it never truly was, but it always felt calm. The loud chaos of hockey practice had began to fade into the gentle scrape of figure skate blades carving loops into fresh ice.

You pushed off into a glide, letting the edge of your blade carve a thin white line behind you. Your muscles warmed slowly as you ran through familiar motions: crossovers, a turn, a clean edge change. The cold air tugged at the loose strands of hair escaping your bun. The ice hummed beneath you, letting the cold air bite your cheeks.

On the far side of the rink, the hockey team was finishing drills.

You tried not to pay attention.

But that proved difficult when one particular player had developed the habit of watching you like you were the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen.

Caroline Harvey— Kk to everyone who knew her—rested both arms on the boards, chin tilted slightly down as she tracked your movement across the ice.

She had been standing there for a while.

Long enough that one of her teammates finally skated past and followed her gaze.

“Oh my god,” Laila muttered bumping her shoulder lightly.

“Kk,” she berated, giving her friend an amused look.

Kk responded absently.

“What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” She muttered.

“Staring.”

“I’m not staring” she protested weakly, though her eyes stayed trained on you.

“You literally haven’t blinked.”

Kk tore her eyes away for exactly three seconds before looking back.

You were setting up for a jump.

Your blades cut a fast curve into the ice, knees bending before you launched upward. The spin in the air was quick and tight before you landed smoothly, gliding out of it like gravity barely applied to you.

She let out a quiet exhale, Laila followed her gaze.

“Dude,” She deadpanned. “You have it bad.”

Kks head whips over to her friend, scrunching her brows, “No- She’s just… really good.”

“Yeah. That’s definitely why you’re stalking her.”

She shoved Laila’s shoulder lightly, but her cheeks had already turned pink.

_____

Unfortunately for her, this had become routine.

Because every time your practice schedule overlapped with theirs, it happened again. she ended up parked by the boards pretending she wasn’t watching you skate.

You’d glide across the rink and Kk would forget how to function.

It had been like this for weeks.

And eventually you noticed.

Mostly because she was hard not to notice.

At first, you only registered her as one of the louder hockey players— not obnoxiously so, always laughing with teammates, always encouraging someone, always the first one celebrating a good play. Even from across the rink, her energy filled the place.

But over time you started recognizing her.

The way she lingered after practice.

The way she always seemed to drift toward the boards closest to where you were skating.

And sometimes— when you accidentally glance her way during practice— you’d catch her smiling at you.

Not only the polite kind. The kind that lingered. The kind that made you feel warm even in a freezing rink. It’s like it lit up her whole face.

You assumed she was just nice.

⸻

The first time you spoke to her happened almost by accident.

One afternoon the schedule overlapped again.

Your coach had you running edge drills while the hockey team wrapped up practice. You were skating a slow cooldown lap when you noticed her leaning over the boards again, helmet tucked under her arm. When you glided past, she straightened slightly. Voice softer than you remember hearing.

“Uh— hey.”

You slowed to a stop, turning toward her and resting one hand against the boards.

“Hi…”

Up close, she looked a little different than she did from across the rink. Taller than you expected. Hair damp from practice, cheeks flushed from exertion and eyes bright with a nervous kind of energy.

Less confident somehow.

Kk immediately forgot everything she’d planned to say.

“You’re really good,” she blurted. Great start, Harvey.

You blinked once, lips curving slightly.

“Thanks.”

“I mean it,” she added quickly. “The jump you did earlier? That was insane.”

You smiled faintly. “The triple?”

“Yeah exactly,” Kk said immediately, nodding a bit too enthusiastically.

You tilted your head slightly trying not to laugh. She was cute.

“Do you watch a lot of figure skating?”

She hesitated just long enough to give herself away.

“Uh- recently.”

That earned her a small laugh from you.

Kk decided right then that it was her favorite sound in the world.

⸻

The conversations started happening naturally after that.

At first they lasted a minute or two— a quick “see you tomorrow” after practice, to a few minutes of small talk by the boards.

Then onto full blown racing sessions when everyone else was off the rink.

Sometimes you’d end up sitting on the bench together while you unlaced your skates and Kk talked about whatever crossed her mind that day.

You learned Kk had endless energy when she spoke, hands gesturing wildly as she explained things, eyes bright with excitement. You always listened intently. Which, as it turned out, Kk loved.

She learned that you were quieter but quick-witted in a way that caught her off guard.

What she didn’t realize at first was that you were also completely oblivious to the fact that she was flirting with you almost constantly.

And every single time she talked to you, she walked away like someone had just plugged her into an electrical outlet.

⸻

“You know,” Kk said one afternoon, leaning against the boards as you adjusted the laces on your skate, “I think figure skating might actually be harder than hockey.”

You glanced up at her, snorting out a laugh.

“That sounds like something hockey players only admit when they’re trying to impress someone.”

Kk froze for half a second, then grinned sheepishly. “Is it working?”

You shrugged, amused.

“Maybe.”

The grin she gave you in response could probably have lit up the entire rink.

⸻

The moment everything changed wasn’t until a few days later.

You were both sitting on the bench after practice. The rink had mostly emptied out, leaving the two of you in that quiet echoing space where every sound carried a little farther.

Kk was in the middle of telling you a story about one of her teammates when she suddenly paused.

“So wait,” she started. “Didn’t you go to that party last weekend?”

“Yeah,” you replied, tugging off one skate with a soft grunt.

“How was it?”

You hummed. “It was fun. My friend tried to set me up with someone though.”

Kk’s posture changed instantly.

“Oh?” she said, trying very hard to sound as casual as possible.

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

You didn’t notice the intensity in her voice.

“Nothing, really. She was nice, just not my type.”

KK stopped breathing.

Not dramatically— there was no gasp or visible reaction at first. It was more like everything inside her just… stalled. Like someone had reached into her chest and pressed pause on every working part of her brain at the exact same time.

Because she had heard you correctly.

Right?

She was nice, you had said, just as casually as if you were talking about the weather.

For weeks now, Kk had been living with the quiet, slightly miserable assumption that her crush on you was doomed from the start. Not because you didn’t like her— but because she had fully convinced herself that you liking girls wasn’t even a possibility. You were a figure skater. Cool, graceful, completely out of her league. The kind of person Kk assumed probably had guys lining up around the block.

So she had settled into the safest option: harmless flirting, friendly conversations, trying not to think too hard about the way her stomach flipped every time you laughed at something she said.

But now—

Now you were sitting right next to her on the bench, tugging off your skate like you hadn’t just casually rewritten the entire reality of her existence.

Kk stared at you.

Not blinking.

Not moving.

Her brain scrambled to catch up with the sudden rush of thoughts crashing into each other.

She likes girls.

She likes girls.

She likes girls.

Which meant—

Which meant the stupid little crush Kk had been trying to ignore for the past five months suddenly had actual, real, terrifying potential.

You noticed the silence after a moment and glanced up.

Kk was gawking at you like you’d just told her the earth was flat.

“…Kk?”

Nothing.

Your eyebrows knit together slightly.

“Kk?” You repeat a little louder this time.

She blinked then, slow and disoriented, like someone waking up from a dream.

“You—”

The words came out before her brain had fully restarted.

“You like girls?”

“Yeah…” you said, now slightly confused. “Why?”

Kk opened her mouth to answer.

Nothing came out.

Her brain was still running in about eight different directions at once. Part of her wanted to act normal— play it cool, like this information didn’t matter. Another part of her was already replaying every conversation the two of you had ever had, wondering if any of her awkward attempts at flirting had been obvious.

And the loudest part of her brain was just screaming: you have a fucking chance.

You frowned a little.

“Are you okay?”

She immediately straightened, snapping upright.

“Yes.”

The word came out a little too fast.

She cleared her throat, trying again.

“I mean yeah. Of course.”

You studied her face, seemingly trying to figure out what had just happened inside her head.

“…Alright,” you said slowly.

Kk felt herself start to heat up, suddenly restless energy buzzing through her entire body. It felt like she’d just been electrocuted. Her knee bounced slightly against the bench as her brain finally finished catching up with the realization still echoing through her chest.

⸻

By the time she got back to the locker room, her head was still spinning.

The entire walk from the rink had been a blur of half-finished thoughts and rapidly forming plans. Her brain kept replaying the conversation over and over again, like it couldn’t quite believe what it had heard.

