Worth The Wait

𝟎𝟏|𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓

𝐋𝐔𝐂IE 𝐁𝐀𝐒I𝐋𝐋E

I've always known the ice is the only place I belong.
Out here, the cold air bites at my cheeks, and the familiar rhythm of my blades carving into the ice drowns out the chaos in my head. Every doubt, whisper comment, and every expectation fades when I skate. The ice doesn't judge. It just waits.
I land my triple axle cleanly, and the satisfying click of my blade hits the ice, sending a thrill through me. A smile tugs at my lips as I turn into a glide, letting the momentum carry me to the edge of the rink where Sonya waits.
"That's it, Lucie!" Sonya's voice is sharp and encouraging. "You're right on schedule."
I reach for the water bottle perched on the boards and take a long sip. "Schedule isn't enough," I say, wiping the sweat from my brow. "Schedule doesn't win gold."
Sonya sighs, her sharp eyes narrowing as she studies me. "You've already won two golds. This is just icing on the cake."
I bite back a response because she doesn't get it. It's not about the medals—not entirely. It's about proving to myself that I still belong here, that I haven't peaked. That I'm not done.
Before I can say anything, Callum skates up beside me, his blades scraping noisily against the ice. His timing, as always, is impeccable.
"You're over-rotating on the axel," he says, not even looking at me as he adjusts the straps on his gloves.
"Thanks for the insight, Coach," I snap, setting my water bottle down a little too hard.
Sonya steps back, giving us space, but not before shooting me a warning look. Don't push him.
Callum doesn't even flinch at my tone. "I'm just saying, if you keep doing that, you'll throw off our lifts. Speaking of which..." He gestures toward the center of the rink, where we've been drilling our lifts for the past week.
I swallow my irritation and nod, skating into position. This is part of the job. Callum is blunt and methodical—always has been. He's not the kind of partner who'll offer compliments or encouragement, but he's good at what he does. Most of the time.
"Ready?" he asks, settling his hands on my waist.
"Ready."
The music swells, and I brace myself as he hoists me into the air. For a moment, everything feels fine—the familiar rush of being lifted off the ice, the precision of our timing. But then I feel it: a slight tremor in his arms. It's subtle, but it's there. When he lowers me back down, I catch the way his jaw tightens, his expression hard.
"Again," he says, positioning himself.
"Callum—"
"Again."
I sigh and push off, skating back into position. This time, I focus on his movements as much as my own. The lift is shaky—his arms trembling more noticeably now—and when he lowers me, he immediately steps back, running a hand through his hair.
"You've got to control your core better," he says, his tone clipped.
I blink, my frustration bubbling to the surface. "My core is fine. You're the one shaking."
His eyes snap to mine, and for a second, I see something flash across his face—guilt, maybe, or frustration—but it's gone before I can place it.
"You're not exactly light, Lucie," he says finally, his voice low.
The words hit me like a slap.
I freeze, the icy air suddenly feeling a lot colder. "What?"
He shrugs, skating a few paces away from me. "I'm just saying, if you've put on a little weight, it's going to affect the lifts. I'm not trying to be mean; it's just physics."
I can't speak. I can't move. All I can do is stare at him, the words echoing in my head like a bad song I can't turn off.
"You're unbelievable," I finally manage, my voice trembling.
"It's not personal," he says, his tone annoyingly calm. "This is about performance. If we want to win gold, we both have to be at our best. That includes staying in peak shape."
I glance toward Sonya, who's watching us from the boards, her expression unreadable. She doesn't step in. She never does when Callum and I argue.
"Let's take five," I say, my voice clipped as I skate off the ice. I don't wait for his response.
The moment I'm off the rink, I grab my water bottle and head for the locker room. The cold air gives way to the stale warmth of the hallway, and I finally let myself breathe. My chest feels tight, and my hands won't stop shaking. I know I'm not overweight. My diet is monitored down to the last calorie, and my training regimen is relentless. But his words still sting, burrowing into my mind like splinters. I glance at my reflection in the mirror, the sharp lines of my cheekbones and the taut muscles in my arms.
