Worth The Wait

𝟎𝟔|𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓

𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄

My hometown rink smells like stale popcorn and melted ice—a far cry from the polished arenas I'm used to. Still, there's something comforting about its scrappiness: the kids wobbling in rental skates, the faint echoes of laughter, and blades scraping the ice. It's not my usual rink, but I needed somewhere to clear my head. Somewhere far from Callum and the chaos of last night.
I lace up my skates in the corner, tugging at the worn leather straps harder than necessary. My mind keeps drifting to our fight—his words, his accusations, the way he walked out. My throat tightens just thinking about it, but I shake it off. I didn't come here to brood. I came to skate. To feel like myself again.
The ice is quieter now, most of the kids retreating to the sidelines for cocoa and a break. Perfect. I step onto the rink, the familiar glide of my skates calming me instantly. I focus on my edges, warming up with a few simple crossovers. The rhythm steadies my breathing, and for the first time all day, I feel a little lighter.
That is until I spot him.
River Prescott.
His sudden appearance on the ice is enough to freeze my blood. Of all the places to run into him, it had to be here.
He's on the far end of the rink, his posture rigid as he glides through a series of deliberate movements. His skating is sharp, precise, but slower than I remember. He doesn't see me right away, and for a moment, I consider turning around and leaving. But that's not me. I'm not the one to back down.
I keep skating, working through my own routine, but my focus keeps shifting back to him. There's something off about the way he's moving—less confident, less effortless. It's like watching someone trying to reclaim a part of themselves.
When he finally notices me, our eyes lock, and the tension crackles instantly.
"Well, well. If it isn't Lucie Basille." His voice is annoyingly smooth, laced with that signature mockery I haven't missed.
"What are you doing here, River?" I force the words out, my voice steadier than I feel, though my heart's already racing. He doesn't deserve any part of my attention.
He skates toward me with that same unshakable confidence, even if his stride isn't as fluid as it used to be. "Trying to stay in shape. Didn't think I'd see you here."
"Not everything's about you," I bite back, keeping my gaze cold.
His smirk deepens, but there's something about it that seems less certain. "Still holding onto that attitude, huh? Thought you might have grown up by now."
I roll my eyes. "And I thought you might have learned some humility, but here we are."
For a moment, we just stare at each other, the old rivalry simmering between us. He always knew how to push my buttons, and judging by the way his gaze narrows slightly, he knows he's getting under my skin.
"Why are you really here, River?" I cross my arms, refusing to show any weakness.
His jaw tightens for a moment, but then he shrugs. "If you must know, I tore my ACL two months ago. Took me out for the season."
I blink, caught off guard. River Prescott, the golden boy, sidelined by an injury? It doesn't seem real.
"What happened?" I ask before I can stop myself.
"Does it matter?" he snaps, though his voice lacks the usual sharpness. "It was a stupid hit during a game. Wrong angle, wrong moment."
I don't know what to say. For as long as I've known him, River has always been the best—the one who made everything look effortless. Seeing him like this, struggling to regain his footing, feels almost surreal.
"You'll get back," I say flatly, though I'm not sure why I'm even saying it.
He scoffs. "You don't know that."
"No, but I know you," I reply coolly. "And you're not the type to give up."
For the first time, he looks at me like he's actually hearing me. "That almost sounded like a compliment."
"Don't get used to it," I mutter, skating a slow circle around him.
His smirk fades for a second, and I swear I catch a flicker of something—frustration, maybe even regret—but it's gone before I can process it. "You should take it easy," I say, almost reluctantly. "If you push too hard, you're just going to make it worse."
He looks at me with narrowed eyes, as if he's trying to decide whether or not to snap back. "I don't have time to take it easy, Lucie. If I don't push, I'm done."
His voice drops to something raw and real, and for a split second, I almost feel bad for him. Almost.
"Just... be smart about it," I say, my voice softer than I intended. "You're no good to anyone if you wreck yourself."
He gives a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "Didn't realize you were my coach now."
