Silver barely slept after her clandestine visit to Ingalls Rink. Every time she managed to drift off, her mind replayed the evening in vivid detail—Eli's powerful stride across the ice, the precise sound of his blades carving through turns, the spray of ice crystals catching the arena lights like scattered diamonds. But mostly, she remembered that final moment when his gaze had found her in the stands, sharp and knowing, like he could see straight through her carefully constructed anonymity down to the fracture lines running through her chest.
By morning, she felt like she'd been hit by a zamboni.
Americus, naturally, was already in full hurricane mode despite the early hour. Pop music blasted from a portable speaker that looked like it had been bedazzled by someone with a serious glitter addiction, and her roommate had applied what appeared to be strategic streaks of gold eyeliner across her cheekbones like some kind of fabulous war paint.
"Room cleaning day!" Americus announced, spinning toward Silver's bed with arms spread wide like she was addressing a Broadway audience. "Organization equals manifestation. If we manifest hard enough, maybe hot hockey players will spontaneously appear with lattes and homework help."
Silver groaned, pulling her pillow over her head in a futile attempt to block out both the music and her roommate's relentless morning energy. "That's not how manifestation works. Also, that's not even a real thing."
"Everything is real if you believe hard enough," Americus declared with the absolute conviction of someone who had probably convinced herself that glitter was a legitimate food group. She was already sorting through her explosion of sequined tops, creating piles that seemed to follow some organizational system known only to her. "Besides, this room is a disaster zone. We can't properly bond in chaos."
Silver reluctantly sat up, surveying the damage. Her side of their Gothic dorm room had definitely seen better days—syllabus papers scattered across her narrow desk, empty protein bar wrappers creating a small archaeological site, and the spare velcro straps from her knee brace tangled in the corner like some kind of medical confetti. And shoved far under her bed, pushed back behind her duffel bag where she'd hoped it would remain invisible forever, sat the one thing she hadn't been ready to confront: the box.
It wasn't particularly large—just a plain black storage container with duct tape reinforcing the corners where the cardboard had started to weaken from multiple moves. But Silver knew exactly what lay inside, and the weight of those memories felt heavier than anything that should fit in such a compact space.
She tried to distract herself by folding laundry with unnecessary precision, but Americus had developed what seemed to be supernatural radar for detecting hidden secrets.
"What's that?" Her voice cut through the pop music with laser-focused curiosity.
Silver froze mid-fold, clutching a Yale sweatshirt against her chest like armor. "What's what?"
Americus, predictably, was not deterred by Silver's attempt at innocence. She crouched down, sequins on her top catching the morning light streaming through their diamond-paned windows, and tugged the storage box into view with the determination of an archaeologist uncovering buried treasure.
"This, obviously. Girl, you can't just hide mysterious boxes and expect me not to investigate. It goes against every principle of good roommate dynamics."
Silver's pulse jumped into overdrive. "Don't—"
But Americus had already settled cross-legged on their small rug, positioning the box between them like it was an altar to curiosity. She flipped the lid open with zero hesitation, apparently immune to concepts like privacy or personal boundaries.
Inside lay the carefully preserved pieces of Silver's former life.
Competition medals gleamed against black velvet—junior international championships, Grand Prix events, regional titles that had once felt like stepping stones toward something magnificent. Glossy competition programs featured her photograph on multiple covers: Silver mid-spiral with arms extended like wings, Silver landing a jump with perfect form, Silver accepting bouquets with the kind of radiant smile that belonged to someone who still believed the future was limitless.
A crystal trophy shaped like an ice shard caught the morning light and threw rainbows across their dorm room walls. Newspaper clippings with headlines like "Atlanta's Ice Princess" and "The Next American Sweetheart" had been carefully preserved in plastic sleeves. And resting on top of everything else, still gleaming despite the months it had spent hidden in darkness, was her Olympic Trials medal. Silver.
The medal that had been both vindication and curse—proof that she'd been good enough to compete at the highest level, and a constant reminder that "good enough" hadn't been quite good enough.
Americus's mouth fell open in a way that would have been comical under different circumstances. She lifted the Olympic Trials medal with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts, turning it over in her hands like she couldn't quite believe it was real.
"Oh. My. God." The words came out as separate declarations, each one pitched higher than the last. "You're not just a skater. You're that skater. The kind they put on magazine covers and write articles about."
Silver's chest constricted until breathing felt like work. "Put it back."
But Americus was already reaching for one of the competition programs, flipping through pages that chronicled Silver's junior career with the kind of methodical fascination usually reserved for studying ancient texts. She read aloud in a voice filled with growing amazement:
"'Silver Prestwood, America's rising star in ladies' figure skating. With her combination of technical precision and artistic flair, she represents the future of American skating. A potential Olympian in the making, Prestwood has already captured multiple junior titles and shows no signs of slowing down.'"
Americus looked up from the program, her expression cycling through awe, confusion, and something that might have been hurt. "Holy crap, roomie. You're actually famous. Like, legitimately, magazine-cover, future-Olympian famous."
Silver's stomach churned with the familiar mixture of pride and shame that had become her constant companion since Nationals. "I'm not. Not anymore."
The words tasted like ash in her mouth, but they were true. Whatever she had been—whatever potential she'd carried, whatever dreams she'd embodied—had died on the ice in Minneapolis along with her ACL and meniscus and any hope of Olympic glory.
Americus carefully set the program aside and reached for another medal, this one from a junior Grand Prix event where Silver had landed her first clean triple-triple combination in competition. Her fingers traced the embossed figure skater on the front with something approaching reverence.
"Silver Prestwood," she said slowly, like she was trying to reconcile the name with the girl sitting across from her in an oversized hoodie and pajama pants. "Why didn't you tell us? Why didn't you tell me?"
The question hung in the air between them, weighted with all the conversations they'd had about "things" and passions and what made people who they were. Silver had deflected and evaded and outright lied, when the truth had been sitting in a box under her bed the entire time.
Because the truth was more complicated than a collection of medals and magazine covers could convey. The truth was that Silver Prestwood the figure skater and Silver Preston the Yale freshman felt like two completely different people, and she wasn't sure she knew how to be both simultaneously.
The truth was that every piece of metal and crystal in that box represented not just achievement, but also the crushing weight of expectations she'd never asked for and could no longer fulfill.