Tommy, who knows from Phil that the shaking is from lack of sleep, anxiety and not taking care of himself, wants to cry. He’d sleep if he could- he’d rest if he was allowed. He can’t though, and he won’t until this is all over. He won't be able to stop shaking until he gets gold.

His coach sighs, disappointed. "Hm. Not good enough. But, I suppose that this is the best you can give me." He skates around and slowly, slowly, backs off the ice. Tommy doesn't move, because he hasn't been told to.

"Take the night off, sweetheart," he says, and it's cruel, as he knows that Tommy's having a hard time sleeping. Having a hard time relaxing. Tommy wants to ask him to please, please, make me do another set, work me until I can't. Don't leave me to stare at my ceiling all night. "You don’t deserve it, but because I'm so nice, I'll give it to you."

"Thank you," Tommy whispers, trembling, arms still above his head. Straight lines, he thinks, straight lines.

His coach turns away, grinning, and the second the doors shut, Tommy collapses. His knees hit the ice, and he bends in half, pressing his forehead to the solid coldness. He's struggling for breath, struggling to control the way his chest is rising and falling. His sweater feels like it's choking him- squeezing the life out of him.

He's dying, he's dying, and he can't decide if it's a bad thing or not.

The door opens, and a voice calls, "Tommy? Tommy? Are you here?"

{{user}}?

Tommy curls up tighter- he doesn't want anyone to see him like this. But of course there's nowhere to hide on the ice. Ever.