"Someone has to be," I shoot back, my irritation flaring again. "And clearly, you're not doing a great job of it yourself."
The silence that follows is thicker than it should be. He stands there, glaring at me, but I can see that the edge has softened, if only slightly. The anger, the bravado—it's all a mask for something deeper. But I won't let him know that I see it. Not now. Not ever.
"You're still as annoying as ever, you know that?" he says, breaking the silence with a half-smile.
"Better than being reckless," I counter, glaring back at him.
There's a long pause. He almost looks like he's going to say something, but instead, he simply lets out a breath and shifts his weight. "I'm not weak, Lucie."
I raise an eyebrow. "Never said you were," I reply, my voice cutting through the tension like ice. "But pushing yourself when you can't even stand properly isn't going to help you."
His face tightens, and for a moment, I think he might say something cruel, something to lash out, but instead, he just exhales slowly. "I'll be fine."
"Sure you will," I mutter, but there's no malice in my tone, just the cool distance I've always kept from him.
He glances at me, his gaze sharp but somehow still searching. "You think you know me, Lucie."
"I know enough," I say, turning to skate away.
But as I push off the edge, my heart feels a little heavier than it did when I first stepped onto the ice. Something has shifted between us, even if I don't want to admit it. And that shift—small as it is—bothers me more than it should.
As I glide around the rink, the sharp sound of my skates slicing through the ice echoes in the otherwise quiet space. The cool air feels good against my flushed skin, a welcome contrast to the heat building inside me from the conversation with River. I don't understand why it's bothering me so much. He's River Prescott—the golden boy, the one who always had it all. So why does it feel like there's something more to him now?
I push harder, skating in longer arcs, focusing on the rhythm of my movements. The sting in my legs is familiar and grounding, a reminder of why I'm here. Not to get wrapped up in whatever this strange, almost sad conversation was, but to reclaim my space on the ice, to regain a sense of control over my body and my mind.
But it's hard to shake the image of River—his posture hunched as he pushed through his movements, the weariness in his face that he tried so hard to hide. There was something about him today that made him seem more real, less untouchable. Like he was finally vulnerable. He's not perfect. And maybe, just maybe, that's why it bothers me.
I slow to a stop near the edge of the rink and take a deep breath. I need a break, my muscles are already sore from pushing too hard. The sound of footsteps behind me catches my attention, and I turn to find River skating toward me again, albeit slower this time, as if careful with every step.
"Didn't think you were the type to take a break," he calls out, his voice a little too loud for the quiet of the rink.
I raise an eyebrow, trying not to let the familiarity of his teasing annoy me. "I'm not," I reply, "but I figured you wouldn't want to be left alone."
The words slip out before I can stop them. The idea of leaving him here alone doesn't feel right, though I'm not sure why. It's not like I owe him anything. We've never been friends, never even really been civil. But something about the way he's out here alone, pushing himself against the edge of his own limits, feels... wrong. He was always the one who had everything handed to him, the one with a future so bright that it practically glowed. And now, here he is, limping around a rink in the middle of nowhere, trying to rebuild himself from the wreckage of an injury.
River shrugs, gliding to a stop beside me. "It's not like I have anywhere else to be."
His tone is light, but there's an undercurrent of bitterness there, something I hadn't noticed before. It makes my chest tighten in sympathy—a feeling I can't afford to have for him, not after everything we've been through.
"You should rest," I say softly, crossing my arms. "You're going to make it worse if you don't."
He shifts his weight, glancing down at the ice like it's suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of the quiet scrape of his skates on the ice. He doesn't respond.
"You know, if you push too hard, you'll be out for even longer," I press, my voice tinged with concern I hadn't meant to reveal. "You need to take care of yourself."
"I know what I'm doing." The sharpness in his tone surprises me. He looks at me then, his jaw tense. "Just... stay out of it, okay?"
I bristle at the edge in his voice, but it doesn't stop me from noticing the subtle quiver in his jaw. The defense is automatic, but it's a mask, and I see right through it.
"What's the real issue, River?" I ask, my voice quieter now.