You had said it like it had been so obvious. Like you were surprised she didn’t already know.

She shoved open the locker room door with more force than necessary, the sound echoing slightly off the tiled walls. A few of her teammates were already scattered around the benches, half-dressed, mid-conversation, but Kk barely noticed any of them.

She plopped down on the bench in front of her locker, staring at the floor for a second while she worked her skate loose. Her fingers were slower than usual, fumbling slightly with the knot in the lace because her brain was still replaying the conversation over and over again.

You like girls.

Which meant the stupid, completely inconvenient crush she’d been trying very hard not to read into suddenly wasn’t out of this world impossible anymore.

Her heart did a weird little flip just thinking about it.

Across from her, Laila noticed the distant look on her face.

“You good?” she muttered loud enough for Kk to snap out of the shock induced trance she was in.

Kk glanced up, hesitating for a moment before answering.

“She likes girls.”

The words came out immediately, like she’d been holding them in for the last ten minutes and physically couldn’t anymore.

Laila blinked at her, already guessing who this was about— her best friend had been obsessed with a certain figure skater for months, so she’ heard a lot.”

“Okay?”

For a second Kk honestly couldn’t tell if she had explained it properly or if the significance just wasn’t landing.

“Okay?” she repeated, a little helplessly. “This means… I might actually have a chance.”

Laila leaned back slightly, expression shifting from confusion to amusement.

“Harvey,” she said gently, “you already had a chance.”

Kk shook her head immediately.

“No, I didn’t.”

“You talk to her every day.”

“That’s different.”

She finally managed to pull off her skates, setting it down beside the bench before leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. Her hands clasped together loosely, thumb rubbing nervously over her knuckles.

Talking to you had always felt easy.

Dangerously easy, actually.

But that was when she assumed it didn’t mean anything.

Now every conversation she’d had with you replayed in her head with a completely different weight behind it. Every smile. Every time you laughed at something she said. The way you always lingered a little when practice ended, just so you could sweetly wish her a goodnight.

Fuck.

Laila watched her quietly for a moment before asking, “So what are you gonna do?”

She exhaled slowly through her nose.

“I think…” she started, trailing off for a second before looking up again.

“I think I should ask her out.”

Her teammate raised an eyebrow.

“That’s a solid plan.”

Kk rolled her eyes, she’s aware of how ridiculous she’s probably acting right now , but her mind is too occupied to care.

“I mean, unless that’s a terrible idea.”

“You’ve been head over heals for this girl for months.”

She groaned softly and covered part of her face with her hand.

“I have not.”

“You absolutely have.”

There was a brief pause before she dropped her hand again, her expression softening slightly.

“She’s just… I like talking to her,”

The words were simple, but the way she said them made it obvious there was a lot more behind them.

Laila’s expression shifted into something warmer.

“Yeah,” she responds knowingly. “Sounds like it.”

Kk sat there for another moment, chewing lightly on the inside of her cheek while her nerves slowly built back up.

Because asking you out meant actually risking something. But the thought of not trying felt worse.

Finally she sat up a little straighter, letting out another quiet breath.

“Okay,” she said softly, mostly to herself. “I’m gonna do it.”

That earned her a smile from her best friend.

“Atta girl.”

⸻

The next afternoon, the rink felt colder than usual.

Not actually colder— the air still carried that same sharp, metallic chill that always lived inside the arena— but Kk noticed it more because she’d been there almost fifteen minutes early, leaning against the boards with her gloves stuffed awkwardly into the pocket of her hoodie.

She kept checking the rink doors.

Then looking away so it wouldn’t seem obvious.

Then checking again.

It was ridiculous. She knew it was ridiculous. She had faced down national teams in front of thousands of people and somehow that felt significantly less nerve wracking than waiting for one girl to walk through the door.

But the moment you did, the whole world seemed to narrow.

You stepped onto the ice with the familiar quiet confidence Kk had come to recognize immediately— skates gliding smoothly onto the fresh surface, blades whispering softly as you pushed into a warm-up lap. The overhead lights caught the frost in the air around you, and for a second Kk forgot entirely that she had planned to say anything at all. You hadn’t noticed her yet.

She had seen you skate dozens of times now.

It still took her breath away.

When you eventually glanced toward the boards and spotted her standing there, your expression shifted into that easy smile she liked so much.

Her heart did the thing again.

The stupid little flip it always did when you noticed her.

She lifted a hand automatically.

“Hey.”

It came out softer than she meant it to, but you heard it anyway. You curved toward the boards, slowing until your skates sprayed a faint line of ice beside the barrier.

“Hey there stranger,” you tease, resting one arm casually on the top of the boards.

Up close, you looked a little flushed from the cold, loose strands of hair escaping your bun and brushing your cheek. It took everything in her not to reach up a tuck them neatly back into place, if only so she could feel the brush of your soft skin on the tips of her fingers. Kk had to actively remind herself not to stare like she usually did.

She definitely failed.

“So,” she started.

You tilted your head slightly, a slow smile spreading on your face at her awkwardness.

“So?”

Now she wished she had rehearsed this more.

She had spent half the night thinking about it—lying awake replaying different versions of this exact conversation in her head. In many of those versions she sounded confident and charming and impressively smooth.

In reality, her hands felt a little too damp and her brain had decided to completely space on most of the things she’d planned to say.

Still.

She had promised herself she’d do it.

She took a small breath.

“I, um…” She rubbed the back of her neck, glancing briefly at the ice before looking back at you again. “I was wondering if maybe you’d want to get coffee with me sometime.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

The pause that followed lasted maybe two seconds.

For Kk, it felt closer to an hour.

“Like… you and me?” you ask, your cheeks turned a soft shade of pink.

She huffed a quiet laugh, a little embarrassed.

“Yeah. Like—” she hesitated, then forced herself to finish the sentence. “Like a date.”

Your expression changed then, something softer settling across your features as you looked at her.

Her fingers tapped a quick, uneven rhythm on the boards, restless and alive, and she couldn’t stop her toes from bouncing just a little in her shoes.

You studied her for a moment, your face turning an even darker shade of pink. The gold in her hair caught the rink lights, but it wasn’t the shimmer that had your chest tightening— it was the way she kept glancing at you, a small, hopeful smile tugging at her lips, eyes bright and wide like she was holding her breath, waiting for your answer.

Then the corners of your mouth lifted.

“I’d like that.”

Kk blinked.

Once.

Twice.

It took a second for the words to fully land.

When they did, her entire face lit up before she could stop it. The smile that spread across her face was so bright it almost hurt her cheeks, and she ducked her head slightly in an attempt to hide it.

“Okay,” she said, trying to sound normal.

She absolutely did not sound normal.

You laughed quietly, and the sound made the grin come right back. Her eyes sparkled in a way that made the pale ice beneath them look dull, and she had that little tilt of her head that always made you lean in without thinking.

“We can go after I finish up here” you say.

You couldn’t stop looking at her. Kk stood there, a little awkward, a little glowing, like she wasn’t sure whether to be proud or embarrassed, and somehow it made her even more impossible to look away from.

“Yeah sounds perfect,” she says quickly, nodding once like she was confirming something extraordinarily important.

There was a brief pause.

Then she added, a little sheepishly, “That was… that was all I planned to say actually.”

Your laugh this time was louder, and Kk felt something warm bloom in her chest at the sound of it.

“Well it worked very well,” you reassure lightly.

Her chest lifted with short, eager breaths, and she swayed slightly, like her body couldn’t decide whether to stay still or move closer. She tried, briefly, to collect herself— to lean casually against the boards the way she had imagined earlier. It didn’t really translate, but you didn’t seem to mind.

You pushed gently away from the boards again, gliding backward onto the ice. You were smiling up at her all the while.

“I should probably finish up practice then,” you say.

“Oh— yeah,” Kk responds quickly. “Yeah, go practice.”

You skate away then, already moving into your first set of edges.

KK stayed exactly where she was, watching you for another few seconds before finally dragging a hand down her face.

Her heart was still racing.

Her face must have been beat red and she was smiling so hard it almost felt ridiculous.

Because you had said yes.

For months now she had been standing in this exact spot, pretending she wasn’t completely entranced every time your practices overlapped.

