Chapter Three
Monroe
The admissions office is stifling. Brown walls, brown floors, brown chairs. The dean of admissions is in his office with another—probably less problematic—student.
I can hear muffled voices through the thin walls, and the heavy ball of anxiety is sitting like a boulder in my chest. I’m dressed in black jeans, an ivory tank top and brown blazer, and my hair is down, curling gently around my face.
I look professional. Academic. I even put my glasses on, cosplaying as someone who has their life together.
When was the last time I wore anything other than sweatpants or party clothes? Or even took the time to get ready for the day? Showered before noon?
Months.
I’d spent the last twenty-four hours alone, silent and sober.
And after I had turned over my options over a hundred different ways, I kept landing on the same one—it was going to be Carter Abrams’ way or the highway.
It sucked that he was usually right about most things. It sucked even more that I loved him enough to actually try—to really try to not be such a nightmare mess of a daughter.
He only has me—no other children, no partner to speak of. That thought hit harder than I wanted it to. He never remarried after the divorce. I’ve never even seen him date. His entire life is hockey and me, and I’ve given him every reason to stop counting on me at all.
I know he’s dealing with enough already, especially with his team. His captain, Rhodes McKnight, is giving him hell. I saw the footage from their last game. Another fight. Another Wolverines headline featuring their “bad boy” captain. I had audibly gasped when they zoomed in on his injuries.
I notice the voices quieting behind the door and shake the thought of Rhodes’ bloodied face out of my head and back to my current state.
It was probably the first day in over eight months that I hadn’t had at least one drink.
I felt like shit. But I wrote the date down anyway.
It felt like a cold-turkey-or-nothing kind of situation.
The door to my left creaks open and a petite blonde walks out, smiling at me as she passes. She must not know who I am.
“Ms. Abrams?” Dean Lamare stands in the doorway of his office and waves me over. “Come on in.”
I stand, smoothing my jeans and shifting uncomfortably.
The floorboards creak under my feet as I walked into the office.
The dean shuts the door with a soft click behind me and pads around his desk.
Tall bookshelves tower behind him, filled with academic texts, and large ornate windows let swaths of light into the room.
Too much light for day one of sobriety, honestly.
“Please, sit,” he motions to the chair in front of his desk when I don’t immediately move from the door. I swallow, my throat suddenly tight. My hands are shaking with nerves, and I clench them shut to keep him from noticing.
“I understand you’re wanting to re-enroll and complete your last semester here at U of C.” He levels his gaze at me, and I’m surprised to see it devoid of the usual pity I’ve learned to expect. Kindness is all I can detect in his face.
“Yes, sir,” I murmur, twisting my hands together in my lap.
“Understood,” he replies, pulling some forms out from a drawer beside his leather chair.
The scent of pine and leather conditioner permeate the space around me.
“I’ve spoken with your father about your extenuating circumstances, with your injury and your mental health.
” The matter-of-fact way he speaks to me is almost refreshing.
There’s no judgement, there’s no shame. Just the facts.
“Ah,” I say. “Yes. It’s been a difficult year.” My voice sounds small, not at all like my usual biting tone.
“So I’ve heard. I’m sorry to hear that.” He nods, like that settles it.
“Now, Ms. Abrams, I’ve reviewed your transcripts, and here’s where we stand.
Since you’re no longer competing on the university’s figure skating team, your athletic scholarship is no longer in place.
That means you’ll need to cover tuition another way—whether through financial aid, grants, or personal funding. ”
I press my lips together. Hope Daddy plans on covering that, too, because my paycheck at the rink sure isn’t going to.
“Additionally, in order to stay enrolled and remain on track for graduation, you’ll need to maintain a minimum three-point-zero GPA. That’s non-negotiable.”
My stomach sinks. I barely had a two-point-five my entire college career. I’ve always relied on my skating scholarship and the notoriety of my name to keep my professors from completely flunking me. I nod anyway. It’s not like I’ll have skating to divert my attention anymore.
“You have eight credits left to complete your degree.” He slides a printed sheet across the desk. “Your remaining courses are listed here.”
He taps the page with his pen. “Your university email has been reinstated, and your login credentials for class registration are at the bottom of the page.”