He's taken aback by the question, but it's clear from the way his eyes dart away that it's not something he's ready to talk about.
"I'm fine," he mutters, more to himself than to me. "I don't need anyone's sympathy."
"I'm not giving you sympathy," I counter, my voice sharper than I'd intended. "I'm telling you to stop being an idiot. It's not like you've never been hurt before. But this isn't some stupid bruise you can skate through."
River stares at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. I wonder if he's angry, or if he's just tired. I know I would be, if I were in his shoes.
"I'm not weak, Lucie."
"I never said you were," I say, keeping my voice steady. "But pushing yourself when you can't even stand properly isn't going to help you."
River exhales, the frustration in his eyes melting into something more resigned. "You wouldn't understand," he mutters, looking away again, his gaze settling on the far wall of the rink.
I feel my heart twist slightly. "Try me."
He's quiet for a beat too long, and for a moment, I think he might just walk away. But then he finally speaks again, voice low, almost reluctant.
"I've been skating since I was five years old. It's all I've ever done. All I've ever been good at." He shifts his weight, wincing slightly. "I can't just... stop. It's not who I am. Not anymore."
I feel a pang of something deep in my chest—sympathy, maybe, but there's a sharpness to it, too. He's right. I've never understood what it's like to be defined by something the way he is by hockey. I've never had a single thing in my life that was as important as skating is to him.
"I get it," I say, surprising even myself. "I do."
For a moment, he looks at me like he doesn't know if he believes me. "Yeah?"
I nod, though I know I don't have the same kind of drive he has. "You can't just let go of everything that's been a part of you for so long. I get that. But it doesn't mean you have to destroy yourself trying to get it back."
He doesn't reply, but I can see the gears turning in his head, the weight of my words sinking in.
We stand there in silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I can tell River is trying to make sense of it all, the conflicting emotions swirling inside him, while I'm just trying to keep my own feelings in check. The words I said to him weren't just about his injury—they were about us. Our rivalry, the tension that's existed between us for years. He's always been the golden boy, the one who had everything going for him, while I've spent my entire life fighting to keep up.
And now, here we are, on equal footing for the first time.
It's a strange feeling. And it's not one I'm sure I'm ready to accept.
"You can't rush recovery," I say finally, breaking the silence. "You'll come back, River. But you need to be smart about it."
He looks at me, really looks at me, for the first time. There's a vulnerability there, buried under the layers of deflection. For a split second, I think he might actually open up, but the moment passes quickly, replaced by that same guarded expression.
"I'll be fine." He straightens up, his tone back to the usual level of arrogance. "I'm River Prescott. I don't fail."
I can't help but laugh, though it's more from a place of understanding than mockery. "You're not invincible, River. Even you can't fight physics."
He grins, the first real smile I've seen from him all day, and it's genuine. "Yeah, well, maybe I just haven't been fighting the right battles."
I raise an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He shakes his head, his grin turning into something more contemplative. "I don't know yet. But maybe I'm ready to start figuring it out."
We stand there for a moment, neither of us knowing what comes next. I break the silence first, turning away from him to skate in a slow circle around the rink. It's familiar, the feeling of the ice beneath my feet, the way my body moves without thinking. I don't know why I came here today or why I stayed longer than I should have, talking to him, giving him advice I'm not sure he wanted. I could've kept skating—kept avoiding him—but something about seeing him here, broken and human, made it impossible to just leave. River doesn't follow me, but I can feel his eyes on my back, watching. It's disconcerting how much that small attention unsettles me. I should be used to it by now. We've been rivals for years, always fighting for the same space on the ice, the same kind of perfection. But there's something different in the air today, like maybe we've both reached a point where all the years of animosity have started to wear think. I try not to think too much about it as I focus on my movements. Every crossover, every turn, the rhythm becomes a kind of mantra in my head. I let the sound of my blades slicing through the ice fill the space, pushing everything else out. But every time I pass him, I feel his presence like an anchor pulling at me, drawing me back into this tangled web of feelings I don't want to deal with.
