I don't speak to Adrian for the rest of the day.
He tries. Catches me in the locker room, at my car, even texting me three times. I ignore all of it. Because what do you say to someone who just humiliated you in front of the press for no apparent reason?
By evening, the damage is done. My phone won't stop buzzing with notifications.
"Braxton's New Partner Can't Handle the Pressure" "Ice Princess Too Stiff For Olympic Dreams?" "Sources Say Braxton Already Regrets Partnership Choice"
I throw my phone across the room. It bounces off my bed and lands on the floor, still buzzing.
My mom calls at eight. I almost don't answer.
"Honey," she says, gentle and worried. "I saw the articles."
"Great. So did everyone else."
"What happened?"
I tell her about the practice. The death spiral. The fall. Adrian's comment designed for maximum damage.
"Why would he do that?" Mom asks.
"Because he's an arrogant jerk who only cares about himself?"
"Or because he's trying to protect you."
I blink. "What?"
"Think about it, Lila. If the press thinks you're the problem, they go easier on him. He's already dealing with one scandal. Maybe he's deflecting attention."
"By throwing me under the bus?"
"I'm not saying it's right. I'm saying there might be a reason." She sighs. "Just talk to him. Hear him out."
We hang up, and I'm left staring at my phone. Seventeen missed calls. Twelve from unknown numbers, probably press. Three from Adrian. Two from Coach Elena.
I call Elena back.
"Lila." Her voice is tight. "My office. Tomorrow. 7 AM. You and Adrian. Federation is not happy."
"What else is new?"
"This is serious. They are talking about pulling partnership before three-week trial is even finished."
My stomach drops. "They can't do that."
"They can do whatever they want. We made them look bad. Now we fix it." She pauses. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow will be long day."
Sleep doesn't come easy. I lie awake replaying Adrian's words, trying to see the angle Mom mentioned. Trying to find the logic in public humiliation.
I'm still trying when my alarm goes off at 5:30.
Elena's office is cramped and cluttered with decades of skating memorabilia. Photos of her coaching Soviet champions in the eighties, medals from international competitions, yellowing newspaper clippings in Cyrillic. It smells like coffee and stress.
Adrian's already there when I arrive. He's in a suit again, like he's preparing for a board meeting instead of a coaching session. He stands when I enter.
"Lila—"
"Don't."
"I need to explain—"
"I said don't." I drop into the chair farthest from him. "Whatever you're about to say, save it for someone who cares."
Elena sweeps in before he can respond, David Chen from the Federation right behind her. Chen's carrying a leather folder, his expression grim.
"Good, everyone's here." Chen sits at Elena's desk, opening the folder. "Let's be direct. Yesterday's incident was a disaster. The press is having a field day, the Federation's phones won't stop ringing, and Mr. Braxton's father has threatened to pull his foundation's funding if this partnership continues to embarrass the program."
"It was one practice," I protest.
"One practice that was photographed and misrepresented to the entire skating world." Chen pulls out printouts of the articles, sliding them across the desk. The headlines are worse in print. "The Federation is prepared to dissolve this partnership effective immediately."
"No." Adrian's voice cuts through the room. "You gave us three weeks. It's been one day."
"One day that's caused a PR nightmare."
"So we'll fix it." Adrian leans forward. "Give us a chance to control the narrative."
Chen looks at Elena. "Coach Markovic, your assessment?"
Elena drums her fingers on the desk. "They have potential. Raw, unpolished, slightly violent potential, but potential nonetheless. Yesterday's death spiral, before the fall, was actually quite good for first attempt."
"Before the fall," Chen emphasizes.
"All partnerships fall. Question is whether they get back up." Elena looks between Adrian and me. "These two got back up. Eight more times. That shows dedication."
"Or stupidity," I mutter.
"Sometimes is same thing." Elena pulls out her own folder. "I have proposal. You want to control narrative? We give them contract. Real contract, legally binding, with consequences. They commit to partnership, to training, to presenting united front. They break contract, they lose everything."
"What kind of contract?" Adrian asks.
Elena slides papers across the desk. "Partnership agreement. Three-week trial period extended to full Olympic cycle. They sign, they commit. No quitting. No public fighting. No more stunts like yesterday."
I grab the contract, scanning the terms. It's extensive. Daily training requirements. Media appearance mandates. A clause about "professional conduct at all times." And there, in bold: "NO-QUIT CLAUSE: Both parties agree not to terminate partnership for duration of Olympic cycle without mutual written consent and Federation approval."
"This is insane," I say.
"This is necessary," Chen corrects. "You want to compete? You want the Federation's support? You commit. Fully. Or you walk away now and we find other solutions."
I look at Adrian. He's reading his copy, jaw tight.
"What about the media appearances?" he asks.
"Mandatory," Chen says. "Joint interviews, sponsor events, social media content. You will present as a unified team. No more contradictory statements to the press."
"You want us to lie."
"I want you to be professional." Chen's tone hardens. "Mr. Braxton, you're already dealing with one scandal. Miss Hart, your reputation is currently being shredded online. A unified front helps both of you. It shows the skating world that this partnership is serious, stable, and Olympic-worthy."
Elena leans forward. "Think of it as performance. On ice, you perform program. Off ice, you perform partnership. Same skill set, different venue."
I hate that she's right. I hate all of this. But the alternative is walking away, losing my Olympic shot, proving everyone right who said I couldn't handle the pressure.
"If I sign this," I say slowly, "and he pulls another stunt like yesterday, what recourse do I have?"
"Contract includes dispute resolution clause," Chen explains. "Any conflicts go through mediation with Coach Markovic and myself. But Lila, you need to understand: this contract protects both of you. He can't quit on you, you can't quit on him. You're locked in."