She leaned a little too far on the boards, elbows pressing down as if she needed an anchor, and yet every part of her seemed drawn forward, as if gravity itself bent toward you.

Turns out staying a little too long after practice had been a pretty good decision.

a/n: phew this took a while but I hope you like it girls, also I don’t know much about hockey or skating so please bare with me😅 If you see any mistakes don’t hesitate to comment, and if you have any oneshot requests let me know;)

You step onto the ice and swear you feel it shift under your blades from how hard he’s yelling.

“THAT’S MY GIRL! THAT’S MY GOLD!” Bucky’s voice booms over a hundred thousand others like he’s powered by pure devotion instead of lungs. He’s standing, hands cupped around his mouth, not caring that he’s surrounded by other skaters’ families. They stare; he beams. His entire soul is shaped like a man who would bulldoze the Olympic committee if it meant he could get closer to the barrier.

You laugh under your breath as you take your opening pose. God, you love him. God, he’s ridiculous. God, you need him to stop making you smile like this before a technical panel calls you out for being distracted.

The music begins—soft, lilting, slow. And suddenly everything narrows to the slice of cold beneath your blades and the warm, steady weight of Bucky’s love anchored somewhere in the stands.

Your first jump comes easy, your body remembering what your brain refuses to—you are good enough to be here. The crowd roars when you land it clean. You don’t look toward the boards, but you don’t have to. You feel the exact moment Bucky leaps out of his seat like gravity doesn’t apply to people in love.

Halfway through your step sequence, your eyes flick toward him. He’s crying. Of course he is. The world’s deadliest hands, the bluest eyes, the softest heart—your heart—clutching that banner like a lifeline as tears streak two perfect lines through his patriotic face paint.

You bite back a grin. Focus. Spin. Breathe. Leap.

Your final combination is the risky one—you and your coach fought about it for months. And Bucky… he never once doubted you. Not once. Every late night, every ice bath, every frustrated sob in the car after practice, he was the one saying, You’re going to nail it on the night that matters. I know you, doll. You always do.

So you go for it. One rotation. Two. Three. Four.

Your blade cuts through the ice with a crack that sounds like destiny.

You land. And the arena explodes.

But even the eruption of thousands can’t drown out the one voice you are somehow always attuned to.

“THAT’S MY OLYMPIAN! THAT’S MY CHAMPION! THAT’S MY—” his voice cracks, “—FUCKING SUPERHERO!”

You finish the program breathless, trembling, joy flooding every vein in your body. You take your final pose, chest heaving, eyes stinging. A wave of sound crashes over you as the crowd rises to their feet.

You can feel him standing somewhere behind it all—your anchor, your storm, your safe place.

When you skate off, the moment you cross the curtain, Bucky barrels into the backstage hallway like security has absolutely tried—and failed—to stop him.

He catches you mid-stride, lifting you off your skates like you weigh nothing. “Baby,” he gasps, voice thick, arms locked around you, “you flew out there. I swear you had wings. I swear I saw them.”

You laugh into his chest because he means it. He genuinely thinks you touched the heavens and brought something back with you.

“Buck—put me down, I’m gonna break my blades.”

He does not put you down.

He just reorients you so he can kiss your cheeks, your forehead, your jaw, your nose—every part of you he can reach without dropping you. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. So proud I don’t even know what to do with myself. My heart’s doing somersaults. I might faint. Don’t let me faint on TV.”

You snort. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” he corrects seriously. “That’s different. That’s terminal.”

Before you can argue, an official calls your name to the kiss-and-cry. Bucky sets you down gently—finally—but then grabs your hands, eyes bright, voice trembling.

“No matter what the score is, you hear me? You already won. You won me months ago.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t think that counts as an Olympic medal.”

“It should,” he mutters. “Gold level boyfriend right here.”

You squeeze his fingers and head with him toward the cameras. He’s vibrating beside you—nervous, excited, in awe.

The scores appear.

Your breath catches.

World record. Olympic record. Gold medal level.

The arena goes ballistic, but Bucky goes absolutely feral.

He grabs you, spins you off your feet, kissing you like there aren’t a dozen cameras pointed your way. “BABY! BABY, YOU DID IT! GOLD! GOLD! GOLD!” His voice breaks into a laugh so wet and wild you ache with love for him.

“Buck,” you wheeze, tears streaming, “I can’t breathe—”

“You don’t need air, you need—” he kisses you again “—a medal and—” another kiss “—me screaming for the rest of my life.”

Later, on the podium, he’s somehow found a second banner. This one reads: MARRY ME OR SKATE HOME.

You don’t even know how he smuggled it in.

You catch his eyes in the crowd—blue, soaking wet, overflowing—and shake your head, smiling so hard your chest hurts.

You hold up the gold medal.

He holds up his heart.

the media called you and atsumu the golden duo. after all, each of you had a gold medal waiting for you in your shared apartment, even if it was for very different things.

see, atsumu, just 2 years ago, had played for japan's national volleyball team at the summer olympics. they'd won first place, and he brought home a shiny gold medal with him.

through the 16 days of the olympics though, if anyone ever asked atsumu, he would consistently say that the unsung hero of their victory was you. yes, of course, his teammates and coaches were great, but if he was truly being honest? the only reason why he could perform to his best abilities was because you were up there in the stands at every single game, giving him a kiss before a match, gently shushing the poor teenage girls around you who hadn't heard of atsumu's 'silent serving rule', and just being there for him through every one of his best - and worst - moments.

that calmness, peace, and stability you gave him was one of the many reasons why he loved dating you.

as a figure skater, an olympic level one at that, you trained til you could get as close as possible to complete perfection. so you knew all about the pressures, struggles, and pains of being a professional athlete, the very same ones that atsumu faced as well, even in an entirely different sport.

furthermore, despite atsumu's seemingly lighthearted, relaxed personality, you knew better than anyone how hard he could be on himself. and you promised that as long as you were there for him, he'd never have to go through that alone.

you couldn't promise to make the pressure always go away or to always make him play his best every time, but you could promise that you'd stand by him whether it was at the very top of the world stage of volleyball or at the floor of your hotel room after the afterparty.

all of that was during the summer olympics though. your true time to shine came 2 years later during the coldest times of the year.

you'd been skating for as long as you knew. there was something so freeing about feeling yourself glide across the ice as cool wind hit your face. you found satisfaction in finally getting the results you wanted after having practiced over and over and over again.

and of course, getting to listen to countless songs and create endless pinterest boards for inspiration for your free skate outfit was always a favorite part of yours.

the best part though was that through it all, despite still not understanding very much about the sport, atsumu was your biggest cheerleader. he'd watch performance videos with you, genuinely listening when you'd explain the incredibly confusing scoring systems and unexpected difficulty of certain moves. he'd help you warm up after being at the rink for hours on end, usually with a hot chocolate that was just how you liked it.

when you'd actually perform, he'd make sure to be recording the entire thing (even though there were already countless other cameras on you). and when you finished, you swore you could always hear him cheering and clapping the loudest, not an ounce of embarrassment or shame in his eyes.

and since the two of you had started dating, you'd almost never missed a performance or match that the other person had. your schedules aligned almost perfectly, giving you the opportunity to watch extremely often.

because of all of that, the two of you became the media's favorite couple. you'd been called the dream couple, the golden duo, the most supportive pair - everything like that.

all that was left was a ring. and while you had no idea, atsumu was planning to let you bring home two shiny things the night of your victory ceremony: a golden medal and a diamond ring.

bonus:

One day after the party.

you disappeared…

You stare at the message longer than you mean to. What do you even say to him when you’re not sure what you feel? It’s a nice message, you think. But is it really? He’d been so strangely nice to you, convincing you to stay over and letting you fall asleep on his chest. It was intimate, it almost felt like something real. Something stings in your chest when you think about it. It’s like he proved you right. Apparently, your worth is transactional. At the same time, you’re sure he didn’t mean it that way. It’s no excuse, because his actions were still dumb, rude and degrading. All you know is that you need time to process this. You fucked up, and you need to discuss it with Megumi. Not to mention that there’s still enough to discuss with Yuki about your financial situation. You try to type a response but keep deleting the words. Nothing you come up with seems to cover the situation and what you feel, and you’re not about to send him a whole paragraph discussing your feelings. He doesn’t deserve that. So, you try to keep it short and honest. 

