Chapter 25 #2
Every clean landing carries a trace of him inside it now. Not enough to ruin skating. Just enough to remind me that some people change the architecture of your life permanently even if they don't stay.
The media obligations start becoming heavier after the Worlds announcement. Press calls. Federation interviews. Feature pieces. Training footage. Everything suddenly feels larger. Not overwhelming exactly. Just constant.
I sit beneath bright studio lighting three Tuesdays before departure while a makeup artist dusts powder across my cheekbones and somebody adjusts the microphone clipped against my sweater.
The room smells faintly like hairspray and burnt coffee.
"Ready?" the producer asks. I smile automatically.
"Yep." The professionalism settles over me easily now.
Not fake. Practiced. Figure skating teaches emotional performance young.
Smile while injured. Smile while exhausted.
Smile while your entire life quietly falls apart behind perfect posture and clean eyeliner.
The cameras roll. The interviewer beams across from me.
"So first of all, congratulations on making the Worlds team.
" "Thank you." "How are you feeling heading into such a huge moment in your career?
" Excited. Terrified. Heartbroken. I give the polished version instead.
"Mostly grateful. I've worked toward this for a long time. "
The interview continues smoothly after that.
Training schedules. Preparation. Mental resilience.
Goals for Worlds. I answer everything cleanly.
Calmly. Somewhere along the way I became very good at sounding composed while emotionally exhausted.
And part of that came from Calder too. Not the media training.
The regulation underneath it. Breathe first. Slow down.
Don't react emotionally to every uncomfortable moment immediately.
The habits still exist inside me whether I want them to or not.
The interviewer glances briefly toward her notes halfway through the segment. Then: "There's also obviously been a lot of public interest lately surrounding your connection to hockey player Calder Hayes—"
My stomach tightens instantly. Not visibly. That's the important part. Externally I barely react at all. Months ago the question probably would've blindsided me emotionally. Now I simply smile politely and wait. Controlled. Earned control. Not numbness.
"How has balancing that attention affected your preparation?"
The wording is careful. Professional. Still enough to hurt. Because suddenly I'm back outside the restaurant again watching Calder choose fear over instinct in real time. The memory flashes hard through my chest. I breathe once slowly before answering.
"I think public attention is part of high-level sports in general," I say evenly. "At the moment my focus is entirely on Worlds preparation and skating well."
Smooth redirection. Neutral enough to satisfy media training without feeding anything further.
The interviewer nods. "Of course."
The conversation moves on.
But underneath the composure, exhaustion settles heavily through me. Because the hardest part about heartbreak isn't always grief itself. Sometimes it's having to carry that grief professionally while the world keeps asking questions around the edges of it.
The interview finishes twenty minutes later.
Everybody compliments me afterward. Professional.
Poised. Well-spoken. I thank them politely while unclipping the microphone from my sweater.
Then sit alone in the dressing room afterward staring at my reflection for a little too long.
Perfect hair. Perfect makeup. Perfect calm expression.
Nobody looking at me right now would guess I still sleep curled around Calder's hoodie half the week because I haven't fully managed to stop yet.
The realization should embarrass me. Instead it just makes me tired.
I close my eyes briefly and lean back against the chair.
Because the composure isn't fake. That's the strange part.
I really am okay enough to survive this.
Not healed. Not unaffected. Still functioning.
Still skating. Still moving toward Worlds.
Loving Calder did not make me weaker emotionally.
The breakdown happens on a Tuesday night because of laundry.
Not dramatically. Not even unexpectedly.
I'm folding clothes on my bedroom floor after conditioning when I find one of Calder's shirts tangled inside a hoodie sleeve.
My entire body stills immediately. Black cotton.
Worn soft from use. Faintly carrying traces of his cologne even after weeks.
The breath leaves my lungs so fast it almost hurts. For a second I just sit there staring at it in my hands. Then grief hits all at once. Not graceful. Actual aching grief crashing hard through my chest while tears spill instantly down my face before I can stop them.
Because God. I miss him.
Not the abstract version of him. Not the relationship. Him.
The weight of his hand against the back of my neck after bad practices. The way he looked at me like I mattered outside performance. The quiet softness he only ever let exist privately with me.
I pull the shirt against my chest instinctively while crying harder than I have in weeks.
Not loud. Still devastating. The apartment feels too quiet around me.
No Calder in the kitchen stealing food while pretending he isn't hungry.
No hockey game murmuring faintly from the television.
No grounding warmth filling the spaces between thoughts. Just absence everywhere.
My phone sits face-up on the bed beside me. The temptation arrives. Call him.
I know he would answer. That's the terrible part. One call. One weak moment. One soft Arabella in that rough exhausted voice and I would probably unravel completely.
My hand actually reaches for the phone before I stop myself. The movement freezes halfway there. And suddenly I hear my own voice from outside the restaurant: I can't keep making myself smaller so this feels safer for you.
The memory settles heavily into my chest. Because loving Calder is not the problem. Forcing myself to survive on hidden pieces of that love was.
I lower my hand slowly back into my lap. Then cry for another few minutes anyway. Because strength and grief are apparently fully capable of existing together. Nobody talks about that enough.
Eventually the tears stop coming as hard.
My breathing steadies gradually. The sharpest edge of the ache dulls slightly.
I wipe at my face tiredly with the sleeve of my sweatshirt while still holding Calder's shirt loosely against my chest. And underneath the sadness sits something quieter now. Something steady.
I fold the shirt properly. Carefully. Deliberately.
Then place it alone in the bottom drawer instead of throwing it away.
Not out of punishment or denial. Just honesty.
I'm not ready for that yet. Afterward I stand, wash my face, finish the laundry, and set my alarm for early training tomorrow morning. The grief stays. So do I.
The night before departure, I stay late at the rink alone.
I don't need extra practice. I'm just not ready to go home yet.
The building empties gradually around me until only the hum of overhead lights and the distant scrape of a Zamboni somewhere below remain.
I sit on the boards with one skate untied, stretching absentmindedly while cold air settles against my skin.
Worlds. My entire life narrowed toward this for years. And somehow heartbreak arrived right in the middle of it anyway. The timing almost feels cruel.
I lean forward resting my forearms against my knees.
My phone sits beside me on the bench. Silent.
Always silent now. The ache of that probably should feel smaller by this point.
It doesn't. I still think about Calder constantly, driving to practice, falling asleep, after difficult landings, after good ones too.
Some part of me still reaches for him instinctively every time something matters emotionally.
I miss him in ways that feel stitched directly into muscle memory now.
And despite everything, despite the hurt and the fear and the way we broke each other open trying to love through it, I still love him. The truth settles quietly through my chest. Softer now than before. Certain.
I stand slowly and step back onto the ice one last time. No music. No coach. No audience. Just movement. I skate lazy circles beneath the bright rink lights while exhaustion hums softly through my muscles. The ice steadies me. Breathing. Edges. Momentum. Forward. Always forward.
Calder loved me. I know that now without doubt. And losing that love hurt terribly. Still hurts. Probably will for a long time.
I slow near centre ice eventually, breathing hard in the cold empty rink. And standing there alone beneath harsh white lights with Worlds waiting ahead of me and grief still stitched quietly through my chest, I realize something that finally feels completely true.
Losing Calder hurt terribly.
But losing myself to that heartbreak would have hurt worse.