Playing To Win || paused might be continued soon ||

chapter thirteen

The days blurred together after the fall. Every morning felt like I was waking up in a nightmare I couldn't escape. I was supposed to be on the ice—practicing, perfecting my routine, pushing myself harder—but instead, I was stuck, immobilized with a brace wrapped around my ankle.

Nationals were a month away, and I was missing precious time to train. Every second off the ice felt like another step further from my goals, another failure. And no matter what anyone said, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was falling behind.

Sienna and Ava tried their best to keep my spirits up. They were both back on the ice, preparing for their own routines, but I could see the sympathy in their eyes every time they looked at me. They were moving forward while I was stuck, sinking deeper into the weight of my own expectations.

I hated it.

One afternoon, a week after the fall, they dragged me to the student center, hoping a change of scenery would help. The place was packed with students lounging in chairs or huddled around tables, all of them blissfully unaware of how suffocating this whole situation was becoming for me.

"Come on, Em," Ava said, her tone too cheerful, like she was trying to force the good mood on me. "You need to get out of your head. A little break is good for you."

"Right," I muttered, barely looking up from my phone. I'd been scrolling through figure skating videos, trying to keep myself motivated, but it was only making things worse. Seeing other skaters land their jumps with ease while I was stuck here, nursing an injury, made me feel like I was drowning.

Ava and Sienna exchanged glances before Sienna nudged my arm gently. "We're not saying you shouldn't be focused, Em. But stressing out over this isn't helping you heal faster."

I knew they were right. But knowing that didn't stop the anxiety gnawing at me. The pressure I'd put on myself felt like a heavy blanket, suffocating and unrelenting. It wasn't just about missing practices—it was about missing everything. Every step back was another reminder that I wasn't good enough, that maybe I'd never be good enough.

"I just..." I started, my voice trailing off. I didn't even know how to explain it to them. How do you tell your best friends that the one thing you've been fighting so hard for suddenly feels like it's slipping through your fingers?

"We get it," Sienna said softly, her eyes filled with concern. "But you need to give yourself time to recover. Pushing yourself too hard right now is only going to make things worse."

I bit my lip, swallowing down the urge to argue. It wasn't that simple. They didn't understand—how could they? They were still skating, still progressing while I was stuck on the sidelines.

"You'll get back on the ice soon," Ava added, her voice softer now. "You just need to focus on healing. Everything else can wait."

I nodded, but the words felt hollow. My body might heal, but I wasn't sure how long it would take for my mind to do the same. Every day off the ice felt like a defeat. And each passing day made the voice in my head—the one telling me I wasn't doing enough, that I needed to be better—grow louder.

That night, I couldn't sleep. My mind was racing, filled with thoughts of my routine, my injury, the looming pressure of Nationals. I couldn't shut it off, couldn't find a way to silence the constant stream of doubt.

So, I did the only thing I knew how to do—I buried it. I told myself I just needed to work harder, to be more disciplined. I'd come back stronger, more focused. But as the days dragged on, that plan felt more and more out of reach.

The next morning, I didn't eat breakfast again. It had become easier to skip meals, to ignore the hunger pangs and the nausea. The less I ate, the more control I felt like I had. It was the one thing I could still control in a world that felt like it was spiraling out of my hands.

Sienna noticed, of course. She always did. But she didn't say anything, not directly. She just watched me with those concerned eyes, like she was waiting for me to crack and spill everything.

I couldn't. Not yet. Not when I didn't even understand it myself.

Days turned into weeks, and I still hadn't returned to the ice. My ankle was healing, but not fast enough. Every time I tried to push myself, it would throb with pain, reminding me that I wasn't ready yet. But Nationals were getting closer, and the pressure was becoming unbearable.

I started cutting back more. On food, on sleep, on anything that felt like a distraction from my goal. If I couldn't train, I could at least control this, right? I could still be disciplined, still keep myself in check.

Landon had been lurking around more lately, though I wasn't sure why. We weren't friends—not really—but he seemed to have taken it upon himself to show up wherever I was, watching me with that same calculating expression he always had.

He never said much. Sometimes, he'd make some snarky comment or ask about my ankle, but mostly, he just watched. It was annoying. Like he was waiting for me to fall apart so he could swoop in and say, I told you so.

One afternoon, I was sitting in the corner of the rink, watching Sienna and Ava practice. They were preparing for a competition in two weeks, and I was supposed to be there with them. But instead, I was sidelined, watching from a distance.

I shifted in my seat, wincing as my ankle throbbed again. I'd pushed it too hard the day before, trying to test how much weight it could bear. The answer? Not enough.

"Still sitting out, huh?"

I glanced up to see Landon leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his dark eyes flicking from me to the ice.

"Obviously," I muttered, annoyed by his presence. "What do you want?"

He shrugged, unfazed by my tone. "Just checking on your progress. Thought you'd be back out there by now."

"Yeah, well, not everyone heals as fast as you," I shot back, my frustration bubbling over. "I'll be back when I'm ready."

Landon didn't respond, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer before he turned to watch the skaters. I hated the way he looked at me—like he could see through the walls I'd built, like he knew I was barely holding it together.

"Don't push yourself too hard," he said after a beat. "You don't need to rush back just to prove something."

I didn't reply. What did he know? He didn't understand the pressure, the expectations, the feeling of never being enough.

But deep down, I knew he was right. I was pushing myself too hard. And I didn't know how to stop.