Not light.
I shake my head, trying to push the thought away, but it lingers. Callum's criticism always does.
"Lucie."
I turn to see Sonya standing in the doorway, her arms crossed.
"I'm fine," I say before she can speak.
Her gaze sharpens. "You're not fine."
I lean against the counter, forcing a laugh. "It's nothing I haven't heard before. You know how Callum is."
"That doesn't make it okay."
I shrug, trying to play it off. "It doesn't matter. I just need to get through this season with him."
Sonya's expression softens, but there's a flicker of something else there—concern, maybe, or doubt. "You need to talk to him, Lucie. If this partnership falls apart now—"
"It won't," I say quickly, cutting her off. "We're fine."
She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push me either. Instead, she nods and steps back. "Five minutes. Then we're back on the ice."
I nod, waiting until she's gone before sinking onto the bench. My hands are still trembling, and I press them against my knees to steady them.
This is what it takes to be the best, I tell myself. Sacrifices. Criticism. Pressure.
I just wish it didn't have to feel so personal.
────୨ৎ────
The locker room felt colder than usual after Callum's comment, and by the time practice ended, I was too drained to think about anything but getting home. Sonya had given me her usual pep talk before I left, something about staying focused and not letting Callum's nonsense get in my head. But it was easier said than done.
By the time I showered, changed, and dragged myself out of the rink, my shoulders ached, and my legs felt like lead. My phone buzzed in my jacket pocket as I stepped into the brisk air, and I glanced at the screen to see Sophia's name flashing.
"Hey," I answered, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I unlocked my car.
"Margaritas. Tonight. You, me, Kolton. No excuses."
I sighed, tossing my gym bag into the backseat. "Soph, I'm exhausted. I had a day."
"And I'm a struggling actress married to a hockey player who still refuses to put his dirty socks in the hamper. We've all got problems. Margarita time is non-negotiable."
I couldn't help but laugh. Sophia had a way of dragging me out of my funks, whether I wanted her to or not.
"Fine," I relented. "One drink."
"Three drinks," she countered. "Pick you up at eight."
She hung up before I could argue, and despite my exhaustion, a small smile crept onto my lips. Maybe margaritas weren't the worst idea.
────୨ৎ────
Sophia and Kolton's favorite spot for margaritas was a trendy little bar tucked between a yoga studio and an overpriced boutique. The vibe was always lively, the drinks strong, and the chips and salsa endless—a perfect combination.
"Lina Stark," Sophia said as soon as I slid into the booth next to her. She didn't even wait for Kolton to sit down before diving into her rant. "I just want to know how she keeps getting the lead roles. Is she sleeping with a producer? Is this some kind of plot to get back at me for something I did?"
Kolton and I exchanged a look, both cringing at the dramatic turn her voice took.
"She's good, Soph," Kolton said carefully, placing his beer on the table. "We've watched her movies. She's talented."
"She's fine," Sophia shot back, her green eyes narrowing. "But have you noticed I keep getting cast as the ditzy best friend? What is that about?"
Sophia's complaints weren't new; honestly, she wasn't wrong. She was gorgeous—beach blonde hair, rare green eyes, a smile that could light up a room. It didn't make sense that she kept getting typecast.
"Babe," Kolton said, leaning closer to her. "Maybe you should try out for that new TV show your agent mentioned."
Sophia made a face. "I don't want to get stuck on some show and miss out on real projects. Do you know how hard it is to get out of a TV contract?"
"Soph," I chimed in, taking a sip of my margarita (what coach didn't know wouldn't hurt her), "think about it. This could be your chance. You could be the next Nina Dobrev. Or even Meryl Streep."
Her face lit up at that, her lips curling into a bright smile. "You think I could be the next Meryl Streep?"