Hey, I think I need some time to myself after what happened between us.

I’ll return the money.

He reads it immediately. Three dots appear, then they’re gone, then back again. It takes him a while, and your anxiety rises the longer the wait lasts. 

keep it.

It’s all you get. That salty son of a bitch. He can get it if he wants to be like this. You’ve been letting yourself get carried away, entertaining the guys fighting for your attention. And you liked it, that’s something you can admit. There was a certain aspect to it that attracted you. It’s the classic figure skater-hockey player romance that you see in movies and read about in books. Reality really is so much more disappointing. The thing is, you could have known. You already knew, actually. All of your interactions with hockey players have been similar. There’s just hate between you. Both sides despise each other for similar reasons. Hockey players hate you for putting holes in the ice with your toepicks, and you hate them for making deep ditches that your blades get stuck in. Sharing the rink with them isn’t possible, even during public sessions. All you can do is disturb the ice in a way that the other won’t like, it’s inevitable. All you can do is cut up the floor beneath one’s feet until someone falls and gets hurt. 

Meanwhile, Gojo is fuming. Completely knocked off his pedestal. He assumed you’d be nice to him now, give him the attention he wanted, come knocking on his door asking to go out on a date like other hookups. He already imagined the places he would take you, the pictures the press would magically get their hands on and the articles speculating about you dating him. Not this, not this distance this… rejection? What did he do? He fixed it for you, didn’t he? Asked how you were, what you were worried about, and then fixed the problem. Well, he didn’t know exactly how much you needed at the moment, but the money would have had to fix something at least. You took it with you, so what’s the issue now? You’ll come around, you were probably just shocked that he gave you so much money. Yeah, that’s probably it. But if you’re gonna play it like this, then he’s entitled to do things his way as well. 

–

Two days after the party.

The locker room still smells like sweat and disinfectant when Gojo says it. Players shuffling around to gather their stuff, showering, changing clothes. He’s speaking casually but too loud, even for him. Like he wants everyone to hear it, which is true. 

“Yeah man,” He drawls to a random player he’s not even that friendly with while he tugs his shirt over his head. “Didn’t expect her to stay the night either, but I wasn’t complaining. She’s really flexible, so it was a pretty decent morning workout. Not gonna lie.” 

His teammate plays along with his cocky behavior, happy to get some attention from the captain. But not everyone praises him for conquering the hot new figure skater. Yuuji freezes as he’s tying the laces of his sneakers. The information washes over him like a murky wave. He’s not angry, he’s just… confused. He never assumed he’d even get as far as he did with you, but hearing that this happened on the same night that he kissed you? The boy feels stupid for assuming that there might have been something there. A small, fragile thing that could have bloomed with proper care. He could get over the Sukuna thing, he’s done that before. But this? He frowns, continues his actions and tries to drown Gojo’s voice out. Chousou is observing him right now, checking to see what the news does to his cousin. Yuuji doesn’t look back, even though he feels his stare burn into the side of his head. He doesn’t blame you, but he can’t physically stand it to hear about what you did with Gojo. Or more like what he did to you. 

Sukuna scoffs whilst taking off his skates. “You’re joking.”

“Why would I?” Gojo grins back at him. 

“It obviously didn’t happen.” The vice captain denies, not looking at Satoru.

“Yeah? Think she didn’t cum on my dick? Wanna guess how many times?” Gojo taunts, stepping close to Sukuna to tower over him. 

Yuuji cuts in, voice uncharicteristically monotone. “You don’t have to talk about her like that.”

“Don’t worry about it, man. Next party will probably be your turn anyway, I wasn’t–”

“Yeah, you were.” Yuuji says, not angry. Just disappointed. “You were.” 

And it stings, because Yuuji is always happy and carefree. He rarely includes himself in an argument, let alone start one. Now the team is aware of his crush on you, that Yuuji kissed you at the party. The room had been humming with tension from the start. Criticism from the defenseman cuts deep with Gojo. Yuuji is always there to back him, always there to goof around with and support him. Guess it’s more serious than he thought. 

Sukuna laughs, low and humorless. “Careful, captain. You keep running your mouth like that, people might think you’re trying to convince yourself.”

Somehow, the twins previously split into separate camps, drift towards the same corner. 

Gojo scoffs, shoulders squaring. “You guys are being dramatic.” 

No one laughs. Yuuji quietly grabs his bag and leaves without a word, Chousou at his heels. Sukuna watches Gojo like a hawk, trying to discern what his captain is trying to prove exactly. Yeah, it hurts his pride to hear him talk like that, but at the same time he knows that Gojo is full of shit most of the time. Sukuna will try to see what this is all about when he gets a chance to talk to you. 

–

Four days after the party.

Megumi doesn’t say anything at first. You’re sitting side by side on the rink steps, skates off, socks damp, the ice freshly resurfaced and blindingly white. Watching the zamboni drive around in circles is somehow a bit meditative. 

“I think I hurt Yuuji.” You say after the silence has lingered too long for your liking.

Megumi hums, sarcasm undeniable. “Probably.” 

“I was being stupid. I’m sorry, okay?” 

“Tell that to Yuuji.” 

You wince. “You’re not going to sugarcoat it, aren’t you?” 

“Nope.” He says. “But I don’t think that side of the story is the whole problem.”

You glance at him, but he’s just staring at the ice. When you look down at his skates, you notice the countless little cuts and damages on the nose of the boot. Yours don’t look much different. It’s funny how much a skate can tell you about its user. What they struggle with or not, in which direction they rotate in the air, if they ever took a big chunk of leather out of the skate with their toepick. 

“Gojo talking about it the way he is… that’s not nothing.” Megumi sighs and snaps out of his dissociation. He moves to grab his skate and a towel to dry off the blade. 

“It’s fucking embarrassing. It makes me feel so stupid and dumb, like I made a mistake by leaving.” 

“You didn’t.” 

“Doesn’t matter.” You mutter and try to organize your stuff. “It still feels like I’m the one paying for it.” 

Megumi snickers. “Paying.” 

“Don’t.” You warn. 

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” He rubs his face and shakes his head. “It’s actually such a fucking insane move of him that it’s funny, you know what I’m saying?” 

“I think I’m able to joke about it when I fix things with Yuuji.” You smile. 

Megumi suddenly looks at you, sharp and steady. “You don’t owe anyone neatness.” 

“That’s nice of–”

“But I like to be friends with good people, so it’d be great if you fixed it.” 

“Alright.” You nod, eyes closed taking the tough love in. 

“Yuuji will survive. He’s just… quieter when he’s hurt.” He continues. “It’ll be okay, though. Gojo is the one we should be worried about for now.” 

A groan escapes you, and you bury your face in your hands. “I’ve done too much stupid shit, Megs. I haven’t even told you everything yet.”

“You mean the part about you fucking Sukuna?” 

You snap up. “Who told you that?” 

He shrugs, looking at you like you’re an idiot. “I’m best friends with Yuuji too, remember?”

“He knows about that as well?” You exclaim.

“Yuuji’s not as stupid as everyone thinks, Sukuna is just a lot smarter.” 

You look at him, not sure how you deserve a friend like Megumi after all the dumb stuff you’ve done. “I thought you like to be friends with good people. Doesn’t seem like I’m doing well.”

Megumi gives you another sarcastic look. “I also happen to be a very forgiving and patient man.” 

“Loser.” You chuckle and shove at his arm.

He retaliates by putting an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into a side-hug. “It’s gonna be okay, (Y/n).” 

You nod, even though it doesn’t help.

–

Six days after the party.

Sukuna hasn’t smoked in over a year. Not because he wanted to quit, because Toji told him to. Because lungs mattered. Because the first line mattered. Because discipline, when wielded right, can feel like dominance. Not like vaping was any better, but he could tell himself it was some kind of improvement.

He buys the pack anyway. Does it at the same corner store that he used to go to. Fluorescent lights threaten to give him an impromptu migraine. The smell of stale coffee and dust hasn’t changed. His fingers don’t hesitate when he taps the counter. Muscle memory never really dies, huh? The dark layer on his nails is chipping, he should redo it one of these days. When he steps outside again, he doesn’t light one up right away. The lighter he bought shows a cartoony drawing of a lucky cat. Sukuna tests it a couple of times. He stands there with the cigarette between his fingers, rolling it once, twice. The weight of it is familiar. Comforting. Ugly.

