𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭

six

Delphine

The rink is silent except for the rhythmic scrape of my blades across the ice. Early mornings are sacred—this is the time when it's just me and the ice. But today, Monsieur Moreau is pushing me harder than usual, and it's wearing on me.

"Delphine!" His voice pierces the stillness like a knife. "C'est une honte. Tu dois te concentrer."

("This is shameful. You need to focus.")

I bite down a retort, my teeth clenching as I keep my face blank. I skate back into position, forcing myself to breathe through the frustration. I'm used to his tone, the way he picks apart every little movement. But today, every word grates against my resolve, his criticisms echoing in my mind.

"Encore! Tu as été meilleure à quinze ans!" he sneers as I attempt a jump, but I land slightly off-balance.

("Again! You were better at fifteen!")

The insult sits heavy in the air, a weight I refuse to acknowledge. I reset, mentally pushing through the frustration, my heart racing in response to the adrenaline coursing through me.

He scoffs, unimpressed. "Arrête de patiner comme si tu n'avais rien à prouver. Est-ce que tu veux être médiocre, Delphine?"

("Stop skating like you have nothing to prove. Do you want to be mediocre, Delphine?")

That last jab bites harder than he knows. I whip around, my voice dripping with ice. "Je suis ici, non? Peut-être que tu devrais arrêter de parler et me laisser m'entraîner."

("I'm here, aren't I? Maybe you should stop talking and let me train.")

His gaze sharpens, unruffled by my defiance. "Fais-le correctement, alors."

("Then do it right.")

I'm ready to hurl a retort back, to tell him that he can shove his expectations up his... but just then, the door swings open, and a chorus of laughter breaks through the tension.

The university hockey team strides in, loud and boisterous, their energy spilling across the rink like an avalanche.

I glance over to see them, especially Kaiden McAllister, tall and broad-shouldered, an arrogant smirk plastered across his face.

They don't understand a word of our heated exchange, but the amusement in their eyes is unmistakable. I can practically feel the judgment radiating off them.

Kaiden, with his cocky grin, looks like he's ready to dive right into this train wreck. I pull my gaze back to Monsieur Moreau, determined not to give the hockey boys the satisfaction of seeing my frustration.

"Demain, six heures du matin," he snaps, his tone final.

("Tomorrow, 6 a.m.")

"Oui, monsieur," I reply evenly, knowing that I'll drag myself back here without hesitation. He gives me one last glare before stalking off, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the cavernous rink.

As soon as he disappears, I feel the weight of their stares settle on me. I reach for my water bottle, pretending to be completely focused on hydrating, but I can't ignore the laughter that bubbles up from Kaiden and his friends. He steps forward, arms crossed, that same all-too-familiar smirk on his face.

"Tough day?" he asks, feigning sympathy, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

I barely glance at him, keeping my expression cold and detached. "You don't speak French, McAllister. Stick to what you know." My tone is sharp, dismissive, hoping to cut through his arrogance.