𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭

thirty two

Delphine

The adrenaline still buzzed in my veins, settling slowly as I sat in the changing room.

My heart was thudding in my chest, steady but firm, the rhythm a quiet echo of every spin, jump, and glide I'd just executed on the ice.

Every second of the routine played back in my mind, every flawless jump, every perfect turn, each as vivid as if I were still out there.

I could feel my muscles burning in that satisfying way, the kind of ache that only came from pushing myself to the edge.

I was in my own world, in that afterglow of triumph.

My fingers trembled slightly as I unlaced my skates, each pull of the laces grounding me as I came down from the high of perfection.

It wasn't often I felt that—a routine without a single misstep, a feeling of utter control over my body, over the ice. It was rare, like catching lightning in a bottle.

For once, I hadn't felt trapped or pressured; I'd felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be. For a few fleeting minutes, nothing existed but me and the ice.

The door swung open, and my coach's voice broke through, loud and proud, echoing through the small room. He walked in with his chest puffed, grinning, almost like he was the one who had been out there, stealing my moment of perfection and making it his own.

"Delphine, do you even realize what you just did?" he started, pacing in front of me like a proud lion. "That was pure, unadulterated brilliance. This is what I've been pushing you toward from the beginning. Do you remember how you were when we first started? Hesitant, shaky... but look at you now."

His words flowed over me, and though I gave a polite nod, they barely registered. I kept my gaze down, still in my private celebration, cherishing that perfect memory.

I could almost feel my blades cutting into the ice with each move, could see the rink lights gleaming above as I spun, weightless and unstoppable.

That was what mattered—the feeling of defying gravity, of shedding every weight, every worry, and becoming something more than myself.

My coach kept talking, his voice going on and on, louder and more insistent as he paced. "People don't see what goes on behind the scenes," he continued. "But I do. I see how hard you've worked, how you've transformed from a fragile little girl into a force out there. No one can match you, Delphine. They can try, but they won't succeed because they don't have what you have."

His voice swelled with pride, and though he directed it at me, I could feel the ownership in his words. It was like he wanted to carve his name into my performance, to stamp his mark on the routine I had just claimed as my own. He kept going, listing every way he had shaped me, every weakness he'd supposedly eliminated.

"When you first came to me," he said, "you were weak. But look at you now. You're unbreakable. You're the kind of skater every competitor wishes they could be. They can train for years, and they'll never reach the level of precision, the strength, the perfection that you have."

A flicker of something—maybe bitterness, maybe irony—crossed my mind. Weakness. I knew better than anyone that it didn't just disappear, didn't evaporate just because I had trained harder than anyone else. No, weakness stayed, buried under layers of strength and skill. It was always lurking, a quiet shadow I had to fight off every time I stepped onto the ice. But out there, for those brief minutes, it had vanished, drowned out by the sharpness of my movements and the control I held over every second of the routine.

He kept going, his words a constant stream that I barely absorbed. "This is what I've been training you for, molding you into. Every grueling practice, every time I pushed you to go further—this is what it's all been leading to."

I lifted my head and looked at him briefly, nodding to acknowledge that I'd heard him, but in truth, my mind was still elsewhere. In my heart, I knew that the routine was mine, not his. Every perfect turn, every precise jump—I had earned that through hours of solitary work, through pushing myself when no one was around to watch. I could feel the satisfaction gleaming in my eyes when I looked into the mirror across the room. My coach could talk all he wanted, but I knew what I'd achieved, and I didn't need anyone to tell me how hard I'd worked or how far I'd come.

He paused, probably expecting a response, so I nodded again, a small smile playing on my lips, just enough to satisfy him. But my real smile, the one that lit up something deep inside me, was reserved for myself. I was still savoring that rush of perfection, that certainty I'd had on the ice. I'd left everything out there—the hours of practice, the endless corrections, the bruises and aches. It had all been worth it for those few minutes of sheer, uninterrupted brilliance.

My coach finally stopped talking, his voice fading into the silence. I could tell he was still basking in his own pride, probably imagining the accolades he'd get from my success. But as he left the room, I knew the truth—that I'd carved that moment out for myself, that no amount of coaching could have created the strength and fire I'd found out there on the ice.

In that quiet moment, alone in the changing room, I allowed myself to fully enjoy the feeling of my own triumph.

The girl who had once felt weak, who'd thought she would break under pressure, had conquered every doubt, every shadow of insecurity.

And for once, I didn't feel like I owed it to anyone but myself.