Second line. Naoya playing his position.

The words gnaw at him. Sukuna walks back to the dorms and finds his old usual spot behind the dorm building. There’s a bench, a tree, a small path that barely anyone walks on. He sits down, leans back and spreads his legs. Blessed silence at last. He lights the cigarette. The first drag burns like punishment. His lungs protest immediately. He exhales slowly, jaw tight, eyes fixed on nothing. And he scolds himself for how stupid he’s being, but he takes another drag anyway. Then, completely uninvited, your face surfaces in his mind. It’s not about the party, or the kiss with Yuuji, not even the way he saw how you looked at Gojo from time to time. It’s how you stopped looking at him. Like whatever had passed between you and him was unfinished. Unclaimed. Like he’d lost something without ever admitting he wanted it. 

You slept with Gojo. 

The thought still lands wrong. It’s not jealousy but something sharper. Possessive without permission. He hates that most of all. It’s stupid, and it doesn’t make any sense. But Gojo didn’t win. That’s what keeps circling back. Gojo just… took. Sukuna flicks the ash harder to the ground than necessary, and he spots something moving in the corner of his eye. A black cat looks at him curiously with big eyes. Sukuna frowns, takes another hit from the cigarette. The cat trots up to the bench and hops onto Sukuna’s lap without warning. Then another, fatter cat follows from the alley, with a chocolate-point coat. She takes a seat close to his legs. Sukuna sighs, scratches the black cat behind her ear, prompting her to purr. He can’t let all this drama in his life decide for him. By the time he’s finished the cigarette, he knows what he’s going to do.

The gym smells like iron, sweat and effort. Honest things. Sukuna adds weight without checking the numbers. He pushes until his arms shake, until his breath turns ragged, until the burn drowns out everything else. He doesn’t dare look out the window in case you happen to be practicing at the rink. It’s not that he’s avoiding you, but he cannot let himself get distracted right now either. Being in the second line won’t last. He won’t let it. If he doesn’t get enough time to play he might not impress any scouts this season, and he has to get scouted. He needs to. Sukuna wants it more than anything. But between sets, his thoughts return, unwanted and persistent. 

The bar presses into his palms. Up. Gojo’s grin in the locker room. Down. Your absence. Breathe. The near fight. Sukuna stares at the ceiling between reps, sweat sliding down his temples, and thinks that, of course it had to be him. Gojo Satoru. Too tall. Too loud. Too perfect in a way that pisses him off. The kind of presence that bends rooms without asking permission. The kind of man who looks at you like he already knows what you’d do if he pushed. Sukuna drives the bar up harder this time, teeth bared.

It’s not about him. That part is easy. What’s harder is the way Gojo’s name crawls under his skin anyway, like it always does. The memory of their shoulders colliding on the ice, the way Gojo grinned like it was something other than a warning. The way their almost-fight felt too charged, too personal. Hands on his chest. Breath too close. Chousou restraining him, yes, but Gojo standing there, unafraid. Amused. 

“He wanted it,” Sukuna thinks darkly. “Wanted me to swing.”

He does another rep. He hates that Gojo didn’t even flinch. Hates that part of him had registered the strength in Gojo’s arms, the ease with which he takes up space. Hates that, for half a second, the urge hadn’t just been to hit him. It had been to grab him. To see what would happen if he didn’t stop, if he kept going until Gojo’s face was all messed up and bloody. Who would win if they actually fought for real? The thought makes him shove the weight back up harder than he has to. 

“This is about her.” He tells himself.

Your mouth. Your hands. The way you look at people like you’re daring them to misunderstand you. But even that circles back. Because Gojo touched you after. Because Gojo got what Sukuna didn’t finish claiming. Because Gojo has this infuriating way of making things look effortless, even things Sukuna treats like war. He racks the bar and sits up, chest heaving. 

“If he were anyone else,” Sukuna thinks, wiping sweat from his brow, “I’d have broken his jaw already.”

But Gojo isn’t anyone else. He’s his captain. His rival. Gojo is a challenge that breathes and laughs and watches Sukuna like he’s something worth poking. Something worth pulling apart. Something worth standing too close to. Sukuna exhales slowly, jaw tightening. He wants to win against him so completely that Gojo never looks at him like that again. Like they’re the same animal, just fighting over different territory. The worst part? Sukuna knows something, feels a truth deep down inside, no matter how it frustrates him. If Gojo ever stopped with what he’s doing… stopped provoking, stopped meeting his gaze head-on, it would feel like losing. And that thought makes him add even more weight to the bar.  

–

Eight days after the party. 

The arena is loud. The boards rattle with each hit. The scoreboard shows a tight game, both teams tied with minutes left in the third period. The stadium is mostly filled with jerseys that don’t match Jujutsu’s colors, and the pressure of the away game is weighing down on the players. Sukuna watches from the bench how Naoya makes a joke out of his position. The guy is a good player, sure, he made it onto the team. But still, the game does not have to be this close. A careful glance at Toji tells Sukuna not to overthink it. His coach made his decision, and this is part of Sukuna’s lesson. His behavior can bring the whole team down, he sees that now. And it is not worth it. 

Gojo skates with a sharp edge tonight, faster and rougher than usual. Every pass, every check seems infused with an extra bite, a tension that’s hard to ignore. Sukuna noticed it immediately at the start of the match, but it’s only gotten worse throughout the game. The way Gojo snaps at teammates over simple mistakes. The way his grin is sharper, more performative. Sukuna’s jaw tightens. There’s a collision near the boards. Gojo’s shoulder clips an opponent and the whistle doesn’t blow. Words are exchanged. Then more shoulder checks, the crowd roars in anticipation. Heat radiates off him, and when the guy shoves, Gojo doesn’t step back. He pushes harder. Fists fly. Defensemen jump in, referees blow whistles. The fight is short, messy, and loud. Gojo gets a minor penalty, but the adrenaline doesn’t leave him. He storms to the bench, chest heaving, eyes scanning the space as if daring someone to comment.

Sukuna watches quietly when the captain returns to the game, not failing to see how Yuuji’s hand on his stick is tightening. Chousou subtly positions himself in case Gojo needs restraint again. Gojo doesn’t calm down. He channels the rage into his next shifts, scoring a near-impossible play in the final minutes. The buzzer sounds. The scoreboard reads 4–3. A win. Barely. A tie could have been just as telling.

In the locker room afterward, Gojo smirks like nothing happened. But his teammates see the tremor beneath the surface. The fight wasn’t about hockey. It was about everything else, the fact he’s not talking to you now, the bragging, the tension that lingers in every word he can’t speak. Gojo knows his tough stories aren’t lasting, everyone has noticed that you avoid his presence at the rink. You’ve done nothing but give the hockey team the cold shoulder this past week. Whereas you’re normally making snarky comments or casually chatting with Yuuji, you’ve been wearing headphones and focus on practice like it’s the only thing in the world. 

Nobody is sure of what happened between you two, only that its effects ripple throughout the entire team. But they’re sure about one thing: it needs to be fixed. Yuuji and Sukuna don’t comment. They just exchange a glance, knowing the game was more than a game.

–

Ten days after the party.

“It’s important we take the Gala party after the Grand Prix very seriously.” Yuki starts. “I’ll make sure we get an opportunity to talk to potential sponsors.” 

You sigh, turning around to check out your new costume in the mirror. It’s gorgeous, and you were able to pay the remaining amount you owed the designer with Gojo’s money. Even though the changing room is empty besides you two, it feels as if you can’t breathe. It’s stuffy, the costume feels tight whilst it’s tailor-made. You rub your clammy hands on your thighs, hoping it’ll somehow help. 

“You’re in your head.” She states, and you can already feel her stare burning in the back of your head.

“It’s stupid, it’s nothing.” You deflect.

“Is it about that boy?” 

You snap your head around to look at her. She waits for your answer, awfully silent. 

“Yeah.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Yuki offers.

