Icing Those Hurts (NOT MY STORY. READ DISC)

Part 3

Tommy doesn't go to breakfast.

He wakes up before everyone else- no alarm, because his roommates are still asleep and he doesn't want to risk waking them- stretches, grabs his skates and a protein bar and heads down to the rink.

He doesn't talk to his coach, in fact, his coach is probably still sleeping. His coach will probably have a nice warm breakfast and make his way down when he deems necessary. But still, he'll be expecting Tommy to have done his reps. So, he does the same thing that he always does whenever someone expects something of him- he delivers.

Camel to donut to a one handed Y-spin. Over and over and over. After every routine, he pulls himself out into a glide to give himself just a half a second to breath. The wind rushes against his cheeks, Tommy swallows the coldness down, hoping it will settle his stomach.

He goes and goes and goes until his fingers are numb, and then he puts on his gloves and does ten more. Tommy curves around the rink for just one more go, when he catches sight of a bunch of guys in gear walking in through the door. They're dressed in red and black and have hockey skates and gym bags in their hands.

"Hey!" One of them yells- the one with shaggy black hair tied back by a red headband. "We've this rink scheduled for right now, man. Who do you think you are?"

Tommy tenses, barely resisting the urge to scoot back on the ice. Then another guy, with pink hair, reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back.

"Nice skatin' kid."

The compliment makes Tommy's stomach turn. But still, he stands straight, pushing himself off the ice and over to the gate as swiftly as he can. When he gets off, as he always does, his legs shake from overuse and he has to grip the rink edge to keep from pitching forward, but it's nothing that he isn't used to by now.

He fumbles for his bag, but when he hears a scoff and an annoyed mumble from someone in the group, he flinches.

Too slow, he thinks. He's in the way and he's too slow and he's being a nuisance. As always.

He turns, about to rush out, about to throw up, when the pink haired man speaks again, reaching a hand out but not touching.

"Hey," he frowns, and he almost seems concerned, "you alright? You seem-"

"Fine." He nods jerkily, and his voice is hoarse from disuse. "I'm- have a good practice."

He leaves then, pushing through them without touching, ignoring the eyes following him. The second that he gets out of the arena, he practically flies to the nearest bathroom, his vision swimming. He tumbles into the first stall and falls to his knees, heaving over the bowl. He's nauseous because he didn't eat, he's nauseous from the interaction, he's nauseous from being here.

Everything is so big and bright and much, much, too good for him. He can't do this. Already, he can't do this. He knows it and soon everyone else will too. He's a walking warning sign.

He sits there for a moment, on the cold tile floor, shaking. Everything is cold, and he can't feel his fingers. The only thing he knows for certain is that his chest is buzzing with anxiety and it's only day two.

God, he thinks to himself, when does it end?

Tommy gives himself just one more moment of tears and nerves and fear, let's himself feel upset for a moment before he packages it all away. Back down. Deep down. He's here for gold. Nothing else. He needs it.