Coach Miller had flown in with me, a steady presence at my side as we navigated the familiar hallways. He didn’t push, didn’t offer empty platitudes. Just walked beside me, his hand occasionally landing on my shoulder when he sensed I needed grounding.
I saw Coach Renaud before he saw me.
He was standing by the boards, clipboard in hand, watching one of his skaters run through a step sequence. He’d aged in the months since I’d left—more grey at his temples, deeper lines around his mouth. Or maybe I was just seeing him clearly for the first time.
When he finally noticed me, his expression shuttered into something cold and cordial. A slight nod. Nothing more.
I nodded back and kept walking.
It was more than I expected. Less than I deserved. I wasn’t sure which.
I thought I would be angrier. But standing there in the corridor, breathing in that familiar cold air—ice and rubber and the faint chemical bite of Zamboni exhaust—what came insteadwas something stranger. A kind of grief, maybe. For the version of myself who’d walked these halls believing he was invincible. For the boy who worked himself to the bone. For the skater who’d thought medals could fill the emptiness inside him.
That boy was gone. I wasn’t sure who had taken his place.
But I was here. Standing upright. About to skate.
Sabrina found me right before I was due to take the ice. She was still in her competition costume—an elegant white tulle dress covered in beads that caught the light like crystals—with a hastily thrown on “Team Théo” t-shirt over it, clearly homemade, complete with glitter paint and glued on rhinestones. Her red hair was pulled back in a sleek bun, her makeup still camera ready. She’d skated earlier in the day and must have come straight from cooldown to find me.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind her. The black silk of my shirt billowed slightly at the sleeves, the black and teal rhinestones scattered across the chest catching the light. Black pants cut close to my legs. I’d left my hair loose—Derek had mentioned he liked the way it moved when I skated. Old Théo would have slicked it back, gelled into submission, not a strand out of place. Neurotic competition Théo, controlled down to the last detail.
I still looked like someone who belonged here.
I didn’t feel like it. But maybe that was okay.
Sabrina’s eyes were suspiciously bright as she took in the sight of me in my skating costume.
“Don’t you dare make me cry before I even skate,” I warned.
“Shut up.” She pulled me into a fierce hug. “You’ve got this. You hear me? You’ve got this.”
I hugged her back just as tightly. “I hear you.”
“Now go out there and show them what they’ve been missing.”
The arena was silent as I took my position at centre ice.
So silent I could hear my own heartbeat. The thunder of blood in my ears. The rasp of my breath, too fast, too shallow.
You’ve got this.
I closed my eyes. Found my centre. Thought about Derek’s voice on the phone last night:I’ll be watching. Even if I can’t be there, I’ll be watching.
The first notes ofSpring Dayby BTS filled the arena—the piano opening, soft and aching, a song about loss and longing and waiting for something you’re not sure will ever come back.
And then I was gone.
It felt different this time. Lighter. Like I wasn’t fighting against my body but moving with it. Like the ice wasn’t an enemy to be conquered but a partner to dance with.
I didn’t push for as many quads as I used to. Coach Miller and I had talked about it—about skating smarter, not harder. About proving myself without destroying myself in the process. The quads I did attempt, I nailed. Clean takeoffs, solid landings, the kind of jumps that used to come naturally before I’d poisoned my body with Adderall and starvation.
The melody shifted and I let myself sink into the ache of it. All the things I’d lost. The version of myself I used to be. The people I’d pushed away because staying felt harder than leaving.
The new spin sequence I’d developed in Chicago—the one Coach Miller had helped me refine, the one I’d practiced until my legs screamed—flowed out of me like water. I could feel the audience holding their breath as I hit the final position, my body a perfect line, my heart pounding with something that felt dangerously close to joy.
The music swelled. I moved into the final choreographic sequence, every gesture intentional, every movement an expression of something I’d been afraid to feel for so long.
I am still here. I am still fighting. I am still me.
