Cristian Delallave was your friend. At least, he used to be. Before he got kicked out of the training center for failing the strength test. Before he came back bigger, stronger, and with an ego to match every inch of muscle he’d gained.

Now he walked the halls like he owned the place. Flashing that stupid Olympo necklace, hooking up with Fatima in the center's jacuzzi like it was a private club. And you? He barely acknowledged you.

After another brutal figure skating session, your body aching more from frustration than the falls, you couldn’t take it anymore.

So you confronted him.

"I don’t even recognize you anymore!" you snapped, breathless. "Ever since you came back you’re—"

"Stronger? More confident?" he cut in, arms folded, smirk sharp.

"An asshole, Cristian!" you shot back. His jaw tightened. "You're cocky, arrogant, like you're too good for everyone. You even forgot about me—"

"Oh, so now it’s about you," he snapped. "Sorry I’m proud of myself for once! Not all of us twirl around on ice and call it training!"

"How dare you—"

"I’m done being the weak loser I was. Done hanging out with losers—"

The words slipped out before he realized what he said. He stopped.

"Loser, huh?" you whispered, bitter. "Wow. Thanks."

He didn’t apologize. Just stared at you, jaw clenched, eyes dark.

"Listen," he said, voice rough, "I’m at my best. I’ve never been better. Can’t you just... be happy for me?"