The towers of Yale had looked impossibly far away from the shuttle window. Up close, they loomed even larger—Gothic spires piercing the late afternoon sky like stone fingers, their shadows falling across courtyards that had witnessed centuries of ambitious students. Silver had competed in arenas designed to intimidate, but Yale's medieval architecture carried a different kind of weight. These buildings didn't just stand; they had stories to tell, and most of them probably involved people far more accomplished than a washed-up figure skater with a reconstructed knee.
She clutched the strap of her backpack tighter and tried not to favor her left leg too obviously as she navigated the maze of pathways leading toward her residential college. The campus map crumpled in her free hand made about as much sense as ancient hieroglyphics—all the buildings looked the same, all Gothic stone and arched windows and ivy that climbed toward gargoyles perched on impossible heights.
Every step sent a dull throb through her knee joint, the post-surgical brace rubbing against her jeans in a rhythm that matched her uneven gait. She'd ditched the crutches three weeks ago against her physical therapist's better judgment, but walking any significant distance still felt like negotiating a minefield. Each footfall had to be calculated, measured, trusted to hold her weight without betraying her.
Students flowed around her in easy clusters, their voices bouncing off stone walls that amplified every laugh and conversation. A group of girls passed carrying field hockey sticks, their faces flushed with post-practice endorphins. Two guys in rowing team shirts debated dining hall options with the intensity of UN peace negotiators. Everyone moved with the casual confidence of people who belonged here, who had earned their place through test scores and essays rather than triple jumps and spiral sequences.
Silver pulled her Yale hoodie tighter and kept her head down, blonde hair escaping from its messy bun to frame her face. The oversized sweatshirt felt like armor—if she looked like every other freshman, maybe no one would notice the way she walked or recognize her from the endless replays of her fall that had dominated skating forums for weeks after Nationals.
Her residential college was tucked behind Phelps Gate, an arched stone entryway that looked like it belonged guarding a medieval castle rather than housing American teenagers. The courtyard beyond stretched between buildings that rose four stories high, their windows glowing golden in the fading light. Ivy covered nearly every surface, thick and ancient, lending the space an air of scholarly gravitas that made Silver feel even more out of place.
She was halfway across the uneven cobblestones when it happened.
Her right toe caught on a stone that jutted slightly higher than its neighbors—the kind of imperfection that generations of foot traffic had only made more pronounced. For a split second, she felt the familiar loss of balance that every skater knew, the moment when physics took over and the body became subject to forces beyond its control.
But this wasn't ice. There was no muscle memory for stumbling on centuries-old cobblestones while wearing a knee brace that limited her range of motion. Her arms shot out instinctively, seeking equilibrium that wasn't there, her damaged knee locking in protective spasm as her body tilted forward.
The ground rushed up to meet her. She could already picture it—Silver Preston, former national champion, sprawled across Yale's historic courtyard on her first day, brace twisted, dignity scattered like leaves across the ancient stones.
Except she didn't hit the ground.
Strong hands caught her mid-fall, one gripping her elbow with surprising gentleness, the other steady against her back just below her shoulder blade. The contact sent a jolt through her system that had nothing to do with the near-fall and everything to do with the unexpected warmth of another person's touch. Her knee still screamed in protest from the sudden movement, but she remained upright, chest heaving with adrenaline and embarrassment.
"Careful."
The voice belonged to the hands that had saved her—low and measured, with a slight roughness that suggested someone who didn't waste words. There was something in his tone that wasn't quite concern, wasn't quite indifference. More like the careful assessment of someone who understood the mechanics of falling and getting back up.
Silver blinked up at him, taking in details that her rattled brain struggled to process. Tall—probably six-two or six-three—with the kind of broad shoulders that came from years of athletic training. His dark hair needed a cut, falling across intense hazel-green eyes that studied her with unsettling focus. Everything about him was sharp angles and controlled stillness, like a blade resting on ice before the first push-off.
There was something familiar about the way he held himself, the easy balance that marked him as an athlete even in civilian clothes. His Yale Hockey sweatshirt explained part of it, but this was deeper—the unconscious confidence of someone who had trained their body to respond exactly as commanded, exactly when needed.
"I—" Silver's throat worked, but coherent words seemed to have scattered along with her equilibrium. She hated the way her pulse had kicked into overdrive, hated that her first instinct was to notice how solid his hands felt against her arms.
He released her slowly, as if testing whether she could maintain her own balance. His fingers lingered a half-second longer than strictly necessary before he stepped back, giving her space to breathe and regroup.
"You okay?"
The question should have been simple—standard post-near-accident courtesy. But something in his delivery suggested he already knew the answer was more complicated than yes or no. His gaze flicked briefly to her knee brace, visible beneath her jeans, then back to her face with the kind of recognition that made her stomach drop.
Silver straightened, fighting the urge to wince as weight settled back onto her damaged joint. "Fine."
"Didn't look fine."
The observation came without judgment but with enough certainty to make her bristle. She'd spent months perfecting her poker face, learning to hide pain and uncertainty behind the same mask she'd worn during competition. Apparently, it wasn't as effective as she'd hoped.
"Well, I am." Her chin lifted in automatic defiance, the same stubborn angle that had carried her through countless falls during training, through her mother's criticism, through physical therapy sessions that felt like medieval torture.
Something shifted in his expression—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk, but a subtle softening around his eyes that suggested he found her defensiveness more interesting than irritating. "New here?"
The question felt loaded somehow, as if he was asking about more than just her enrollment status. Silver forced herself to meet his gaze directly, refusing to let her voice waver.
"Just got in."
He nodded once, a economical movement that somehow conveyed both acknowledgment and assessment. His eyes were the kind of green that changed with the light—more hazel now in the courtyard's golden glow, but she suspected they'd look sharper under fluorescents, colder under overcast skies.
"Welcome to Yale."
The words were simple enough, but they followed her like an echo as she pushed past him toward the safety of her dormitory entrance. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment and something else she didn't want to examine too closely. The heavy oak door swung shut behind her with a satisfying thud that muffled the sounds of campus life and left her alone in a stone corridor that smelled of furniture polish and centuries of academic ambition.
She sagged against the door for a moment, letting her carefully maintained composure crack just enough to release the breath she'd been holding. Her knee throbbed in earnest now, reminding her that near-falls carried consequences even when strong hands prevented actual impact.
But it wasn't the pain that made her pulse continue its erratic rhythm as she climbed the stairs toward her room. It was the memory of hazel-green eyes that had seen through her defenses in the span of a single glance, and the unsettling certainty that this encounter was just the beginning of something she wasn't prepared for.
Outside, the Gothic towers continued their silent vigil over Yale's courtyards, indifferent to the small dramas unfolding in their shadows. But for Silver Preston, the ancient stones had witnessed her first step—however unsteady—into a world where falling down might not mean the end of everything after all.