Chapter 17: The Price of Letting Go
The dream was shapeless, a swirling fog of falling and being watched. Amber jerked awake, her sheets tangled around her legs. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 5:47 AM. For a disoriented second, she was just an athlete in a village room. Then it crashed back.
The confession. The laugh. The deal.
Her skin felt too tight. The silence in her pristine room was a vacuum, sucking the air from her lungs. She stared at the framed photo on her desk—herself on a podium, face a mask of poised triumph, eyes hollow even then. Do it your way. Y/n’s voice, steady and sure, cut through the memory-fog. It wasn’t gentle advice. It was a challenge. A dare.
She couldn’t breathe here.
Her hand shot out, fumbling for the phone on the floor. The green light of the screen was blinding in the dark. She typed fast, her thumbs clumsy with sleep and a frantic, nameless urgency.
The deal. I want to start now. Meet me at the rink in an hour.
She hit send before she could think. The message vanished into the ether. She lay back, heart hammering against her ribs. What had she just done?
Thirty-seven minutes later, she was pushing through the heavy metal door into the athlete’s training rink. The cold hit her first, a familiar slap that usually signaled order, work, control. Today it felt different. The arena was empty, the ice a perfect, unmarked sheet under the stark morning lights. And there, on the boards by the entrance, Y/n waited.
She was already laced into a pair of beat-up rental skates, her long legs dangling over the side. A worn leather jacket was thrown over a workout tank. She looked up, her face breaking into a slow, knowing grin.
“Good,” Y/n said, her voice bouncing in the cavernous space. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Amber walked over, the echo of her own boots too loud. “How did you even get in here?”
“Told the security guy I was your new sports psych. He bought it. I’ve got a trustworthy face.” Y/n hopped down, landing with a soft thud on the rubber matting. “But first, we’re going to do something you’ve never done before.”
“My free program is at 2 PM, I’m not altering my—” Amber began, the autopilot of training kicking in.
“Not your program,” Y/n interrupted, pulling a small, dented silver speaker from her bag. She set it on the boards, connecting a wire to her bulky Nokia phone. “We’re going to skate to something that isn’t classical. Something that makes you want to move, not perform.”
Amber stared at her. “That’s absurd. My muscle memory, the timing—”
“Is about counting. This is about feeling.” Y/n’s finger hovered over a button. “You analyzed my course. You told me where to risk it all. This is me returning the favor. Your brain is terrifying, Amber. Now shut it up.”
Before Amber could protest, Y/n pressed play.
The first sound wasn’t a melody. It was a distorted, snarling guitar riff, raw and loud and completely alien in this temple of triple lutzes and waltzes. It was followed by a thunderous, messy drumbeat. Eddie Vedder’s gritty, yearning voice flooded the arena, singing about being alive.
Pearl Jam. “Alive.”
The sound was a physical presence, waves of it crashing against the clean, cold surfaces. Amber stood frozen. It was so loud. So imperfect. So full of anger and pain and a ragged, screaming kind of hope.
Y/n just watched her, green eyes steady. “Well?”
Something broke. A dam. A rule. A lifetime of ‘should’.
Amber bent, hands trembling, and began to lace her skates. The routine was so familiar she could do it blindfolded. But this time, it felt like arming herself for a different kind of war. She stepped onto the ice.
The sensation was the same—the blade biting, the glide, the freedom of frictionless motion. But the soundtrack… the soundtrack changed everything. She pushed off, a simple stroke. Then another. The driving rhythm seeped into her bones, a pulse faster than any Tchaikovsky tempo. She wasn’t thinking of edges or technique. She was just moving.
She built speed, carving a wide, reckless circle. The guitar solo screamed through the speakers, and she threw herself into a single axel. It was rough, the landing shaky, but it wasn’t for points. It was because the music swelled and she had to leave the ice.
She skated harder, faster, her breath clouding in front of her, the cold air burning her lungs. She didn’t do jumps. She just skated. Arms out, head back, letting the velocity and the noise wash over her. It was terrifying. It was the most free she’d ever felt.
Y/n watched from the boards, a silent silhouette. Not judging. Just present.
The song built to its crashing, chaotic end. As the final chord faded into ringing silence, Amber drifted to a stop at center ice, chest heaving, sweat plastering her hairline. The quiet that followed was different. Not empty. Full of echoes.
She looked at Y/n. Her face felt warm. Alive.
“Again,” Amber breathed, the word a cloud in the air.
Y/n’s grin was a flash of white. “My turn.”
Before Amber could process it, Y/n was stepping onto the ice in her rental skates. She was a disaster—all knees and elbows, a snowboarder’s stance utterly wrong for the blade. She wobbled, arms pinwheeling, and let out a loud, genuine laugh at her own clumsiness.
“Okay, so this is harder than it looks!” Y/n shouted, her voice joyful.
Amber felt a laugh bubble up in her own throat, unexpected and light. She skated over, instinctively reaching out as Y/n teetered. Her gloved hand caught Y/n’s arm, steadying her.
“Bend your knees,” Amber said, the coach in her emerging. “Not your waist.”
Y/n complied, sinking down into an absurd, deep squat, still clinging to Amber’s arm. Their eyes met. Y/n’s were bright with mirth and effort. Amber’s were wide, startled by the contact, by the simplicity of the moment.
“See?” Y/n said, her voice softer now. “You can teach me something too.”
They stayed like that for a second, anchored in the middle of the vast, empty ice. The speaker hummed quietly. The lights above buzzed. Amber’s heart was no longer hammering from exertion. It was beating a slow, heavy, unknown rhythm.
Y/n’s grip on her arm tightened just a fraction, a test of balance. Amber didn’t let go.