Worth The Wait

𝟎𝟑|𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓

𝐋𝐔𝐂IE 𝐁𝐀𝐒I𝐋𝐋E

The rink is eerily quiet, just the sound of my skates cutting through the ice as I glide through the familiar motions. The cold air rushes past me, but inside, the chill is all-consuming. My body moves with precision, honed over years of practice. The movements should feel like second nature—effortless, like they've always been a part of me. But today, nothing feels right. Every glide, every turn, every jump feels like I'm carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders.
My mind is anything but focused on the sharp edges of my blades or the flawless technique I've spent years honing. Instead, my thoughts are consumed by Callum.
Callum, my partner, my teammate, my... shadow these past months. We've been training together for years. We used to push each other, keep each other grounded. But now? Lately, there's been a distance between us, something invisible but suffocating. And it's not just the small things—his refusal to engage after practice, his distracted stares, the way he's been avoiding talking about the Games. He hasn't said it out loud, but I know something's off. I can feel it.
Maybe I'm imagining it. Maybe it's just the pressure of the Games getting to me, making me overthink everything. But every time I look at him, I feel the space between us growing. Callum is withdrawing into himself, and I'm left with no idea how to pull him back. Not that he would let me, even if I tried. He hasn't exactly been inviting. His silence is heavy, like it's something he's deliberately placing between us.
I shake my head, trying to refocus. But it's impossible. I feel like I'm suffocating in my own thoughts. I push through the motions anyway, trying to bury the distraction beneath the ice, beneath my routine. It's all I've ever known—skating, moving, pushing myself to the limit.
The sting of doubt settles in my chest, but I force myself to push forward. I have no choice but to keep going. Not just for the gold, not just for myself, but for everyone who's invested in me: my coach, my parents, Callum. But mostly, for me. I've worked so hard to get here.
I skate toward the center of the rink, positioning myself for the jump. The quadruple Lutz. This is my move. I've done it a thousand times before, but today... today, it's just not clicking.
I launch myself into the air, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline, the spin, the wind in my hair, the ice below me. It should be effortless. But as I come down, I feel my legs wobble. The landing is shaky. Too shaky. The ice feels like it's moving beneath me, shifting away just when I need it most.
I stumble and almost fall, barely catching myself before I hit the ground. I land awkwardly, my ankle giving a sharp, stabbing pain. My heart races, and I struggle to regain control. I push the pain away, but it doesn't work. Nothing is working today.
"Goddamn it," I mutter under my breath, the frustration rising like a wave that I can't control. I skate over to the side of the rink, struggling to catch my breath. The knot in my stomach tightens, a constant reminder of the pressure weighing on me.
Callum's absence weighs on me more than it should. It shouldn't matter so much. We've trained apart before, when we've been injured or when the schedules just didn't align. But now, it feels like something's changed. His absence isn't just physical. It's emotional too. And it's suffocating.
The absence of his encouragement, his sharp observations, his energy—it's like a hole in the rink, a void that I don't know how to fill. Even when he's here, we're barely speaking, barely acknowledging each other.
I try to shake it off. I need to focus. I can't let this affect my training. I'm so close to the finish line. The Olympics are within my reach, but the closer I get, the more I feel like I'm stumbling through the motions, like a puppet with tangled strings. My legs feel heavy as I stand on the side of the rink, watching the skaters around me as they glide effortlessly. I can hear their blades singing against the ice, a sharp, beautiful sound. I'm supposed to be one of them. But today, I feel like an outsider.
Another deep breath. I pull myself together and force my feet back onto the ice. The pressure inside my chest only grows, but I'm used to it. It's all I've ever known.
I take my position, shifting my focus to the next jump, the next move. The quadruple Lutz. I need to get it right this time. I can't afford another failure. My heart beats faster as I mentally prepare, but as I try to push myself into the jump, everything goes wrong. My legs give way beneath me, my body losing control in the air. I crash onto the ice, the sound of my body hitting the cold surface jarring, a harsh reminder of my limits.
"Fuck," I curse, groaning in frustration. I sit up, my muscles aching, the pain in my body nothing compared to the ache in my chest. I know what's wrong. It's me. I can feel it in my bones. There's something inside me that's broken. Maybe it's the pressure of the Olympics. Or maybe it's Callum. Or maybe it's the realization that I've been skating through life, through my training, for so long without questioning why I'm doing it anymore.