“It’ll be a late registration, as the term begins January tenth. I’ve included a list of classes you can choose from that will allow you to complete your degree in Communications, with a few electives to choose from for your Sports Journalism minor.”
Classes start five days from now. The familiar pressure in my chest signaling an anxiety attack sits behind my rib cage. I tap my fingers nervously against my thigh, trying to ignore it.
“If you maintain your GPA and complete all required coursework, you’ll be eligible to graduate in May.”
He grabs a red pen and circles a name at the bottom of the page. “Should you run into any issues with registration or account access, contact Cathy Smith in student services. Her direct number is here.”
I suck in a breath. I had basically crossed this off as a possibility. Failing out last spring was a deep source of shame for me. I never loved school, but I did want a degree. Skating had a short shelf life.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Thank you.” My eyes are stinging as I stand and shake his hand. I walk quickly to the door before I can embarrass myself with an unusual display of emotion.
The dean’s voice stops me before I reach the door. “Ms. Abrams?” I turn to face him, my hand on the cold metal of the doorknob. I raise my eyebrows in question. “We’re glad you’re back.”
I nod once, my lips pressed tight into a closed mouth smile. A grimace? I’m not sure.
What I do know is this—I have spent the last year suffocating in my own failure.
At first, I fought. Clawed at the surface like a desperate animal, convinced that if I worked hard enough, if I pushed through the pain, I could fix it. Surgery. Physical therapy. Doctor’s appointments. Ice baths. Painkillers. A road map to recovery.
But then the timelines stretched. The improvements didn’t come. My ankle never quite got back to where it should have been. My mobility was severely limited. I kept taking the painkillers and I mixed them with the alcohol I was guzzling. And I raged.
I raged at my doctors, at my therapist, at my father. At my coach, at the world, at Elsie.
I was a scared dog backed into a corner, biting the hands that fed me.
I was snapping at the friends who didn’t leave me first, the ones not on the Nationals team…
and in doing so, I completely eviscerated those friendships.
There was not a single person except my dad who still spoke to me.
It was a real mixed bag on which failed relationships were entirely my fault and which weren’t.
In the end, they were a blur of people-who-don’t-talk-to-Monroe-anymore.
Monroe Abrams does not take failure well.
And when the news of Aaron’s new partner and their Olympic debut finally made its way back to me? I had already stopped fighting. The rage had curdled into something worse—resentment, exhaustion, self-loathing.
I drank myself into oblivion that night. Hard. I don’t remember any part of the drinking outside of that first shot—and my recollection of time jumps to waking up nearly two days later, body aching, mouth dry, head splitting. I should have had my stomach pumped.
And maybe a better person would have taken all of this as a sign, a wake-up call. Maybe they would have pivoted, found a new purpose, built a new dream from the ashes. A phoenix rising. But not me.
Because Monroe Abrams was built for one thing. And when I lost that? I lost everything.
My brain has been screaming at me for over a year, feeding me poison, whispering insults until they weren’t just thoughts anymore. They became unequivocal truths.
They became me.
Monroe, you are nothing.
You have achieved nothing.
When you were handed a tough gig, you fucked it up.
Everyone has left you, and they were right to.
Maybe I don’t deserve the rope my father is holding out to me. Maybe I should tell him to take his ultimatum and shove it up his ass. God knows I’ve done that plenty of times before.
But this time feels different. I’m teetering on the edge of actual destruction, and there is a very tiny part of me that is terrified by that. I’ve always had a safety net. Poor, spoiled little rich girl.
And there is a whisper, deep down, buried under months of self-sabotage. Just a tiny, fragile part of me that still wants to live and grab tightly to that rope.
I guess this must truly be rock bottom, because I’m selfish enough to finally reach for it.
* * * *
BEEP BEEP BEEP. My phone alarm is screaming into my ear. I smack my hand out to my nightstand, blindly reaching for the shrieking piece of metal, and only succeed in accidentally launching it across the room, where it continues its incessant beeping.
I growl in frustration, swing my legs over the side of my bed, raising my body up like I’m moving through molasses.
Sleep is crusted in the corners of my eyes and I rub at it, a yawn escaping my mouth.
I find my phone, which has somehow managed to land underneath my dresser, and I finally switch off the noise.