You look yourself in the eyes through the mirror. It feels as if you were just a kid yesterday, trying on skates for the very first time. A grown woman stares back at you now, you’re so different and yet it’s still you. The dress on your figure serves as the armor for this season’s battle. Back when you were young you wouldn’t have dreamed of wearing such a beautiful costume. But it's made for the international stage, for an athlete worthy of competing at that level. Is that really you? If so, how are you going to live up to that? Maybe your mom was right, and you’ve ruined your career by paying attention to those stupid guys. Maybe it’s already over. The unshakable mask slips, and a tremor goes through your spine. Tension rises to your shoulders, you press your fingernails into your palms. Another shock, then a sob. You tightly shut your eyes and try to stop the tears until you feel two soft hands on your arms. Yuki guides you towards the bench and you sit down together. The tears flow freely now, and your coach tucks a stray hair behind your ear. Only then do you dare to open your eyes again.

“Listen honey,” she starts. “I know it’s tough. I get it. You wanna live like a normal student but at the same time you realize that these years are the only chance you have. And it takes so much to push through, I know it does. It’s fucking hard, but we love it more, don’t we?”

You can only nod weakly.

“The ‘what if’s’ are countless, and if you give them enough space they might grow into something you can’t get rid of. I used to be so afraid of injuries that it held me back, I didn’t try the things I wanted to and now I’ll never know if I might have been able to do them. Seeing you go for it, jump that triple axel and fall over and over again like it’s nothing…” She smiles, shakes her head lightly. “Makes me kind of jealous, you know?” 

It earns her a small chuckle from you.

“You can feel them breathing down your neck, right? It’s as if you’ll be replaced if you take one wrong turn. I hated that.” Yuki sighs, rubbing small circles on your back.

“A fucking fifteen year old is going to win the Olympics again, I just know it.” You manage to get out through your tears. 

Yuki chuckles at that. “Well, you don’t have to win to actually win.” 

“Winning is first place–.” 

“Sakamoto, 2022 Olympics.” Yuki counters. You know she dislikes your mentality about winning, even though it simultaneously is one of the reasons you made it this far. 

“You’re right about that one.” You admit. 

“I’ll get you an appointment at the sports psychologist. Your uni has one, right?” 

That makes the anxiety flare up again. “Yuki, I can’t afford that.”

“You can, because you’re going to do well at the Grand Prix and earn those sponsorships fair and square. You’ve got that in you.” She smiles.

You smile back and nod. The tears have stopped falling, and you sniffle. Yuki gets you a tissue and you accept it with a small “thanks.” Then it’s quiet again, you feel that she’s not done talking but at least the pressure has been lifted. You can breathe again. 

“It’s complicated?” Yuki asks softly. 

“Yeah.” You breathe before gathering the courage to say the next thing. “He was talking about sponsoring me. It’s so stupid, I know–”

“Oh honey,” Her tone is unmistakably reassuring. “The rich kid, captain, right?”

You nod again, trying to distract yourself by looking at the details of your new dress before you start crying again. The thought of him, of what he did and what you did in return, it hurts so much. You should have stopped playing his game a long time ago.

“That doesn’t sound healthy, does it?” She kindly suggests. 

She’s right. She’s oh so right, like she always is. If there’s one thing you can thank your mom for, it’s that she got Yuki to coach you when you left your former one. But thinking about your mom, the financial spiral starts again.

“I’d have nothing to worry about if I accepted.” You say.

“That’s not true.” 

“But I can’t keep going like this Yuki, I can’t believe you’re cutting back your own payment for me already. It’s insane.” You argue.

She suddenly moves, rising from the bench and turning to face you. This way, you’ll have to look up at her to make sure you look her in the eyes. Yuki crosses her arms, her signature look that gives her an untouchable air. Something she taught you well.

“(Y/n), what is the first thing I taught you?”

There’s a beat. You straighten your back. “That I can trust you.” 

“It’s always good to go back to the basics.” She smirks. “Forget about that guy, about your mom, about your issues. I promise you right now that everything is going to be okay.” 

“Okay.” You answer meekly.

“What?”

“Okay!” You say. Eyes determined through the gloss of former tears. 

“And if a fifteen year old wins the Olympics instead of you, make sure you’re coaching the next one that does.” 

–

Fourteen days after the party.

Yuuji leans against the rink railing, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, watching the empty ice. The arena hums with activity, but he feels miles away. He replays the past weeks in small, painful fragments. The kiss, the dance, that moment where you looked at him like he mattered. And then the news. Gojo’s bragging, the locker room smirks, the way everyone pretended it was just a joke. It wasn’t a joke to him. It never could be.

He clenches his fists. Not at you, you didn’t do anything wrong. You were just… alive, being yourself, and he couldn’t reach you. Not at Gojo either. Well, maybe a little. The casual way Gojo claimed it, as if he had any right to parade you like that. It stings, but Yuuji knows he can’t argue with someone like him. Not in that locker room. Not in that situation. He exhales slowly and leans his forehead against the cold metal of the railing. It’s not jealousy. Not really. It’s grief. Loss. A dull, simmering ache that doesn’t have a face because you don’t belong to anyone. And yet… He catches himself thinking about you anyway. About how, soon, you’re going to be on a plane to some international competition. How fucking cool is that? About the way you must have left that house the day after spending the night with Gojo. About the fact that you never sent a message that you were okay and got to the dorms safely. Makes sense now. 

He wants to reach out. He wants to ask if you’re okay. He wants to tell you he doesn’t care about Gojo, that none of it matters, that he just wants you. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Instead, he decides to practice shots at the goal, over and over, letting the rhythm of the puck against the boards absorb some of the ache. Each slap of leather against ice and stick is a punctuation mark to the thoughts he won’t speak. 

He’s aware, though, of how quiet he is, how even the team notices these days. How Chousou glances at him more often, not speaking but letting him know he’s there. How oblivious Gojo pretends to be, even though Yuuji is sure Satoru is smart enough to know what’s going on. He can’t pretend forever. Yuuji swallows, wipes the sweat off his forehead. He tries to let it roll off him, process the feelings. Because he knows one thing. You will come back. You always do. Yuuji just knows that. And when you do, he wants to be someone you can trust. Not someone aching, not someone jealous, not someone watching you from the sidelines with his heart in his throat. So he keeps his head down. He practices. He decides to wait. And somewhere underneath it all, a quiet, stubborn part of him refuses to let Gojo’s bragging, the kiss, the night, or even your absence define what you mean to him.

–

Eighteen days after the party. 

The TV is already on in the rink canteen when the hockey team trickles inside, getting ready for their meeting. No one pays attention at first. Toji is arguing with the barista over the protein content of some shakes. The broadcast hums in the background. Gojo and Getou take a seat at a long table and their teammates slowly join them there. Sukuna and Yuuji walk in together, discussing a play they’ve been practicing. The team gathers around the table and Toji sits with them to discuss their strategy for the upcoming game. They’ve barely started their meeting when Megumi and Nobara burst into the canteen. The pair is still wearing their skates, guards haphazardly put on the blades and carrying all their belongings with them. It’s clear that they’re fresh out of practice, and it doesn’t take long for their coach to follow them. 

“Is it on?” Nobara asks Megumi who’s ahead of her. 

Megumi cranes his neck to view the TV. “It’s on. They’re still in the warmup.” 

“Oh thank god.” She replies.

The two of them sit down at a table not far from the team. Some of the guys murmur amongst themselves, trying to figure out what the skaters are so worked up about. Nobara is restless, she frowns and stands up again. She mutters something about not being able to hear a thing and asks someone from the canteen if they can turn the volume up. 

“Hey, we’re having a meeting here. You can watch your show somewhere else.” Toji says.

“No way, (Y/n) is skating.” She fires back. 

And it does turn some heads with the hockey team. Gojo leans back in his chair, actively paying attention now. Toji sighs upon seeing that his team has lost all focus for the meeting. Yuuji, who was leaning on a chair, stands up straight. The boy knew you were gone for an international competition but he wasn’t aware you were skating today. Sukuna has his arms folded on the table, he’s quiet, observant. They all haven’t seen much of you since the drama between you and Gojo. 

The camera shows the rink in a wide shot. Four girls skate around, trying to get a feel for the ice before having to perform. They recognize you because of your blue dress, the one for the short program. The camera cuts, and you’re there. You land a double axel with ease, showcasing how you’ve mastered the element. 

“And there she is.” The announcer can be heard over the broadcast. “(L/n) could be one of the contenders for first place today, no doubt about it. We know she has an ultra-c element in her arsenal, the triple axel, but she is not using that weapon today. If she does well, she can win without it.” 