My phone buzzes in my bag, dragging me from my spiral of thoughts. For a brief moment, I think about ignoring it, pretending it doesn't exist. But then I pull it out, hoping, for a fleeting second, that it's Callum. It's not.
The message is from Coach Sonya.
Coach Sonya: Are you okay? Practice isn't going well, I can tell.
I stare at the message, biting my lip. It's true. I can't hide it. Nothing is going well. I haven't hit a single jump cleanly today. I can feel the weight of her concern behind the text, the silent pressure of her expectations. And mine.
I respond a moment later, trying to force the words through the screen. Trying to convince myself, at least, that I'm fine.
Me: I'm fine. Just need some time.
I don't want to admit how badly I'm struggling, even to her. I can't let anyone see how close I am to breaking. I can't afford to let them know how much I'm starting to doubt my place on this team, my place at the Olympics, or if I even want this anymore.
I slip my phone back into my bag and close my eyes, willing myself to focus again. I try to force myself to concentrate on the next jump, the next spin, the next movement. The ice feels colder under my blades now, as if mocking me. I can't escape the sense of failure that's hanging over me, settling into the pit of my stomach.
But as I complete another pass across the rink, my mind drifts back to Callum. His distant look earlier today. The way he hasn't looked at me the same since that conversation we had weeks ago, the one where I asked him if he was really committed to the Olympics. He said everything was fine, that he was ready, but his eyes told a different story. He hasn't said it out loud, but I know something's changed in him.
And if I'm being honest with myself, something's changed in me too.
It's hard to keep pushing when I don't know what I'm pushing for anymore. Is it the Olympic gold that's driving me? Or is it the fear of disappointing everyone who's invested in me—my coach, my parents, Callum? Maybe it's all of it. Or maybe none of it.
I don't have the answers, but I don't have time to figure them out right now. There's no room for doubt in the final stretch. I can't afford to falter, even if everything around me feels like it's crumbling.
I turn again, determined to land this jump. I push myself harder, faster, forcing my body into the motion. But when I spin and prepare for the landing, my legs give way beneath me, and once again, I crash onto the ice, this time with more force.
I sit there for a moment, the cold seeping into my bones, my body aching from the fall. But more than that, my heart aches. For Callum. For myself. For everything that's slipping through my fingers.
I'm running out of time, and I don't know how much longer I can keep pretending that I'm okay.
────୨ৎ────
I push open the familiar wooden door to Ophelia's surf shop, the hinges squeaking from the years of neglect. It's barely a shop, really—a mix of a workspace and a sanctuary for Ophelia. I can smell the wax, saltwater, and freshly cut wood in the air as I step inside, the scent instantly bringing a wave of nostalgia. The door's broken, and she's too stubborn to fix it. I've long stopped asking why.
Ophelia's voice cuts through the quiet, her tone playful and sharp. "What are you doing here? Are we supposed to hang out today?"
I pause in the doorway and spot her immediately. She's hunched over, waxing a black surfboard with an intricate design. Her focus is unwavering, but she still manages to shoot me a look over her shoulder. It's the same look she's been giving me since we were kids.
I chuckle, stepping fully into the shop. "Yeah, yeah, I remember. I'm here to hang out. Thought I'd bring you lunch."
I glance around the space. I've been here so many times I could navigate it blindfolded. The room's cluttered with all the surfboard equipment you could ever need—wax, brushes, cleaning supplies, and a few unfinished boards stacked in the corners. The surfboards on the ceiling are impossible to ignore, each one a shining reminder of Ophelia's Olympic victories. Three of them hang proudly, each one with a gold or silver medal attached to it like some sort of battle scar. I remember the chaos the day she almost dropped one while hanging it. Miles, her boyfriend (if you can even call him that), had been holding it up, and they both nearly fell from the ladder, creating a minor disaster that Ophelia somehow laughed off.
Ophelia's blonde, curly hair is tied in a messy bun atop her head. Strands escape from the loose tie, making her look even more like the free-spirited surfer she is. Her skin, darkened by the sun, contrasts against the white bikini top she's wearing, paired with loose-fitting denim shorts. It's her usual look—practical and comfortable. She doesn't wear makeup; there's no need. She's spent 90% of her life in the water, and if she's not, she's in here, crafting the perfect boards. I'm still not sure how she hasn't been attacked by a shark yet, though. You'd think it'd be inevitable.
