"I'm sorry, Maeve," my coach said. "But the final roster has been confirmed. There wasn't a mistake." I stood outside the office for almost five minutes, staring at the sheet taped to the board. My name was gone. Under the Skating Training Grant, where Maeve Sullivan should have been, was Lyla Voss instead. My first thought was that there was something wrong with the roster. Then I realized Silas did that. When I found him, he was leaning against his car, scrolling through his phone. He saw me but didn't even straighten up. Just flicked the ash off his cigarette and squinted at me through the smoke. "Lyla's family is broke," he said, before I could even open my mouth. "If she doesn't get the grant, she's done." "You're strong. You can fight your way through Sectionals." "That grant comes with a full ride to the Olympic Training Center," I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. "You know what that means for me." "You'll figure it out." I stared at him. He was looking everywhere except at my face. Then he sighed, reached into his wallet, and pulled out a black card. He held it out between two fingers like he was tipping a valet. "Fine. Look. I'll cover your training. Coaches, ice time, gear — all of it. Consider it me buying the spot off you. Are we good now?" The rain started. I looked at the card in his hand. Then at his face. He used to tell me that as long as I trained hard, I could leave my terrible family. And realize my dream of competing in an international skating event. So to get better training, I practiced hard and worked part-time at the skating club in my spare time. But ironically, he was putting a price tag on my dream now. I turned around and started walking. His voice cut across the parking lot, flat and cold. "Are you serious now? You bust your knuckles in that club's shop. You've been hustling for money your whole life." "I'm handing you more than you'll ever see, and you want to play noble?" I stopped and turned my head, just enough to see him through the rain. Many years of something I'd thought was untouchable. And it had rotted through all at once. I gave him a small smile. "Sure, Silas. Think whatever you want." By the time I got back to the skating club's shop, my phone was buzzing. Bree. "Maeve. Tell me I'm reading the roster wrong. Tell me Lyla's name is not where yours should be." "You're reading it right." "That's Silas. That has to be Silas. Did you talk to him?" "I just came from him." I leaned against the back counter, looking at the row of skates lined up for sharpening. My hands were still wet. "He offered to pay for the rest of my skating career. Said he was buying the spot off me." The line went quiet for a long beat. "That entitled piece of shit," Bree said finally. "Tell me you threw it back in his face." "I walked away." "Maeve, you have to fight this. That grant is yours. Do you have any idea what you went through to earn it? The all-night training, your dad — " "It won't do anything." "What do you mean it won't?" "His family, the Kensingtons, endowed the training grant, Bree. They built this rink. If they pull my name once, they'll pull it again." She was quiet again. "Oh, I saw Lyla's Instagram story just now. Silas booked out the whole restaurant to celebrate her nomination. Maeve." "Fine." "Fine? That's it?" "I have to go. Customer just walked in." I hung up before she could say anything else.
The next morning, I went to the training center to file the Skating Sectionals paperwork. I was halfway down the corridor when I saw them. Silas with Lyla on his arm. Lyla spotted me first. She flinched and ducked behind his shoulder. "Silas, I'm scared." He stepped in front of her like a wall. "Maeve. Don't start." I went to walk around him. He caught my wrist. "What is your problem? Lyla didn't do anything to you. None of this was her call. Why do you have to make a scene?" I yanked my arm back. "Let me go." People in the hall were starting to look. Lyla's eyes filled up right on cue. She slipped out from behind Silas and took a step toward me. "Maeve. I'm so, so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. If you need to hit someone, hit me. I deserve it." She came closer with her chin raised. Silas grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back against his chest. "Look at her," he said to me, low and furious. "Look at what you're doing to her. I never thought you could be this cruel, Maeve." The whispers started. "That's her. The skating club's part-time girl." "Wait, isn't she the one who lost the grant?" "Lost it to Lyla, yeah. Honestly, look at her face. Total ice queen. No wonder he got tired." "Lyla's literally an angel. I'd pick her too." I didn't look at any of them. I kept my eyes on Silas. "I said, let me go." He didn't move but shoved me. I stumbled back and hit the row of lockers behind me. My shoulder blades cracked against the metal. I stayed there for a second, my back against the lockers, looking up at him. He was looking right back at me. There was nothing in his face. No flicker. Nothing. We grew up together. He was ten when his family sent him out from New York. His first week in the town, he picked a fight with three older boys behind the rink and was getting his teeth kicked in when I came around the corner. I held up a sharpened blade in my hand. They ran. After that, he followed me everywhere. When a boy at school bullied me, Silas put him on the ground. "Maeve. I've