Everyone in the canteen watches as you skate towards the boards where Yuki awaits you. Hair slicked back, dress pale against the ice, expression unreadable. Poised in that way that makes it impossible to tell if you’re calm or holding yourself together by sheer will. They see you leaning in to discuss something with your coach. That’s the moment when another skater passes you. She cuts too close, a fast crossover, blade angled. You flinch. The contact was brief, almost easy to miss.

“Hold on, ladies and gentlemen. Something doesn’t seem quite right.” 

A pained look flashes across your face and you grab at your calf. The feed stutters as the camera adjusts, trying to find an angle that shows what you’re doing. When it does, they see you clutching your calf with one hand as you keep yourself up by the boards with the other. Your fingers come away red, blood seeping down from the wound. Yuki’s face goes rigid. 

“What the fuck just happened?” Nobara exclaims.

Gojo doesn’t move. He watches like if he blinks, something worse will happen. One second you’re standing there, composed, talking to your coach like nothing in the world can touch you– and the next you’re doubling over like a wounded animal. It wasn’t dramatic or loud, the reaction was instinctive. And he feels his stomach drop. The word “no” cuts through his mind, immediate and irrational. Like if he refuses it hard enough, it won’t be real. He sees it for a split second when they zoom in on your face. Not the ice, not the broadcast, but you in his bed, bare skin warm under his hands. The memory turns sour instantly. Somehow he feels as though this is his fault, even though the thought doesn’t make sense. He leans forward without realizing he’s moved. His pulse is loud in his ears, a thrum of anger chasing fear chasing something worse. You don’t look scared, that’s what wrecks him. You look pissed. 

And Sukuna would recognize that anger anywhere. Like the ice betrayed you. Like pain is an inconvenience. Like you’re already deciding whether it’s worth it to push through. 

Yuuji holds his breath. Getou observes the room as much as the screen, noticing Gojo’s stillness. Chousou, Nanami and Naoya remain quiet and Toji’s eyes seem fixed on the screen from now on as well. 

“There seems to have been a collision between (L/n) and Nishimiya. What an unimaginable stroke of bad luck.” 

Officials skate in. You’re ushered off the ice quickly, frame cutting wide as commentators fill the silence with practiced calm. The skater that caused the wound is kept away as she tries to approach you to apologize. A cameraman follows you when you’re escorted off the ice, he’s not missing this for the world. The look on your face speaks for itself, it’s clear that it hurts. But the implications crashing down on you must be worse, because pain contorts into so many different emotions before it comes back to the frustration again. The officials sit you down. Yuki is firmly holding you by the shoulders, face close to yours and whispering encouraging words. It’s inaudible for the ones watching in the canteen, but it’s clear she’s doing her best to keep you together. 

“You think that girl hit her on purpose?” Naoya asks no one in particular.

“That shit was definitely intentional.” Sukuna cuts in before anyone can answer. He’s leaning on his elbows now, eyes locked to the screen. 

Toji sighs deeply. “Chances are surely there, but that girl is never gonna admit it.” 

Sukuna sees how your eyes are locked to the injury, assessing the damage while listening to your coach. He watches you grip your calf, watches how your jaw sets when the officials take a closer look, and something feral twists in his chest. Don’t pull, don’t soften it, don’t make things easier. Pain makes things honest, in his book. And Sukuna feels himself rooting for you, silently encouraging you not to quit. If he knows anything about you, it’s that you’re most dangerous when you’re angry. 

“We don’t know the severity of the injury yet, but it is not looking good for (L/n).” The commentator adds. “The question is, will she skate tonight? And if she does, will she be able to come back for the Free tomorrow?” 

The officials are still working on your leg, they seem to be discussing something with Yuki and you. Towels come back bloody. Sometimes you nod, sometimes you wince. Then there seems to be a decision. Yuki asks you something and you nod, pressing your palms against your face to hide whatever emotions cross you now. Then the camera cuts back to the rink again. Multiple sounds of frustration can be heard throughout the canteen. The officials clean the blood off the ice and the competition continues. The starting order remains the same. There’s just one girl skating before you have to get on. And there’s no mercy, no changing the schedule last minute. This is the competition. 

“What the fuck is she gonna do now?” Megumi hisses under his breath, clearly stressed. 

Yuuji fidgets with his hands. His chest is tightening like he’s the one who got hit. His heart is pounding in a way that feels embarrassingly helpless, and he hates that he can’t do anything for you. Yuuji was watching your face when the cameras were still on you, not the wound. You weren’t crying or panicking. You just looked angry, and somehow that made relief and fear collide in his chest. It’s you. It’s how he knows you. And when the girl that just skated her program receives her scores, your name is announced over the speakers of the rink. Everyone holds their breath, the angle of the broadcast still wide. Then, the audience erupts into deafening cheers and applause. 

Everyone watches as you step onto the ice like it owes you something. When you come out, the camera catches your jaw first. It’s set hard, tight. Your leg is taped, thick and obvious. It’s clear that the bandaging was a rush job and the tape is there to keep the pressure on the wound so it doesn’t rip any further when you skate. There’s no smile on your face. You don’t wave, don’t look at the stands, but the crowd doesn’t seem to care. 

“She’s a fighter.” Toji mutters impressed, arms crossed.

“Now that is something I did not expect to see. This young lady is showing us just how much she wants to be here tonight. She has earned the respect of every single person in this arena, that’s for sure.” The announcer says. “This is (Y/n) (L/n), skating her short program to Megapolis by Bel Suono.” 

You open clean. Precise edges. No wasted movement. The injury shows only in the tightness of your transitions, the way you guard the leg without babying it. The first jump is also immediately your combination jump of the short program. The triple lutz-triple loop. Perhaps it’s the adrenaline rush of what just happened, or the sheer willpower together with the anger running through your veins, but you make the jump like the earlier events never happened. Everyone in the canteen holds their breath as you move on. The usual speed in your movements is greatly reduced, Nobara and Megumi can see how you’re fighting to keep your pace up. Then there’s the double axel, a jump that you could do in your sleep. There’s a slight hesitation.You’re a fraction late, and you slip on the landing. The fall is fast, unforgiving, your blade skids, body hits the ice. The canteen exhales as one, completely caught up in the intensity of the competition. You’re on your feet immediately. There is no time to sit around and feel the pain of the fall or any other injuries. You don’t look at the judges, nor do you make contact with the crowd like usual. You just keep skating, expression flat and furious as you land your final jump in a miraculous recovery. And you finish the program like it’s a statement rather than a plea. The waving and bowing is something you get over with quickly. Yuki awaits you at the boards and you throw yourself into her arms when you exit the ice. She holds you for a long time, and the microphones pick up some of her praises and encouragements. They don’t pick up your fleeting cries, but the subtle shocks of your shoulders and the red rim around your eyes when you pull back from her betray what really happened. 

The score comes up lower than you need. Both you and Yuki stare at the screen for a moment. It places you third in the short program so far with two skaters to go. That means you’ll probably end up fifth after the short if the others perform well. Yuki, unafraid, shakes her head from side to side. She’s openly showing her discontent with your score to the judges. It won’t change anything, but perhaps it’ll convey a message. The expression on your face is unreadable. (E/c) eyes just stare at the score. Not sad, not angry, just… processing. In the blink of an eye, you snap out of it. As if you’re suddenly realizing where you are, and that the arena cheers for you despite the outcome. A small but genuine smile stretches across your lips, and you look straight at the camera as you wave to the people watching the broadcast. 

–

Nineteen days after the party.

They’re there on purpose this time. All of them return to the canteen to watch the broadcast. Megumi and Nobara don’t comment on it. No one says it out loud, but the chairs are pulled closer. The sound is up. Even Toji’s not pretending to multitask. You’re skating in the final group and you’re the third one to go after the warmup. The makeup you wear today is dark, and your (e/c) eyes pop because of it. The death stares that you shoot your opponents could send shivers down even the toughest hockey player’s spine. Your leg is taped again, thick and angry. When you take your thermal jacket off and hand it to Yuki, your new costume is revealed. It’s a deep black filled with rhinestones, the skirt fading into a dark red color. Intricate straps create patterns along your shoulders, but the real star of the show is the back. More straps connect to the center running down your back, creating the illusion of a spine. Definitely a different choice for a program that’s expected to be more classic, graceful and anything but powerful. 