I hold up the bag of sandwiches I've brought her. "Brought you some food. The usual—nothing fancy."
She finally looks up, her face lighting up slightly when she sees the bag. She waves her hand dismissively. "You're too predictable, you know that?"
I smirk and walk up to the counter, placing the bag in front of her. "Predictable? Or reliable? You can't survive on surfboards alone."
She laughs, but it's a small, almost weary sound. She pulls one sandwich out of the bag, unwrapping it slowly. "You're the worst, you know that?"
I settle onto one of the stools nearby, leaning back against the counter. "You say that every time I bring you food, and yet you're eating it. So who's the real winner here?"
She doesn't answer right away, taking a bite instead, chewing slowly as her eyes drift to the surfboard she's still working on. I notice that she's not rushing through it like she usually does. There's a certain tension in the air that I can't quite place.
"So, how's everything going with you?" I ask casually, watching her work, trying to keep the conversation light. It's hard to be too serious around Ophelia, but there's something off about her today. I've known her long enough to tell when something's not right, even when she's putting on her usual relaxed front.
Ophelia shrugs, her shoulders tense in a way I haven't seen before. "Same as usual. Surf, work, rinse, repeat." She tosses the wrapper from the sandwich into the trash.
But I don't miss the slight edge in her voice. Ophelia's usually full of energy, bouncing between surfboards and waves, always moving. Now, she's stiff, almost reluctant.
I study her for a moment before speaking again. "Something's different about you today. You okay?"
She pauses, her hands still on the board, fingers absentmindedly running over the waxed surface. "I'm fine. Just tired, you know?"
I lean forward a little, sensing the underlying frustration she's trying to hide. "Come on, Ophelia. You're telling me everything's fine when you can barely get through one sandwich without sighing?"
She chuckles softly, but it's forced, and it only confirms what I already know. "Maybe I'm just a little tired of the same old routine. I've been out in the water for hours today. And honestly, some days, it just feels like I'm stuck in a loop. Surf, win, come back, make a board, surf again. No room to breathe."
I nod slowly, understanding what she means. It's the same thing I've been feeling—like every day is a blur of repetition, and no matter what I do, it all comes back to training and the looming pressure of the Olympics. Sometimes, the weight of it all is too much.
"Is it... is it the pressure?" I ask, testing the waters.
She shifts uncomfortably, clearly not wanting to admit it, but there's something in the way she fidgets that says everything. "I guess you could say that. It's just been a lot lately. The competition, the endorsements, the constant reminders of what's at stake... It's overwhelming."
I can't blame her. Ophelia's life has been under a microscope for years, and the pressure of living up to her Olympic legacy has got to weigh heavily on her. She's the best in the world, but even the best have their limits.
I slide off the stool and walk over to the counter, pulling out my phone. "If you want, I can help you take a break. We can just chill for a bit, no surfboards, no Olympics talk. You need a breather."
She looks up at me, an appreciative glimmer in her eyes, though she tries to hide it with her usual indifference. "You know, for someone so terrible at making sandwiches, you're pretty good at being a friend."
I smile, offering her a wink. "Just don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold."
We both fall into a comfortable silence, the kind that comes with years of friendship. It's not easy for either of us to talk about the pressures we're under, but sometimes, it's easier just to be here, together, without saying much.
After a beat, Ophelia finally sighs, the tension easing from her shoulders. "Thanks, Lucie. I think I needed this."
I smile, grabbing my sandwich. "Anytime, Ophelia. Anytime." And for a while, we just sit there, not needing to talk more. Some days, silence speaks louder than any words could. Ophelia doesn't push, which is exactly why I came here. She doesn't need me to explain the weight pressing on my chest or the exhaustion creeping into my bones. She just lets me exist, in this quiet, salt-tinged space, while she works.
I should feel better.
But the truth is, I don't know how to stop feeling like I'm falling apart.
I stare down at my half-eaten sandwich, my appetite nonexistent. My body is drained from practice, aching from every failed attempt on the ice. I've spent the past few months convincing myself I can push through—push through the exhaustion, the pressure, the doubt clawing at my insides. But today, every ounce of fight in me feels exhausted.
I squeeze my fingers into a fist, nails digging into my palm.
I shouldn't feel like this.
I'm Lucie Basille. I have two Olympic gold medals. I'm supposed to be unstoppable. I'm supposed to be the best.
Then why does it feel like I'm barely holding on?
