Four judges.
Professional attire beneath heavy winter coats. Lanyards around their necks bearing the insignia of the university's athletic evaluation board. Clipboards and tablets clutched intheir hands, the screens glowing with notes that were taken during a performance I did not know was being evaluated.
My jaw is still open.
It has been open for approximately fifteen seconds, which is long enough to constitute a medical concern, and I cannot seem to close it because my brain is attempting to process several overlapping realizations simultaneously and the processing power required has temporarily disabled my ability to operate my own face.
I turn to Raphaël.
He is smirking. That particular, infuriating, devastatingly attractive smirk that I have come to recognize as the expression he wears when a plan he has been orchestrating in silence has reached its intended conclusion and he is allowing himself the satisfaction of watching it land.
"What did you do?" I ask, my voice pitched somewhere between accusation and awe.
He chuckles, the sound low and carrying the self-satisfied warmth of a man who has been holding a secret for days and is finally permitted to release it.
"I am someone who listens to gossip occasionally," he begins, his gray eyes holding mine with a directness that tells me the explanation is going to restructure my understanding of the last seventy-two hours. "And a little birdy informed me that the figure skating auditions were moved. The date that Vanessa and her entourage have been telling everyone, the one near Valentine's Day, is not the audition. That is the first day of the competitive league. The actual tryout window closed two weeks ago for general applicants."
My eyes widen.
The information lands with the force of a revelation that recontextualizes every interaction I have had with Vanessa regarding figure skating. Every snide comment.Every subtle discouragement. Every carefully planted piece of misinformation designed to keep me away from the tryout process until the deadline passed and the opportunity evaporated.
"She lied," I breathe. "Vanessa deliberately told everyone the wrong date so I would miss the applications."
"Not everyone." Raphaël's expression hardens by a fraction, the smirk giving way to a controlled displeasure. "Just you. And anyone adjacent to you who might have corrected the information. Her circle ensured the false date circulated in spaces where you would encounter it and the real date stayed buried in administrative channels that a new student would not think to check."
The calculated cruelty of it steals my breath for a moment. Not the insults. Not the hallway confrontations. Not the name-calling or the social posturing. Those are blunt instruments. This was surgical. A deliberate sabotage of my athletic future disguised as casual campus gossip, executed with the kind of strategic precision that requires premeditation and the specific malice of a woman who viewed my presence on the ice as a threat worth eliminating through bureaucratic manipulation.
"I did not bring it up immediately," Raphaël continues, his voice softening as his thumb traces an idle pattern against my hip, "because I wanted to see if you truly wanted to return to the sport. Not out of spite. Not as a reaction to Vanessa's interference. But because the fire was genuine. Because figure skating was still your passion and not just a weapon you wanted to wield against someone who tried to take it from you."
He meets my gaze with the steady intensity of a man who has been reading me since the day he arrived and has been waiting for me to finish reading myself.
"I saw that fire when you went off on Rafe last night. The way you commanded that locker room was not the performance ofsomeone who wanted to win an argument. It was the conviction of a woman who is genuinely passionate about the sport, who values the sacrifices and efforts that athletes pour into training, and who understands that competitive athletics is not a game for ego but a commitment that shapes careers and lives."
He pauses.
"So I pulled some strings."
"Strings," I repeat, the word barely audible.
"I contacted the evaluation board and explained that there was an exceptional candidate who had been deliberately misled about the tryout timeline. I requested a special assessment. An observation period during which the judges would watch you perform in a natural, unpressured environment to evaluate whether your skill level warranted admission to the program outside of the standard application window."
He gestures toward the four figures now making their way down the arena steps toward the ice level entrance, their movements carrying the purposeful stride of officials with feedback to deliver.
"They have been watching since we started the routine. The music, the choreography, the partner elements. All of it. Evaluated in real time by the same panel that oversees competitive figure skating admissions for the entire university."
My jaw has not recovered.
It remains ajar, suspended in a state of shock that I can feel in my temples and my chest and the base of my spine, my entire body vibrating with an energy that cannot decide whether it is fear or joy or the overwhelming collision of both.
"You planned this," I whisper. "The routine. The music. The empty rink. You planned all of it so the judges could watch me skate without the pressure of knowing I was being evaluated."
"The best performances come from athletes who are not performing for a panel," he says simply. "They come from peoplewho are skating because the ice is where they belong. I wanted the judges to see you, Mae. Not a version of you shaped by anxiety and audition pressure. The real you. The one who skates like the ice owes her a debt and she is collecting with interest."
I am going to cry.
I am going to cry on this ice rink in my neon pink leggings in front of four professional judges and a French Alpha who orchestrated an entire covert audition because he believed in my talent before I remembered to believe in it myself.
The judges step onto the ice.