“I have to admit, I did not expect (L/n) to come out today. But here she is, skating her new free program to Romeo & Juliet. Let’s see if she manages to pull through.” The commentator says right before the music starts. 

The music opens low, aching, strings pulling the air tight before the first step is even taken. You don’t rush into it. That’s the first thing Gojo notices, the restraint. The way you let the opening seconds stretch, let the rink settle around you before you move. No nerves. No apology. Just presence, demanding attention. The dark makeup sharpens your gaze, makes your eyes look almost feral when you lift your chin, and for a split second it feels like you’re staring straight through the camera. Through them. The death stare isn’t posturing. It’s a line drawn. It’s like a statement. Anyone who wrote you off made a mistake.

Toji’s attention sharpens immediately, instinct overriding distraction. He watches your skates, not your face. The edges are tighter than they were in the short, transitions cleaner, exits safer without being cautious. The choreography has been re-engineered, not dumbed down, not softened but optimized and built for a different kind of performance. The turns are sharp to match the atmosphere of the program, but they don’t look forced. You move like you’re the maestro of the ice, knowing exactly what is going to happen and how. He recognizes the sequencing, the way one step bleeds into the next without unnecessary strain. Clean lines. Efficient transitions. Built to protect the leg without announcing it. It’s you, but at the same time you’re someone else. Megumi. Toji remembers you at the boards, listening while Megumi broke it down piece by piece, remembers how you didn’t argue, didn’t push back, didn’t flinch at critique. Just absorbed it. Just worked. No defensiveness, only focus. That’s what you want in an athlete, he knows that more than anyone. When you hit the first jump clean, Toji exhales through his nose. Good training shows under pressure.

There’s no celebration after the first jump, no breath held afterwards. You land it and keep moving, because that’s always the plan. Megumi’s shoulders ease, barely perceptible. You’re doing exactly what you talked about, trusting the flow instead of forcing power where it doesn’t belong. It’s disciplined skating. Intelligent. The kind that only shows itself under pressure. He’s thinking that, if you were to skate to another classic sometime, Black Swan would suit you seamlessly.

Yuuji can’t sit still. He exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding as you continue to land more of your jumps completely clean. It’s not because he’s nervous, but because he’s awed. You look different today. Not angry, but determined, settled. Like you know something everyone else at the rink doesn’t. Like you’re standing in your body instead of fighting the ice. When you land a jump and flow straight into choreography, his chest tightens. He realizes you don’t need the crowd, you’re skating for yourself today. It hurts a little, the distance, but it also makes him smile. That’s the kind of strength he fell for. 

Sukuna watches you like he’s tracking something dangerous. Not hunched forward or tense, just alert. Your power is quieter today, but sharper, more precise. He sees how you hold back just enough to stay lethal. How you don’t chase the ice, but command it. That taped leg should slow you, but somehow it doesn’t. When you bend your knees and lean down into a cantilever for your choreo sequence, he catches himself thinking that you’re terrifying. A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. The costume, the spine illusion down your back, it doesn’t read fragile. Black and red, a challenge rather than a weakness. It reads defiant, like a warning. Like you dared someone to tell you that you don’t belong here, at the top of the world. Sukuna keeps watching, approving. It’s good you’re not softening yourself for them. 

Gojo hasn’t taken his eyes off the screen once. The exposed back hits him harder than he expects. The illusion of a spine, vulnerability framed like armor. He remembers tracing patterns along your back, remembers the night folding in on itself, and hates that the memory surfaces again, uninvited. Because you’re not skating like someone that carries regret. You don’t skate like someone waiting. It’s the way you never look like you’re asking permission. You skate like someone who already decided she doesn’t owe anyone anything. It’s what got under Gojo’s skin the very first time he spoke to you in practice. Seeing someone who isn’t competing for his attention. He can’t take it. 

The step sequence builds, intricate and precise, and Toji nods once under his breath. This is where the training shows, where panic would have crept in if it ever had the chance. It doesn’t. You breathe through it, timing exact, blade placement clean. Leg kicks aimed well instead of messy. Looks like good coaching to him, good discipline. Your presence is magnetic. Not innocent and girly like other programs to this music usually are. A real competitor. By the final jumping pass, even the canteen seems to lean in. Nobara’s hand is half over her mouth. No one speaks. No one looks away. Megumi’s hands are clasped together, fingers interlaced tight. Hope or a silent prayer, no one could know. When you effortlessly land the triple loop out of a few consecutive three-turns to build momentum, Nobara, Megumi and Yuuji cheer the loudest. 

The music swells. Tragedy without melodrama. Love without surrender. The evil fate creeping in with no escape. You don’t rush the final sequence and spins, you let the choreography breathe in your presence, let the audience wait. It’s pure control. The final pose isn’t dramatic, but unyielding. Down on one knee, one arm raised in front of you and the other pointed backwards. The crowd erupts into deafening cheers.

“I cannot believe what I have just witnessed with my very own eyes. This skate should have been impossible. It was close to perfection, I tell you. There might have been some slight underrotations that the judging panel will review, but other than that I’d say (Y/n) has already won today. With some luck, she will place on the podium.”

For half a second after, there’s silence in the canteen, the kind that isn’t uncertainty but recognition. Yuuji smiles before he can stop himself. Toji exhales, stretching his neck as if he wasn’t sitting on the edge of his seat. Sukuna crosses his arms, silent. And Gojo, watching you stand there, unbroken, untouchable, feels the truth settle heavy in his chest. You didn’t just survive this, you owned it. It dawns on him that maybe, you do not need anyone to save you. 

When you’re finished waving at the audience, they see you exhale deeply. There’s a shift. It’s subtle, but unmistakable. Everyone can see it in the way your shoulders drop, the perfect posture breaks and your jaw tightens. The fury that carried you through the program drains all at once, and what’s left behind is pain. Sharp, immediate, no longer held at bay by adrenaline. There’s a slight stumble. Your first push towards the boards is uneven, the second one is worse. You keep your expression composed, but the camera catches it anyway. The hitch in your breath, the way your weight favors one side, the blade carving a shallower edge as you glide. It’s not a collapse. It’s control slipping just enough to reveal the cost. Was it wise to skate today, or has this decision made a bigger and longer lasting impact than expected? Yuki is already leaning over the boards, eyes sharp with concern. You reach them and grab on, knuckles white against the padding. For a heartbeat, your forehead rests there too, breath coming fast, controlled only by will. Yuki’s hand is steady at your elbow, grounding. She leads you off the ice and supports your weight when you step off the ice. 

“You did it.” Yuki murmurs close to you, microphones barely pick up her comment. They see how you nod back, frowning and clenching your teeth through the pain. That’s all you have in you. 

You sink into the chair of the kiss and cry area, carefully stretching out your leg. An official comes to check in on you, and there are a few words exchanged that are inaudible for the people watching the broadcast. The replay of the program runs on the screen. When it cuts back to you, Yuki sits close and holds one of your hands, staring up awaiting the scores. Your hands are shaking now, fingers laced together tight with Yuki’s. When you finally look up at the scoreboard, your face is blank. Braced for disappointment, for the math you’ve been doing in your head since the short program ended yesterday. The announcer reports the scores. Numbers appear, it takes a second for them to be added up and joined with the short program score. The technical, the components, the total. For a moment, nothing seems to register with you. 

“Is it enough?” Nobara speaks under her breath. 

Then the screen changes, your name appears on the leaderboard. Yuki grips your knee, sharp and sudden. “You’re on the podium.” Is what the microphones pick up. 

And the canteen erupts into cheers once more. Megumi and Nobara hug each other, Yuuji joins them later in a group hug. Then your baffled expression on the screen, a smile, disbelief. It seems to hit you all at once. They see how your breath stutters in your chest. How you press your lips together hard, blinking rapidly like you can stop it, like you haven’t spent weeks holding yourself together with sheer refusal besides the injury. But you fail, and the tears spill anyway. It’s silent, no sobbing. Shoulders curl inward as you fold around the pain and the relief and the sheer weight of having made it through. You just let it show. 

“Now who would have thought that this young lady would still be in the running for the Grand Prix Finale after yesterday? It is truly remarkable what she’s capable of, and we wish her a speedy recovery.” The commentator says.