"Luce."
Ophelia's voice pulls me from my downward spiral, and I blink up at her. She's leaning against the counter now, arms crossed, her green eyes sharp with concern.
"What?" I ask, feigning confusion, though I know she sees right through me.
"You're spiraling."
"I'm not."
She gives me a look. "You haven't taken a bite of that sandwich in ten minutes. And you're clenching your fists like you're trying to fight off some invisible demon."
I exhale, forcing my hands to relax. "I'm just tired."
Ophelia doesn't buy it, but she doesn't push either. Instead, she moves to the mini fridge tucked in the corner, pulls out two glass bottles, and tosses one to me. I barely catch it before realizing what it is.
Kombucha.
I arch a brow. "Seriously?"
"You love it."
I do. I just didn't expect her to remember.
I pop the cap and take a sip, the tangy taste grounding me in something real. Ophelia drinks hers in silence before leaning against the counter again, studying me.
"You ever think about quitting?" I ask suddenly.
She doesn't react, but I can tell my words catch her off guard.
"Quitting?" she repeats.
"Yeah." I swallow, the truth clawing up my throat. "Not forever. Just... for a while. Long enough to breathe."
She exhales, twisting the bottle between her fingers. "Yeah. I have."
I blink, not expecting her honesty.
She shrugs. "Every athlete does, whether they admit it or not."
I nod slowly, gripping the bottle tighter. "So why don't you?"
She smirks, but it's softer this time. "Because it's who I am."
Her words hit me harder than I want to admit.
Skating has always been who I am. The ice has always been the one place that makes sense, the one thing I can control.
So why does it feel like I'm losing myself in it?
I don't say any of that, though. I just stare at the bottle in my hands, willing the chaos in my mind to quiet.
Ophelia watches me for a long moment before sighing.
"Take a break, Lucie."
I look up. "I can't."
She shrugs. "You can. You just won't."
I open my mouth to argue, but she beats me to it.
"I'm not saying quit," she clarifies. "I'm saying take a second to breathe. You're killing yourself trying to be perfect, but what's the point if it makes you miserable?" The words hit too close to home, striking at something raw inside me. I grip the bottle tighter, staring down at the floor.
"I don't have time to breathe," I admit. "The Olympics are in a few months."
"Yeah?" Ophelia raises a brow. "And what happens if you burn out before then?"
I clench my jaw. She doesn't get it. Or maybe she does. I don't answer, and Ophelia doesn't press. She just knocks her bottle against mine like a toast before taking another sip. I stare at my drink, my reflection distorted in the glass. I know she's right. I just don't know if I know how to stop.
Ophelia, the woman who's spent her life riding the waves, conquering every competition, and building her legacy, has thought about quitting?
"Really?" I ask, my voice softer now.
She shrugs, a rare vulnerability creeping into her usual carefree demeanor. "Yeah, sometimes. When it feels like I'm drowning in expectations and everyone else's dreams. I've had moments where I wanted to step back and just... disappear for a bit. But then I remember why I started, and it pushes me to keep going."
I take another sip of the kombucha, feeling the weight of her words settle in my chest. I understand what she means. I've spent so much of my life skating for everyone else—my parents, my coach, Callum—without asking myself why. Why do I want this gold medal? Why do I keep pushing through the pain, the exhaustion, the loneliness?
Ophelia studies me for a moment, her eyes not judgmental, just observant. "You know, it's okay to take a break. It's okay to be tired. You don't have to be perfect all the time."
Her words strike a chord in me, deeper than I expected. "I don't know how to stop being perfect," I admit, the confession slipping out before I can stop it.
"You don't have to be," she replies gently. "You just have to be you."
The quiet in the shop stretches between us, filled with a tension that isn't uncomfortable, just real. I think about what Ophelia said—about quitting, about being imperfect—and for the first time in a long while, I wonder if I've been chasing something I'm not sure I want anymore.
Maybe it's not the Olympic gold that matters the most. Maybe it's the freedom to breathe, to skate for myself and not for everyone else. Maybe it's time to stop carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders and let go of the idea that I have to be perfect to prove something.
I look at Ophelia, and for the first time today, a small smile plays on my lips. "Thanks, O."
She grins, a knowing smile that softens the lines of her face. "Anytime, Luce."
For a moment, I allow myself to just be. To breathe. The weight of the world doesn't disappear, but for now, I feel like I can carry it. At least for today