got you. Always." "We're getting out of this town. Both of us. Training Center, Olympics, the whole thing. You and me." And now he was in front of me with another girl tucked against his ribs, and he had just put me into a wall. Lyla started to cry harder. "Silas, please, let's just go. It's my fault. All of this is my fault." He turned his head and kissed her hair. "It's not your fault. None of it is." He gave me one last look — a warning, and walked her past me down the hall. I stayed against the lockers until I could breathe again. The office was at the end of the corridor. On the way I passed the Featured Athletes wall. Lyla's photo was right in the center, bigger than the others. Underneath, in clean black letters: Promising young talent overcoming hardship. A story of resilience. I looked at it for a second and laughed bitterly. I remembered one night, I came back to the skate shop after a late training session. My dad was waiting in the parking lot. He smelled like whiskey from ten feet away. "Where's the money?" I didn't answer. I tried to walk past him to the door. He grabbed my hair and slammed me face-first into the side of the building. "I'm talking to you. Are you deaf in both ears now?" "There isn't any money." "Bullshit. That Kensington kid throws cash around like it's nothing, and you're up his ass twenty-four seven. You telling me you can't squeeze a few hundred out of him for your old man?" He hit me across the face. "You holding out on me? Hiding it somewhere? Huh?" He started patting me down, yanking at my pockets. I shoved him off. That was the wrong move. He kicked me in the stomach so hard I went down on the asphalt. "You ungrateful bitch. You're just like your mother. Trash, both of you." He went looking for something heavier. A tire iron, a piece of pipe, I didn't see what. That was when Silas's car pulled into the lot. He was out before the engine stopped. He put my dad on the ground in two moves and pulled me up off the asphalt. His hands went over my face, my arms, my ribs, checking. "Where did he hit you. Maeve. Where." I couldn't answer. He took off his own jacket and put it around my shoulders. "It's okay. I'm here. I've got you." He didn't go home that night. He sat on the busted couch in the back of the shop until morning. The next day he walked into the police station and didn't leave until they had my dad in a holding cell. When he came back, he sat down next to me and said, "I'm taking care of you from now on. You don't have to worry about anything. Ever." I'd actually believed him.
A week before Sectionals, our club ran a final mock competition. Full panel of judges, full scoring, the works. I took first. Highest combined score in the group field by almost twelve points. Lyla came in last. She picked the score sheet off the boards, balled it up, and tossed it into the trash on her way off the ice. "Doesn't matter. I got the training grant." Silas was waiting at the boards with two coffees. He handed her one. She lit up at him like she hadn't just bombed in front of the club. "You were beautiful." She pressed up onto her toe picks and kissed him on the cheek. I walked past them toward the locker room. "Maeve." I did not stop. "Maeve. Hey." He came around in front of me, blocking the path. "You still mad about the training grant?" I didn't answer. "I get it. But come on. Look at her situation. She needs this more than you do. You're going to win Sectionals in your sleep." He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "That card I offered you. It's still on the table. Anything you need — coaches, off-season camps... It's covered." He thought money was the answer. He thought money could buy back what he'd already broken. "I don't need it." "There you go again." His jaw set. "How long are you going to keep doing this. You know how much you make in a month? I'm offering you more than you could pull out of that place in your entire life." Lyla skated up behind him and put a gloved hand on his arm. "Silas, don't. She's just not used to it yet." She gave me a small, sad, practiced smile. "Maeve. I know you hate me right now. But I was really, truly out of options. My stepmom has been awful since my dad lost everything. I had nowhere else to turn." Her eyes welled up. I'd watched her do it for a year now. In every conversation, she was the victim. In every room, I was the one making her cry. "Silas said he's going to take care of you," she went on, with the soft, generous tone. "Whatever you need, just tell us. Both of us." Us. Like she'd already moved into my life. The corner of my mouth pulled up. I couldn't help it. Silas frowned. "What's funny?" "Nothing. Just appreciating the matchup. You two deserve each other. Hope it lasts." His face changed. "Maeve — " I walked past him to the locker room. "Maeve, get back here." I ignored all his words. That night, Bree sent me a photo. Lyla's Instagram, screenshotted before it could disappear. Lyla and Silas were in the bar, Silas holding a bottle of champagne, Lyla draped across his lap. Their friends were in the background, raising glasses, shouting "CONGRATS LYLA!" Bree: Stop looking at it. She's not worth your serotonin. I closed the app and tossed the phone aside. Then picked up my training journal off the nightstand, opened it to the next blank page, and started writing out my Sectionals program. As long as I kept training, I didn't have to think about anything else.
