CHAPTER 58 #2
I ended up avoiding all eye contact with him during our flight back, gifted with terrible flashbacks from when he had showed up at my place unannounced over the summer, the pure cockiness on his features at the realization that I had just finished—the last time I can recall where I finished quite like that.
And the entire flight was, well, it was awkward.
Meanwhile, the Internet wasted no time spreading dating gossip and already assigning us with couples’ names: Aroy and Tana, which personally, both sounded extremely cringe.
But this same gossip is half the reason why our skating academy has made so many headlines recently in not only the sports world, but also now in pop culture, to the point where people care about our personal lives more than our performances on the ice.
And as fond as I am of Elle, she’s always been fascinated by the whole concept of gossipville, the joyful excitement lifting her expression before me right now sealing this fact. It’s easy to laugh when you’re not the starring role of the joke.
Elle rests her elbows over the glossy table, leaning comfortably like we’re having a girl-to-girl chat and one of Troy’s very close friends isn’t still here with us.
“So, what did Troy think of all of this?” she asks.
The nerves start jumbling all around when thank the heavens, Naomi interrupts, slamming a fist onto the bench, scream whispering, “You’re never gonna believe this, but I just saw Isabella and Marc having sex in the supply closet!”
That gets everyone’s attention, including Conrad’s, who flicks his head up toward the conversation.
“What?” I say, confused. “I thought she likes Antonio.”
“That’s what I thought,” Naomi says. “And I thought Marc likes Sasha.”
I shake my head. “It’s the other way around. Sasha likes Marc.”
“Wait, I heard Sasha likes Antonio?” Elle chimes in.
Naomi’s brows crinkle. “But Antonio likes Emi.”
“I’m so lost,” Conrad says, sliding his phone away to make sense of the mess.
“How did you even know it was them?” I ask, still shocked by the news.
“The door was cracked open a bit,” Naomi explains, moving her legs over the bench to sit properly. “I think it opened on accident, and there they were. Against the wall.”
Elle sighs dreadfully. “Isabella’s my age, and she’s out here getting fucked against a wall, and I lost my virginity just a few months ago. And it was beyond awkward. Yup, life’s not fair.”
“No one asked to hear about your sex life, Eloise,” Conrad grumps, his brows twisted.
“Oh, I forgot that you were still here,” she gestures with a peppy smile.
“While I’m still here,” he mocks, “before I forget, make sure you order more hats. The stack of 100 we have definitely won’t last until the end of the week.”
“Oh, did you want one? Give me some time to order you a custom set that fits your tiny head.”
“Perfect. And while you’re at it, get one that covers your giant mouth.”
Apparently, Elle and Conrad are feuding over hats. Sounds reasonable.
“I’m gonna go use the restroom before I head back to campus,” I interrupt their very heated debate. “See you guys later.”
“Good luck, Ana-banana!” Naomi curves her hands, pressing them together to form a heart in the air, while I gather my textbooks into my bag, a nostalgic smile warming my cheeks at the nickname I rarely hear anymore, not since she was little and everything was so much simpler.
With the competitions in full throttle and hockey teams having a few away games this week, the rink’s pretty calm this morning.
In the main rink, Scott’s training the way he likes it the most—on his own—while a group of juniors skaters work on their jumps to Adele tracks, clapping with a thunderous drum when Scott lands a perfect quad.
The cheering still roars when my ears pick up on a muffled shriek.
I move in the direction of the sound, spotting a figure with light blonde curls running toward the women’s locker room with a wrist clenched tightly over her stomach.
As the girl turns, revealing her profile, my heart sinks at the sight of puffy cheeks and lashes glued together with teardrops. Alice.
She disappears into the room with record speed, while I stand frozen in place for a beat too long before hurrying into the locker room.
Once inside, I pace around the lockers with no sign of the young skater, panic bubbling up my throat, until the slam of a bathroom stall echoes through the empty room.
I walk up to the one stall that’s locked with caution, the sound of tears slicing through the beige wood.
“Are you okay?” I ask, second-guessing whether or not I should have just ignored the whole situation.
“Leave me alone,” Alice’s broken voice calls out. “I’m fine.”
I sigh, traveling to the sink, grabbing a bunch of tissues near the faucet, warming some of them with hot water as I wait for her on the opposite corner, giving her space.
After what feels like five minutes, the bathroom stall slowly creaks open, Alice’s solemn gaze shifting with surprise when she sees me.
“You stayed,” she says, confused. Though there’s this trace of relief in her voice that burns my own eyes with sadness and comfort, knowing it was the right thing to do. To stay. I might even still make it to my physics midterm on time if I leave soon.
I give her a nod, simply because I don’t see a response that would be meaningful.
I move toward her, handing her the warm tissues. “Here. This helps sooth the pain. On your wrist.” I gesture at the arm she’s still clutching against her belly.
She lets out a deep exhale, slowly meeting my face.
The panic that’s consumed her eyes and lack of words, for some peculiar reason, fills me with déjà vu.
Not knowing what happened, but even while knowing that she doesn’t want to tell me, a familiar worry shakes me with clarity.
“The cold for anxiety, the heat for pain and tension relief,” I blurt out, gesturing at the tissues.
“And running helps—” An unfamiliar vulnerability causes me to ramble on, “—with the stress. Except, it also sucks, running.”
Alice lets out a tiny chuckle, nodding still without a word, taking the rest of the tissues I offer to her.
I give a small smile, hoping just that helps reassure her that whatever it is that she’s going through will turn out okay, that she will be okay, guilt pinching beneath my ribcage at the hypocrite I am for not following the very same wisdom.
“Thanks,” the young skater says quietly, though the simple word fills me with a leap of hope, maybe we’re all going to be okay.
Approaching the exit of the locker room, my stomach flips over as I watch a group of girls similar to Alice’s age enter with giggles and loud chatter, dizzying my head with narratives of my own.
Was Alice bullied? No, that can’t be it. Her arm was clearly in pain.
Did she fall?
Did someone push her?
13. The girl is only 13-years-old, reminded again of the age I was a year before joining this rink.
All the magic for years I believed sparkled behind these walls.
All the ruin that has only followed since.