“i know you’re mad.” you hear ivan say as he leans on the rail of the ice rink

“i’m not mad.” you huff, focusing on your laps.

“you are too.”

he had made a stupid joke about you only reading picture books and needing someone to read menus to you during an interview. he couldn’t have known you were dyslexic but it still hurt all the same. he made you feel stupid and you hated it. almost as much as you hated him.