Chapter 9: The Morning After the Pact
The door swung shut behind her with a soft click, sealing away the scent of pine cleaner and sleeplessness. Amber blinked into the hallway's relentless fluorescence, the world still fuzzy at the edges.Four hours of shallow sleep had left a gritty feeling behind her eyes. She adjusted the strap of her gear bag on her shoulder, the weight familiar and grounding.
A voice cut through the hum of the lights."Figured you'd need this."
She flinched, her heart performing a sudden, clumsy leap against her ribs.
Leaning against the wall opposite her door, as if she’d been there for years, was Y/n. She held two paper cups of coffee in one hand, a small paper bag wedged between them, and her other arm was casually braced against the cinderblock wall. The jagged lightning bolt tattoo on her inner forearm seemed to crackle in the sickly light. She wore a faded green hoodie, snowboard team logos peeling off the fabric, and a pair of baggy cargo pants. Her short, choppy hair was still damp from a shower.
Amber’s brain stuttered, trying to reconcile the imagined person from her dreams with this solid, smiling reality standing three feet away. "How did you… what are you doing here?"Proximity," Y/n said, pushing off the wall. She held out one of the cups."I live right there.Door 7B. Got back last night, crashed hard, but I heard a door close around two.Sounded… decisive. Figured it was you, and figured you’d be running on fumes today."She nodded at the gear bag. "Team finals.Big day."Amber’s fingers closed around the proffered cup. Their hands brushed.Y/n’s skin was warm, roughened by grips and cold. A jolt, clean and electric, shot up Amber’s arm. She took the coffee, bringing it to her nose.The rich, bitter scent cut through the hallway’s sterile smell. "You didn't have to do this."I know." Y/n shrugged, sipping from her own cup."But the village coffee is brutal.This is from the little Italian place off-campus. Their espresso could wake the dead.Or a nervous figure skater."
A surprised, breathy laugh escaped Amber.She took a sip. It was perfect—strong, no sugar, just a dash of steamed milk.The exact way she liked it, though she couldn't remember ever telling her. The caffeine hit her bloodstream like a splash of cold water, sharpening the edges of the world."Thank you."
"You're welcome." Y/n fell into step beside her as Amber began walking toward the east exit, the route to the practice rink etched in her muscle memory. "I've got an hour before I need to be on the mountain.Mind if I walk with you?"
"No," Amber said, then too quickly."I mean, no, I don't mind." They walked in silence for a few paces, the squeak of their trainers on linoleum the only sound. Amber sneaked a glance. Y/n moved with a loose-limbed, rolling gait, utterly at ease in her own body. It was a stark contrast to Amber’s own perpetual awareness of her posture, each step measured."They give you any trouble?"Y/n asked, her voice casual."Who?"
"Your friends.After our… chat."Y/n grinned, a flash of white teeth. "The midnight confessional."Heat rose up Amber’s neck."They… had some thoughts."
"I bet they did.Alysa Liu strike me as a romantic."
"Isabeau’s worse," Amber admitted, the shared secret loosening her tongue."She's a silent schemer."
Y/n laughed, a warm, rolling sound that filled the empty hallway."Good. You need schemers.Especially here."She gestured with her coffee cup, encompassing the entire Village. "Place is all strategy and no soul."You don't feel the soul of competition?"Amber asked, genuinely curious.
"Sure.In the moment, when you're dropping in.But all this?" Y/n waved a hand at the flags, the motivational posters, the locked trophy cases they passed. "This is just packaging.Noise.The soul part is quieter.It happens in cafeterias over bad shepherd's pie. Or in hallways at six AM."Amber’s throat tightened. She took another burning sip of coffee, focusing on the pain.They pushed through the heavy doors leading outside. The morning air was a knife-blade of cold, sharp and clarifying. Their breath plumed out in twin clouds that momentarily merged in the space between them. The path to the rink was a cleared line of asphalt through dirty snowbanks, the sky above a pale, distant grey.
"You never answered my question," Y/n said, her tone light, but her green eyes were intent."Which one?"
"The furnace.If you could turn it off.Would you still?"
Amber looked straight ahead, at the angular roof of the skating arena growing larger. She thought of her father’s spreadsheet, of the weightless feeling of a perfect triple axel, of the warmth of the cup in her hand."No," she said, the word quiet but clear in the frozen air. "Not today."Y/n nodded, as if she’d expected that answer."Good."
They reached the service entrance to the rink, a nondescript metal door where the Zamboni exhaled its chemical breath.The familiar, frigid air of the ice arena whispered out. Amber’s practice world awaited, a realm of measured angles and critical eyes."Well," Y/n said, stopping. "This is your stop."She held out the small paper bag."Almost forgot.Almond croissant. You should eat something."Amber took the bag, the paper warm and slightly greasy. "You're… very prepared."Not usually," Y/n admitted, scratching the back of her neck. A faint blush, visible even in the cold, colored her cheeks. "Just for things that seem important."She met Amber’s gaze, held it for a second too long. "Go be perfect, Amber Glenn."
Then she turned, lifting a hand in a lazy backward wave, and started walking back up the path, her figure growing smaller against the vast, white landscape.
Amber stood for a full minute, the cold seeping through her team jacket, watching until Y/n disappeared around a corner. The coffee’s heat was now a constant glow in her chest. The croissant smelled of butter and promises.Inside the rink, the chill was profound. Her coach, Marta, was already at the boards, clipboard in hand."You're late," she said, not looking up.
"Sorry," Amber murmured, setting her coffee and bag down. She sat on the bench, the familiar ritual of lacing her skates like a prayer. She pulled the boots tight, each tug a cinching of focus. The doubt, the fear, the static—it was all still there, buzzing at the periphery.But at the center, where the cold usually lived, was a new and startling warmth. It wasn't the fierce burn of ambition.It was simpler. It was the memory of a touch on her hand, a laugh in a grey hallway, a voice saying I’d miss you.She stepped onto the ice.The blade caught the light, a silver flash. She pushed off, the first stroke clean and powerful, cutting a solitary line into the pristine, unforgiving surface. The familiar pressure descended, the world narrowing to the ice, her body, the music only she could hear.But today, something was different. Today, she carried a secret warmth in her core, a tiny, defiant flame against the endless, beautiful cold.