"Absolutely," I said without hesitation. "What's the harm in trying out? Even if you don't get the role, the producers might notice you and recommend you for something else."
Her eyes zoned out, a clear sign she was deep in thought. "That's true," she said slowly, her voice gaining excitement. "Even if I don't book it, they might like me enough to remember me later."
She practically squealed, and Kolton reached out to place a calming hand on her arm. "See? Positive thinking," he said with a grin.
Sophia had been with Kolton since we were in high school. Somehow, they'd managed to survive the chaos of college, his hockey career, and now her acting pursuits. I didn't know how they made it work, but I gave them credit. They proved that love could last if both people were willing to fight for it.
"What about you, Luce?" Sophia asked suddenly, turning her attention to me. "How's your partner?"
I nearly choked on my margarita, I set the glass down. "Callum's... tough, but I know it's because he's pushing me. He's been on me all week about our lifts."
Sophia raised an eyebrow. "Lifts? Like, the ones where he has to toss you around?"
"Yes," I said, gesturing with my glass. "I get it, but it's frustrating. I've already won two gold medals. I know how to win. But for some reason, every time we do a lift, something feels off. It's like we're not syncing right."
Kolton frowned. "What's different with Callum? I thought you two were a pretty solid team."
"Nothing," I said quickly, though the answer wasn't entirely true. I hesitated for a moment, the memory of his words creeping back into my mind. "You're not exactly light, Lucie." I could feel my chest tighten at the thought. Should I say something about it? His comment had stuck with me all day. But no, I couldn't. Not here, not now. I took another sip of my margarita, trying to push it all out of my head. "Maybe it's all in my head. There's no reason why I could land the lifts fine with Diego, but when Callum and I try, it just doesn't work."
Sophia leaned forward, her green eyes narrowing. "Babe, you're a two-time gold medalist. If you have to drop Callum and skate solo, do it. You've got this."
Her words were comforting, but the thought of dropping Callum wasn't that simple. I didn't want to just give up on our partnership. Not yet.
"You're fine," she added, smiling. "Callum's just being Callum, right?"
I forced a smile, not ready to get into it. "Yeah, just... a little tough love."
Kolton looked between us. "What's different with Callum?"
"Nothing," I said quickly, my voice laced with more frustration than I intended. "It's just... he's really focused on getting the lifts right. But it's hard when it feels like I'm the one holding us back."
Sophia nodded, clearly sensing there was more to it, but not pressing further. "You've always had to fight for what you want, Luce. That's what makes you so damn good. If it's hard, that's just because you're working at your limit."
I nodded, but it didn't quite feel like enough. "Not light enough." The words still echoed in my mind, nagging at me.
"I know," I said, forcing a smile. "I just need to keep pushing through."
Sophia smiled, though I could tell she wasn't entirely convinced. Kolton raised his beer in a silent toast, and Sophia and I clinked our margarita glasses against it. For a moment, I let myself believe their reassurance. But deep down, Callum's words still lingered, making it harder to breathe. Sophia's words hung in the air, an attempt to comfort me, but they only skimmed the surface of what I was feeling. Callum being "Callum" was something I had dealt with for years—his bluntness, his relentless perfectionism, his refusal to sugarcoat anything. But this felt different. This felt personal.
I swirled the ice in my glass, letting the sound fill the silence. Sophia and Kolton had already moved on, diving into some story about their latest misadventure, their laughter bubbling over the hum of the bar. I smiled along, pretending to be present, but my thoughts were stuck on that rink, replaying his words over and over.
What Callum didn't understand—what he could never understand—was that my body wasn't just my tool for skating; it was part of my identity. Every pound, every muscle, every inch of it had been scrutinized, measured, and judged since I was a teenager. Coaches, judges, sponsors—they all had an opinion. I'd learned to silence them, to focus on the ice and block out everything else. But Callum? His words cut through all my defenses.
