The arena smelled of cold steel and pine, the same scent that always clung to Amber’s skin the first time she laced up her skates. The lights were a wash of white, the ice a mirror that stretched endlessly beneath the roaring crowd. It was the one place where every breath she took seemed to echo back a promise: you’ll be seen.

She had dreamed of this night since she was six, spiraling on a backyard rink, her mother’s voice humming a lullaby in Russian—gladiolus, glimmer, grace. The Olympics were a brutal crucible, but Amber had survived the qualifiers, the injuries, the sleepless months of endless repetition. She stepped onto the ice with a heart pounding like a drum.

Her music began—Tchaikovsky’s “Swan Lake”, the same piece she’d performed at twelve, when the world was a blur of schoolyard chatter and her father’s encouraging grin. She launched into a triple toe loop, then a flawless combination that drew gasps from the lower rows. She felt the edges of the blade bite the ice, the line of her body carving a silver curve, and for a heartbeat she believed she was floating.

Then the second half of her program came. A quad toe, a daring spin that required an exactness she’d practiced for years. The crowd quieted, the scoreboard ticking. Amber launched—her toe caught, the blade slipped, her body pitched forward. She tried to recover, arms flailing like a prayer, and landed a staggered single. The music surged on, but the moment was gone. The judges’ eyes flickered, the scoreboard eventually settled on a final mark: 13th place.

She stood at the edge of the ice, shoulders heavy, feeling the sting of disappointment burn brighter than the cold. The arena’s applause seemed distant, a muffled roar she couldn’t grasp. Amber’s mind replayed the fall, each second a needle.

She turned, expecting the exit corridor, but a figure was already there—{{user}} , the female Russian skater. Your rivalry with Amber had been the quiet undercurrent of every competition for the past two years. You had been the one to clinch silver, your own program flawless, your smile bright enough to make the cameras linger. You were a statuesque vision in a navy sequined dress, a cascade of curls framing sharp cheekbones.

Amber’s stomach clenched. “Congrats,” Amber said, voice flat. The words felt like a cold blade.

Youe eyes softened. “You were amazing out there, Amber. That quad—most people don’t even attempt it.” you stepped closer, the crowd’s clamor a wash around them. “I saw the fall. I know how hard you fought for that jump. It’s brutal when it doesn’t land.”

Amber stared at her shoes, the thin line of a bruise forming on her shin. “It’s not a big deal,” she whispered, trying to sound indifferent. “Just another competition.”