A week before Sectionals, the club cut training to taper hours. Most of the teammates took the time off to rest. I took extra shifts at the skating club's shop. Wednesday afternoon, Silas's car pulled up outside. He got out and leaned against the driver's door. Music thumping from the speakers, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. "Maeve. Come here." I kept working, ignoring his words. "I'm talking to you." He frowned and walked over. He reached for my arm, saw the dirt on my hands, and pulled his fingers back without touching me. "Go wash up. You're coming with us." "Where?" "Cabin. Up the mountain. Lyla wants a few days off the ice. You're coming." I straightened up. "I'm not going." "Don't start with this again." He let out a sharp breath. "I drove all the way down here. Lyla wants to make peace. Don't be difficult." "I have nothing to make peace about with her." "Maeve." "I'm training." He laughed, short and ugly. "Training. Right. Like you need to. You could skate Sectionals hungover and still take the podium." "Just come. Get out of this dump for a weekend. Lyla actually wants to fix things with you." "I'm not going." His patience snapped. He stared at me for a second. Then he laughed again, this time with no humor in it at all. "Suit yourself." He pulled his wallet out, thumbed off a stack of hundreds, and threw them on the floor at my feet. The bills fanned out across the concrete. "Here. Your wages for the month. I covered your boss for it. Take the money, keep your pride, and stay out of my face." I didn't move. "Not enough?" He pulled out another stack and threw it down on top of the first. "How about now?" Coach Miller came out from the back office, took one look at the cash on the floor, and walked over fast. "Mr. Kensington. What is going on here? We don't need any of this." Silas didn't even look at him. His eyes stayed on me. "Pick it up." I still didn't move. Lyla had been waiting in the car. She got out now, all wide eyes, and came running over in her white shearling boots. "Silas, please, stop. You're scaring her." She crouched down and started gathering up the bills, one by one. "Maeve. Don't be mad at him. He's just looking out for me. He doesn't mean it." She held the stack up to me with both hands, eyes wet. "Please. Just come with us. I don't want to be the reason you two aren't talking." I looked at her and Silas. He wasn't sorry. He thought he was being generous, so I should be on my knees thanking him. I walked past both of them, into the back of the shop, and shut the door. Through the wall I heard him. "See? That attitude. You try to help her and that's what you get." The car engine started up. The music pulled away down the street. Coach Miller came in a minute later. He set the stack of cash down on the workbench in front of me. "Take it, kid." "No." "Maeve." He pushed it closer. "Your dad. Your situation. You need this." I stared at the bills. They smelled like Silas's cologne. I walked to the utility sink in the corner, turned the water on as hot as it would go, and started washing my hands. Soap, scrub, rinse. I kept going until my skin was raw. That night, my dad came back. He was drunker than usual, and he'd seen the cash through the front window. He took it, then he started taking everything else. Even put a chair through the front glass. I called the cops. When they got there, he was still going, swinging a hockey stick at the lights. It took two officers to put him in cuffs. He spat at me on the way out, blood and saliva down the front of my work shirt. "You called the cops on me. On your own father. I hope you know what you are. I hope you rot in hell for this." I watched the cruiser pull out of the lot. So this was what it felt like. To have nobody left around me.
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