"Earth to Lucie!" Sophia's voice snapped me out of my thoughts. She was waving a chip in front of my face, smirking. "Where'd you go just now?"
"Nowhere," I said quickly, forcing a grin. "Just thinking about tomorrow's practice."
Sophia frowned, setting the chip down. "You need to stop overthinking. You're amazing, Lucie. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
Kolton nodded in agreement. "She's right. You've got this. Callum might be good at lifts, but you're the star out there."
Their support was genuine, and for a moment, it eased the weight pressing on my chest. But deep down, I knew tomorrow would bring the same challenges. The same expectations. The same Callum.
The only thing I could control was how I handled it. And right now, I wasn't sure I was doing a very good job.
The drive home is quiet, except for the hum of the engine and the occasional honk from impatient drivers. The streetlights cast long shadows across the dashboard, flickering over my hands gripping the steering wheel. I should be replaying Sophia and Kolton's reassurances, letting their words soak into my skin like a balm.
Instead, all I hear is Callum.
"You're not exactly light, Lucie."
I suck in a sharp breath and roll down the window, letting the cold night air bite at my cheeks. It doesn't help. The weight in my chest is still there, pressing down, making my stomach twist uncomfortably.
I know better. I know that Callum's words—his frustrations—have nothing to do with my body and everything to do with his own struggles. But that doesn't make it hurt less. It doesn't stop the echo of past criticisms from creeping in.
The first time I was told I was "too big" for skating, I was fourteen. I had just landed my first clean triple-triple combination, and I thought I was on top of the world. Then, in the next breath, my coach at the time had grabbed the flesh of my upper arm between her fingers and muttered, "Strong, but you could be leaner."
That was the moment I learned success wasn't just about skill—it was about being the right kind of small.
I shake my head hard, as if the memories might spill out onto the pavement, lost in the blur of headlights. I hate that even now, at twenty-eight, after two Olympic gold medals, I still fight the same demons.
I pull into my apartment complex's parking lot and shut off the car, resting my forehead against the steering wheel.
You're fine. You're in control. You know who you are.
I repeat the words in my head like a mantra, forcing my heart rate to slow. But when I finally step out of the car, the feeling lingers—the gnawing, unshakable pressure to be perfect, to be everything everyone expects me to be.
Inside, the apartment is quiet.
I toe off my sneakers and drop my gym bag by the door, barely glancing at the stack of unopened mail on the counter. My body aches—not just from today's practice, but from the exhaustion that comes from always being on edge, always being measured.
Flipping on the kitchen light, I grab a protein shake from the fridge, twist off the cap, and take a sip. My meal plan is strict. Not because I want it to be, but because it has to be. Every calorie, every gram of protein, every macro—it's all meticulously tracked, a careful balancing act between strength and control.
I lean against the counter and take another sip, my eyes unfocused.
Tomorrow, I'll skate again. I'll ignore Callum's words, pretend they didn't bury themselves under my skin. I'll nail the lifts. I'll prove to everyone—including myself—that I'm still at the top of my game.
The Olympics are just months away. There's no room for weakness.
No room for mistakes.
The shake suddenly feels heavy in my hand, and I set it down, staring at the countertop.
I could call Sophia. She'd remind me that Callum is an ass, that I don't owe him or anyone else an explanation for how I train. Or I could text Ophelia. She'd drag me to the beach for a midnight swim, force me to laugh until I forgot why I was upset in the first place.
Instead, I walk to the bathroom, flick on the light, and catch my reflection in the mirror.
My skating leotard is still fitted to my body, hugging every inch of muscle, every hard-earned curve. I turn to the side, pressing my hands against my abdomen. Not light enough, Callum's voice whispers in my head.
The worst part is that I don't know if I'm imagining it anymore or if the thought was already buried there, waiting to be confirmed.
I sigh, pressing my fingers against my temples.
This is what it takes to be the best. Sacrifices. Criticism. Pressure.
I just wish I could remember what it felt like to skate for myself again.