Archie and I say it simultaneously, our voices colliding in a shared pitch of alarm that echoes across the ice.
"Flooded?" I repeat, my eyes wide. "Your whole dorm? How? When? Are your things okay? Is Jace okay?"
"Pipe burst in the bathroom. Water everywhere. Our mattresses are basically swimming pools now. Jace is dealing with maintenance and trying to salvage what he can, but honestly, it is looking grim." She shrugs with the resilience of someone who has dealt with worse. "We will figure it out. Always do."
They will figure it out. The same phrase I have been telling myself for years. The mantra of people who have no safety net and no choice but to keep going.
I should help them. If their place is flooded, they need somewhere to stay. Somewhere dry. Somewhere warm. The apartment is cramped enough with four people, but I would rather sleep on the floor than let Sage and Jace spend a night in a waterlogged dorm.
Before I can press for details, Coach Mercer's whistle shrieks through the arena, cutting off the conversation with its sharp demand for attention.
"Focus up!" he bellows. "Practice round! Let us see what you three have got!"
We get into position, the three of us forming a loose triangle near center ice. The rookie team is spread out in their formation, looking eager and slightly confused about why they are being used as test subjects for an Omega, a nerd, and a tomboy.
The whistle blows.
The puck drops.
And I feel it instantly.
The wrongness in my feet.
These skates are my spares. The pair I keep in my bag for emergencies, the ones with duller blades and a slightly wider fit that I wear when I am not serious about performing. I brought them intentionally today because I wanted to test the waters. Get a feel for the ice again without committing my good pair. Keep the secret a little longer.
But the second I try to push into a sprint, the difference is staggering.
My edges slip. My turns lag by a fraction of a second. The responsiveness I need in my ankles is muted by the looser fit, making every stride feel like I am running through sand instead of gliding on glass.
The blade angle is wrong too. These skates have a flatter rocker profile, designed for stability rather than agility, and the difference is maddening when my body remembers exactly how a proper edge should feel. My feet ache with the memory of precision, yearning for the pair tucked away in my locker.
I wobble.
Not dramatically. Not enough to fall. But enough that anyone watching closely would see the hesitation in my balance, the slight overcorrection in my hips as I compensate for the skate's inadequacy.
And people are watching.
From the sidelines, I can hear Vanessa and the other girls on the figure skating team. Their laughter carries across the ice in bright, cutting peals that are designed to wound without being direct enough to confront.
"Look at her ankles!" one of them whispers loud enough to carry. "She can barely stay upright!"
"And she is supposed to teach the hockey team? Please."
I let the laughter wash over me without reacting.
Breathe, Mae. You have heard worse. You have survived worse. A few mean girls on ice skates are not going to break what years of poverty and rejection could not.
Sage glides up beside me mid-drill, her face scrunched with concern.
"Why are you wearing those skates?" she asks, low enough that the rookies cannot hear. "You have your competition pair in your locker. I saw you pack them this morning."
"I wanted to test the waters first," I say. "See how the ice felt before bringing out the real ones."
Sage laughs, short and incredulous.
"You are such an evil bitch. Making them think you cannot skate while your actual blades are sitting twenty feet away."
I smirk.