He must see the tension on my face, because after a few laps, he skates toward me again. This time, he's slower, more deliberate in his movements, like he's being cautious of his own limitations.
"You really don't know when to quit, do you?" he says, his voice cutting through the air.
I stop skating and face him, narrowing my eyes. "I could ask you the same thing."
He doesn't laugh, just stands there looking at me with that unreadable expression. His eyes are focused on something far off, distant, like he's not even fully here with me. Maybe it's the pain, or maybe it's everything else swirling inside him. I wouldn't know. I've never really known what it's like to have your entire identity tied to one thing. Skating is a part of me, but it doesn't define me like hockey does for him.
"What happens when you can't play anymore?" I ask before I can stop myself. The question lingers in the air between us, thick with the weight of what he's facing.
River looks at me sharply, like I've just hit him in the gut. "I'll play again," he says, the edge in his voice more defensive than confident. "And when I do, I'll be better than I was before."
"Will you?" The words are out before I can censor them. It's not what I mean to say, but it's what comes out. "You're not invincible, River. You can't just keep pushing yourself until you break."
He bristles, his jaw tightening. "You think I don't know that?" His words are quiet but sharp. "You think I don't feel it every time I step on the ice and know that it might be the last time?"
I pause, the words hanging in the air between us. Something shifts in his tone, something I haven't heard before. He's not the cocky, untouchable River Prescott I've spent years despising. There's a crack in the armor, and for a moment, I almost feel sorry for him. But I can't let myself. I've worked too hard to get here, to stay focused on my own goals. River is a distraction—always has been, always will be.
"I didn't ask for your pity," he snaps, his voice biting, but the fire is gone from his eyes. He's tired, too tired to keep up the façade.
"I'm not pitying you," I say firmly, meeting his gaze head-on. "But you need to stop acting like you're the only one who matters. You're not the only one with something on the line."
He blinks, like my words catch him off guard. I've never been this direct with him before. Maybe I've never been this honest with anyone.
There's a long silence before he speaks again, and this time his voice is softer, almost weary. "Maybe you're right." He runs a hand through his hair, something almost defeated in the gesture. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore, Lucie. I don't even know why I'm still trying."
"Because you can't let go." The words slip out before I can stop them, and I immediately regret them, but they hang in the air, raw and true.
River doesn't respond right away. Instead, he takes a long look at me, like he's weighing something heavy. His shoulders sag slightly, and for the first time today, I see the full extent of the exhaustion in him. The weight of what he's lost, what he's trying to rebuild, is more visible now than I've ever seen it.
"I guess neither of us knows how to stop, huh?" he says quietly, the question almost rhetorical.
I don't have an answer for him. I don't know how to stop either. It's hard to let go of something that's been a part of you for so long, something that's defined you in ways no one else could understand. I thought I had control over it—over my skating, my life. But watching River struggle, watching him fight against his own limitations, makes me realize how fragile that control really is.
"No, we don't," I reply, my voice softening, just a little.
We stand there for a while, neither of us moving, neither of us saying anything more. The silence is comfortable now, not awkward like before, but more like two people who understand each other in a way they hadn't before. River's not the same person I thought he was. And maybe I'm not, either.
I take a deep breath and break the silence. "You should go home," I say, glancing at him as I push off the rink's edge. "You're going to hurt yourself if you keep this up."
He doesn't argue. Instead, he nods, slowly, like he's finally ready to accept the reality of his situation. "Maybe you're right. But it's not easy, Lucie. You know that."
"I know," I reply, skating away slowly. "But you're not alone in this."
For a moment, I think he's going to say something, but he doesn't. He just watches me skate away, and I can feel his gaze on my back as I make my way around the rink. The ice beneath me feels different now—less like a place to escape and more like a space where we can both start figuring things out. as I glide back to the locker room, the memory of his words linger—his quiet admission of not knowing how to stop. I know that feeling all too well.
