“I screwed everything up,” I whisper.
“Okay. And?”
I blink.
Celeste raises an eyebrow. “You think I haven’t fallen out of a pirouette and almost taken out an entire ensemble before? One time I straight-up faceplanted in front of a panel at a competition. Ugh, the humiliation. But I picked myself up off the ground. Finished my routine and still got into regionals that year. You know why?”
She looks down at me, eyebrows raised as I stay silent. “Because of you. I’ve always looked up to you and your work ethic.”
“That’s not the same.”
“You’re right. Your disaster is louder. More public.” She nudges my foot. “But that doesn’t mean you get to quit.”
My throat closes.
She watches me for another beat, then softens. “You don’t have to fix everything tonight,” she says. “You don’t even have to move. But you do have to remember why you started.”
I let that sit for a minute. And it does sit. Right in the center of my chest. Like maybe it’s been there the whole time, waiting for me to stop spiraling long enough to hear it.
I nod once.
Celeste leans back, satisfied. “Good. Now, move over. You smell like depression and old popcorn.”
Celeste fell asleep fifteen minutes into the next episode.
She’s curled up beside me, mouth hanging open, drooling on my pillow. Gross. The blanket slipped off her legs, and I reach down to tug it back into place. She doesn’t stir.
I sit there a minute longer, watching her breathe. The quiet settles over me again, but this time, it doesn’t press so hard on my chest. It’s not so sharp.
She’s right. She’s so right, it makes my throat hurt. I’ve been so tangled up in the fallout and the pressure. So lost in what people are saying about me, I forgot why I put myself out there in the first place.
I started showing up online because I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to set an example for the girls of the next generation of hockey. Or any sport. To show them they can do it. Because I sure as hell am doing it, and nobody can take that away from me.
I open my phone.
It’s dead, of course. I plug it into the wall and let it boot up. Notifications immediately light up the screen. There’s a barrage of messages, likes, comments, and alerts. It’s overwhelming, like always. But this time, I don’t scroll past them. I tap open my DMs.
There are thousands. More than I expected. More than I can possibly respond to.
Some are mean. Vile. They usually hit me like a punch in the stomach, but I don’t read those long enough to absorb them. Not tonight.
Because most of them aren’t. Most of the messages are simple. Kind. From people who don’t know me beyond a screen but who cared enough to say something real.
“I miss your posts. Hope you’re okay.”
“Your cat videos make my daughter laugh when she’s at the hospital. Thank you.”
“Don’t let them win.”
“You made me feel less alone. I come from a small town and have to play on the boys’ team because there aren’t enough girls. But seeing you and the Elles every day gives me hope I’ll find my squad too.”
And then there’s a message from a familiar name. Bridget is one of the kids from the rec rink we visited a few weeks back. Her mom tagged me in a photo at the time. She’s wearing mismatched socks, and there’s a huge gap in her grin. Obviously, from her age, not from a puck to the face. She’s holding her stick upside down, but she’s proud. You can see it in her smile.
“Hi, Luna. My friend said you’re not famous anymore, but I said you’re still nice and you taught me how to tie my skates so I like you better anyway.”
I blink hard, and the edges of my vision go soft.
This is my reason. Not for the likes or numbers, or even the money. I started influencing for these girls who might not have pursued their hockey dreams if they didn’t see themselves in all the other stars out there. For Bridget, and all the other girls like her.
