She pointed toward the door. “Now come on. We’re going to be late.”
???
Coach Miller’s rink was smaller than the one where I’d been training—more intimate, with wood paneled walls and banners from decades of regional competitions. I don’t know if it was the nerves or the hangover but I felt like shit.
The vodka Red Bulls had seemed like a good idea at the time but now my head was pounding, a dull throb behind my eyes that spiked every time I turned too fast. My stomach was unsettled and the cold air that usually felt like relief just made my skin prickle unpleasantly. I took a sip of water and willed my body to cooperate. I was here. I was doing this. I could fall apart later.
The man himself was waiting for us by the boards. He was in his late 50s, maybe early 60s, with salt-and-pepper hair trimmed close and a neatly kept beard. He wore a fleece pulloverwith the rink’s logo embroidered on the chest and held a travel mug that steamed gently in the cold air.
“Théo Beaubien!” He extended a hand, his grip warm and firm. “Steven Miller, nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, Coach Miller.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Good things, I hope.”
“Interesting things.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “And this must be Sabrina. Thank you for reaching out.”
She shook his hand. “Thank you for making time on short notice.”
“For a talented skater like Théo? Always.” He gestured toward the ice. “I thought we could just talk today. No pressure. I’m not here to recruit you or fix you or any of that nonsense.”
I blinked. That was... not what I was expecting. Coach Renaud had neverjust talked. Every interaction was an evaluation. Every conversation circled back to what I was doing wrong, what I needed to improve, how far I still had to go.
“I’ve been following your career for years,” Coach Miller continued, leading us to a bench near the boards. “You’re technically brilliant. The jumps, the spins—textbook. Renaud’s influence is obvious.”
I tensed at the name.
“But I noticed something.” He sat down, cradling his mug. “You skate like you’re at war with yourself. Like every movement is a punishment instead of an expression.”
The words hit somewhere deep in my chest. I wanted to argue—to tell him he didn’t know me, didn’t know what I’d been through—but nothing came out.
“Renaud produces champions,” he said, not unkindly. “His methods work, for a certain kind of skater. But not every skater thrives under that pressure. And from what Sabrina’s told me—”He glanced at her. “—and from what I can see with my own eyes, you’re burning out.”
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
“You’re not.” He said it gently, without judgment. “And that’s okay. Burning out doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re human.”
Sabrina’s hand found mine on the bench. I didn’t pull away.
“I used to love it,” I said quietly, surprising myself. “Skating. When I was a kid, it was the only place I felt like myself. Before the competitions and the rankings and—” I stopped. Swallowed. “I don’t remember when it stopped being fun.”
Miller nodded like he’d heard this before.
“I’ve only taken a handful of skaters to the Olympics,” he said. “I’m not Renaud. I don’t have dozens of medals credited to my name. But I’d like to think my skaters did it for love of the sport. Not out of obligation.”
He let that sit for a moment.
“I’m not asking you to commit to anything today. I just wanted to meet you. See where you’re at.” He stood, tucking his mug under his arm. “Take your time. Skate here if you want—or don’t. But if you ever want to remember why you started skating in the first place... my door’s open.”
He nodded to Sabrina, then walked back toward his office, leaving us alone by the ice.
I stared at the smooth white surface, my reflection a dark blur against it.
“I hate you,” I said quietly.
“I know.” Sabrina leaned her head on my shoulder. “You’ll thank me later.”
