Chapter 4: Wreckage
The ice felt different that afternoon. It was the same rink, the same chill biting through her thin practice clothes, the same echo of blades scraping in the empty arena. But Amber’s edges were softer. The memory of the mountain’s noise had seeped into the silence, a persistent hum beneath the fluorescent lights.
She went through her planned program once, hitting the jumps with mechanical accuracy. It was fine. It was perfect. And it felt utterly hollow.
Alysa and Isabeau were doing spins at the far end, their movements easy, accompanied by occasional laughter. Amber watched them, a foreign ache in her chest. When was the last time she’d just skated? Not trained, not performed, just… moved?
She glided to a stop at the boards, spraying a fine mist of ice. “Hey.”
They turned, mid-conversation, smiles fading into polite, expectant attention. Teammates, but in this world, always competitors first.
“Wanna just… mess around for a bit?” Amber heard herself say. The words felt awkward in her mouth, like trying on someone else’s clothes. “No programs. Just… whatever.”
Isabeau’s eyebrows disappeared under her fringe. Alysa blinked, then a slow, disbelieving grin spread across her face. “Seriously?”
“We have the ice for another forty minutes,” Amber said, trying to sound pragmatic, not vulnerable.
“Hell yes,” Isabeau said, already pushing off into a fast, wobbly spread eagle. “I call dibs on attempting a double axel from a standstill. It’s going to be tragic.”
What followed wasn’t beautiful. It was ridiculous. Isabeau’s attempted jump ended in a controlled tumble, laughter echoing off the rafters. Alysa tried to mimic a snowboarder’s stance on her skates, wobbling precariously. Amber, tentatively at first, began carving wide, looping figures, gaining speed until she launched into a single axel, not for the height or the rotation, but just for the feeling of the spin. She landed, not with her usual pristine stick, but with a slight stagger, a gasp of laughter escaping her.
It was stupid. It was wasteful. It was the most alive she’d felt on the ice in months.
The three of them were breathless, clinging to the boards, when the side door clanged open. A woman bundled in a USA Ski Team jacket poked her head in, her face ruddy from the cold. “Oh, hey. Sorry. Looking for the short track speed skating clinic.”
“Wrong rink,” Alysa said, still giggling. “It’s next door.”
“Thanks.” The skier turned to leave, then paused. “Hey, you guys are the figure skaters, right? When are your events?”
“Week from tomorrow,” Isabeau supplied.
“Cool. I’ll have to check it out.”
Alysa, ever the social conductor, leaned forward. “You a fan? We don’t usually get pre-emptive spectators.”
The skier shrugged, a friendly, casual motion. “Not really. But Y/n Skells was talking about it in her post-event interview today. Said she’s gonna be there to ‘support the Blade Angels’ or something. Got curious.”
The air in the rink changed. The residual warmth from their laughter evaporated. Amber’s hand tightened on the padded rim of the board.
“Y/n said that?” Alysa asked, her voice sharp with interest.
“Yeah. It was kinda funny. Reporter asked about her celebration plans before the halfpipe event, and she just shrugged and said she’d be watching you all. Made it sound like the obvious choice.” The skier gave a little wave. “Anyway, good luck!”
The door swung shut, leaving a vacuum of silence.
Isabeau was the first to move, digging into her bag nearby and pulling out a small, clunky handheld TV. The one they used to catch event coverage. She fiddled with the antenna, the screen flickering to life with static before resolving into the bright, overlit scene of a post-event press area.
“What are you doing?” Amber asked, but her voice was faint.
“What do you think?” Alysa hissed, crowding close.
Isabeau fast-forwarded through grainy footage of other athletes until Y/n’s familiar frame filled the small screen. She was slouched in a chair, still in her boarding gear, a beanie pulled low over her choppy hair. A forest of microphones pointed at her.
The audio crackled. “—incredible run, Y/n. How will you be preparing for the halfpipe now that you’ve secured a medal here?”
Y/n’s mouth quirked, that same half-smile Amber had seen from the slope. She leaned into the mic. “Gonna sleep for twelve hours. Then maybe eat my weight in cafeteria fries.” The small press pool chuckled. “Nah, I’ll train. But I’ll be taking a break tomorrow afternoon, for sure.”
“Anything special planned?”
Y/n looked directly into the camera, her green eyes clear even through the poor resolution. “Yeah. Gonna go watch the Blade Angels fly.” She paused, as if realizing the nickname needed explanation. “The figure skaters. The women’s team. I wanna see what that kind of precision looks like up close. Should be something else.”
The reporter, sounding amused, pressed. “A fan of figure skating?”
Y/n shrugged, the motion consuming the frame. “I’m a fan of people who are the best at what they do. They seem like they’re from a different planet. I wanna see the atmosphere.” She ended it there, a clear dismissal, and stood up, the interview dissolving into more static.
Isabeau clicked the TV off. The humming silence of the rink pressed in again, thick and heavy.
“Holy shit,” Alysa whispered.
“She called us Blade Angels,” Isabeau said, a grin tugging at her lips. “That’s actually kind of cool.”
Amber said nothing. She pushed off from the boards and skated a slow, solitary lap. The ice felt different again. It felt watched. It felt anticipated. The careless freedom of minutes ago was gone, replaced by a new, coiled pressure. But it wasn’t the usual weight of expectation from her coaches or her parents. This was sharper, more specific. It came with green eyes and a casual challenge disguised as curiosity.
I wanna see what that kind of precision looks like up close.
Amber’s next stroke dug deep into the ice, a crisp, decisive sound. A phantom crowd roared in her memory, the scent of pine and fried food overriding the rink’s sterile chill. She finished her lap and stopped before her friends, her breathing even, her face a calm mask.
“We should get back to work,” she said, her voice quiet but clear. “We’ve got a week.”
But as she turned to practice her step sequence, every movement felt conscious. Every extension, every turn of her wrist, felt like it was being measured by an invisible, dauntingly relaxed spectator who saw it not just as sport, but as something worth watching. Something, perhaps, worth seeing her.