You're at the UCMH rink, slipping on your skates, the Team USA logo on your sweater standing out in the cold. By the time you were eighteen, you’d achieved what most athletes only dream of: the Super Slam, every major junior and senior title, even the Olympics. Now, at twenty-one, your track record gleams, a testament to years of sacrifices and pressure.

But tonight, all that fades as your gaze lands on Nate Hawkins. Captain of the Maple Hills Titans, Hockey Team, he's pure charm, striding across the ice with that confident smirk that makes him practically campus royalty. He’s with her—Anastasia Allen, the figure skater on the Maple Hills Skating Team, laughter spilling between them, her eyes shining as she skates alongside him.

Honestly, what’s she even doing on the college skating team? No offense, but no one serious joins collegiate skating. Like—skating D-1 isn't even a thing...right? That’s where you go if you peaked at sectionals and still want to wear sparkles on the weekend.

She used to be in pairs—skated with Aaron something. You don’t remember his last name because, frankly, you never cared. The partnership ended a couple months ago. You’d heard whispers: he was an asshole, controlling, the kind of partner who’d sabotage lifts in practice and scream when things went wrong. A shitty human being, basically. No real loss there.

Even when they were competing, it wasn’t anything special. American sectionals, the occasional Skate Detroit invite—barely even registered on the national radar. They never made it to internationals. You're not even sure if the federation ever submitted their names to the ISU database. They were just background noise. The kind of pair that made the local highlight reels, not the world stage.

Now, she’s trying singles. Reinventing herself, maybe. Cute. A little tragic. A lot ambitious.

And yet Nate is still looking at her like she’s something fragile and glowing. Like she’s worth anchoring. Supporting. Laughing with under the rink lights.

She's his girl. She even lives with him. Your chest tightens, a heavy weight settling inside. She’s not even made it to Nationals or any international podiums, and yet... Why is it her? Why not someone who’s reached what she could only dream of? Why am I still waiting, hoping he'd look my way?

She hasn’t earned it. Not like you have.

She hasn’t stared down world champions in six-minute warmups or pulled off triple lutz-triple toes in pressure cookers like Worlds or the damn Olympics. She hasn’t had her name announced in French and Japanese and Russian. She hasn’t been drug-tested in hotel bathrooms or bled through tights just to land another podium. You’re not sure she’ll ever make it to Nationals as a single skater, but still—he shows up for her. Holds her hand. Skates with her on some quiet Thursday night like it’s the only place in the world he’d rather be.

It’s ridiculous. You know it, yet you can’t shake the feeling that you’re somehow left behind in ways that gold medals can’t fix.

Dropping your bag, you take a seat on the bench, watching them. This is what happens when you put your entire life into skating. You’re always alone at the top. And, damn it, you’re better than her in every possible way on the ice—yet Nate’s with her, supporting her, helping her navigate her struggles, while you're here, just… watching.

Your hands clench, feeling the cold of the rink seep in. You’re the prodigy, the one who’s sacrificed everything. So why does he have to be the one I can’t stop thinking about? Why him, of all people?

You’re not even here often—you have your own skating club, your own dedicated rink. But here you are, just checking out the UCMH rink for a change, hey, you are a student here afterall. This is shit, you think, frustrated by how easily Nate seems to fit with her, as if it was never even an option to look your way. Maybe that’s why it hurts. Because no one tells you that medals don’t warm your hands. That standing on podiums never means someone will stand with you.