I push the door open to the locker room, the familiar smells of sweat and ice filling the air, but it doesn't offer the same comfort it usually does. It feels like I've just stepped into another world, one I'm not quite ready to face yet.I strip off my skates and slip into my shoes, still lost in thought, trying to make sense of it all. I don't know how to let go of the control I've held so tightly for so long. It's a part of me, ingrained in my bones. But maybe... maybe there's something about River's struggle, about his refusal to give up, that's starting to make me question that control.
As I walk toward the exit, I see Callum's figure near the door. He's waiting, arms crossed over his chest, an air of impatience hanging around him.
"Lucie," he greets me, his tone already sharp.
I brace myself, knowing what's coming. We haven't had a chance to really talk since our last practice, and I'm not looking forward to this conversation. I can tell from the way he's standing that he's not in a good mood, and I have a feeling it's not going to be a gentle chat.
"Hey," I reply, keeping my voice neutral, hoping to avoid any confrontation. But I know it's futile.
He doesn't waste time. "You're getting too soft," he says bluntly, his eyes narrowing. "If we're going to continue this partnership, you need to lose weight. You're carrying too much right now."
My stomach drops. I can feel the bile rising in my throat as I try to process what he's saying. This isn't the first time he's mentioned something like this, but it stings more than it ever has before.
"You can't be serious," I manage, my voice shaking just slightly. "I've been training harder than anyone, and you want to tell me I need to lose weight?"
He scoffs, clearly unfazed by my reaction. "I'm serious. You've been getting a little too comfortable. If you want to make it to the Olympics again, you have to look the part. I'll talk to Sonya. We'll put you on a diet. You can't keep going on like this, Lucie."
I feel my blood boil. I want to scream at him, to tell him how ridiculous he sounds, but the words get stuck in my throat. The pressure of it all—the weight of his words, the weight of my own fears—closes in on me.
"You're making a mistake," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm doing everything I can to be ready. You can't control me, Callum."
His eyes narrow further, his jaw clenching. "Don't kid yourself. I'm the one who's been carrying this partnership for months now. If you want to keep skating with me, you'll follow what Sonya and I say. It's the only way you're going to make it."
I stand there, frozen, trying to comprehend how easily he could say those words. I'm not sure which hurts more—their cruelty or the fact that I've allowed myself to get caught up in this toxic partnership for so long.
I turn on my heel, not saying another word, and walk out of the locker room. I need to get out, to escape the suffocating atmosphere, to breathe.
But no matter how far I go, Callum's words echo in my mind.
I don't remember the drive home. My body goes through the motions—keys in the ignition, hands gripping the wheel, turning onto familiar streets—while my mind replays Callum's words over and over again.
"You need to lose weight."
"You're carrying too much."
"We'll put you on a diet."
By the time I step into my apartment, my chest feels tight, my skin too hot, too suffocating. I drop my bag by the door, my skates still inside, and head straight for the bathroom. The mirror is waiting for me, its reflection harsh under the fluorescent light.
I stare at myself, at the way my leggings hug my thighs, at the curve of my waist, at the outline of my ribs that should be more visible than they are.
Maybe he's right.
Maybe I have gotten too comfortable.
My stomach twists as I step onto the scale, my heartbeat loud in my ears. The number flashes up at me.
115.
I exhale sharply, a wave of nausea rolling through me. It's too much. It has to be too much. I used to be lighter than this. I should be lighter than this. If I'm going to win, if I'm going to be better, I have to be less.
The thought coils around my brain like a vice, and before I even realize what I'm doing, I'm on my knees, gripping the toilet bowl. My stomach clenches, and I don't fight it.
It's not the first time. But it's been a while.
I squeeze my eyes shut as my body betrays me, my throat burning, my hands shaking against the cold porcelain. When it's over, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, my breathing ragged. My limbs feel weak, but somehow, the pressure in my chest eases.
For a moment.
I slump back against the wall, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself that this isn't a big deal. That I'm still in control.
But as I sit there, an emptiness settles in my gut, deeper than anything I could purge away.
And the worst part?
I wonder if Callum was right.