Adrian sets down his copy. "I'll sign."
Everyone looks at him.
"Just like that?" I ask.
"Just like that." He meets my eyes. "I'm committed to this partnership. I screwed up yesterday, but I'm willing to do whatever it takes to fix it and move forward."
"Easy to say when you're not the one getting crucified online."
"You think I'm not getting crucified?" His laugh is bitter. "My mentions are full of people saying I'm a washed-up hockey player trying to ruin figure skating. That I'm dragging you down. That I should stay banned and stop embarrassing myself." He pauses. "At least your critics think you have potential. Mine think I'm trash."
The honesty catches me off guard. I've been so focused on my own humiliation that I didn't consider what the press was saying about him.
Elena pushes a pen toward me. "Decision time, Lila. Sign and commit, or walk away and find new path. No judgment either way. But decide now."
I pick up the pen, feeling its weight. This is it. The point of no return.
I sign my name.
Adrian signs next, his signature sharp and decisive.
"Good." Chen gathers the contracts. "I'll file these with the Federation. You're officially locked in for the Olympic cycle. Now let's discuss damage control."
The next hour is a crash course in media management. We're scheduled for a joint interview with Figure Skating Today in three days. A photo shoot for their winter issue. Social media posts showing "behind the scenes" training content.
"You need to look like partners," Chen emphasizes. "Like you actually like each other."
"We can act," Adrian says.
"Can you? Because yesterday suggested otherwise."
"Yesterday was a mistake," I say firmly. "It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't." Chen stands. "You have practice in thirty minutes. I suggest you use that time to get your story straight. When the press asks about yesterday, you present a unified response."
He leaves, taking the contracts with him. Elena lingers.
"You two need to talk," she says. "Really talk, not just argue. Partnership is more than lifts and throws. Is trust. Is understanding. Is friendship, even." She looks at Adrian. "You want to explain why you said what you said?"
"I was trying to protect her."
"By insulting her?"
"By making myself the villain." Adrian turns to me. "If the press thinks you're struggling because I'm a bad partner, they go easier on you. They blame me, which I can handle because I'm already the bad guy. But if they think you're just not good enough, that follows you forever."
I stare at him. "So you sacrificed your reputation to save mine?"
"My reputation was already garbage. Yours wasn't." He shrugs. "Seemed like the logical play."
"You could have told me."
"Would you have let me do it if I had?"
No. I wouldn't have. I would have fought him, insisted we face it together, probably made everything worse.
"You're an idiot," I say.
"I've been called worse."
"You made me think you were a complete asshole."
"To be fair, I am a complete asshole. Just not about that specific thing."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "Your mom's theory was right."
"Your mom's smart."
Elena claps her hands. "Good. You are talking. This is progress. Now go practice and try not to kill each other. We have photo shoot in three days and you both need to look alive."
Practice is different after the contract. There's a weight to every movement, every touch. We're not just skating together. We're committed. Legally bound to make this work.
"Death spiral again," Elena calls.
We've done it twenty times this week. Each time slightly better. This time, when Adrian grips my wrist, I don't tense up. I breathe. I trust.
We rotate. Once, twice, three times. My back arches, my hair brushing the ice. The position is perfect. The rotation is smooth.
"Exit!" Elena shouts.
Adrian pulls me up, and for once, the transition is seamless. We finish in hold, breathing hard, eyes locked.
"Better," Elena says. "Again."
We practice for three hours. Lifts, spirals, side-by-side jumps. There are still rough patches, still moments of miscommunication, but the foundation is solidifying.
During water break, Adrian sits beside me.
"I really am sorry," he says quietly. "About yesterday."
"I know."
"Do you forgive me?"
I consider this. "Ask me again after we land a clean triple throw."
He grins. "Fair enough."
We're running through footwork sequences when I notice her. A woman standing at the observation window, half-hidden in shadow. Tall, blonde, elegant even from a distance. She's watching us with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
"Adrian," I say. "Who's that?"
He follows my gaze and his entire body tenses. "Nobody."
"Doesn't look like nobody."
"Lila, focus on the footwork."
But I can't focus. Because the woman's phone is out, and she's typing something, and her expression is cold enough to freeze the sun.
"That's Sabrina," Elena says, skating over. "Adrian's old partner. From junior skating."
Everything clicks into place. The woman from the photos I saw during my late-night research binge. The partner he had before he quit skating. Young, beautiful, technically perfect Sabrina who probably hates that he's skating with someone else now.
"What's she doing here?" I ask.
"Good question." Elena skates toward the observation window, but Sabrina's already turning away, phone still in hand.
Adrian's knuckles are white where he's gripping the boards.
"How long has she been watching?" he asks.
"Long enough, apparently." Elena's expression darkens. "This could be problem."
"She's just watching," Adrian says, but his voice lacks conviction.
"She's never just anything." Elena looks at me. "Sabrina Wilde. Remember that name. She used to be Adrian's partner. Now she is his ex who cannot let go."
"I haven't spoken to her in years," Adrian protests.
"Maybe not, but she clearly still interested in your life." Elena pulls out her phone, checking something. "And apparently she is active on social media right now."
My stomach sinks. "What's she saying?"
Elena turns her phone around. Sabrina's Instagram story, posted two minutes ago. A photo of the rink, the caption reading: "Some things never change. Some people never learn. 💔 #WatchingFromAfar #Memories"
"That's not about us," I say.
"That's definitely about us," Adrian corrects grimly.
Elena swipes to another post, this one on Twitter. "Interesting watching AB try to recreate magic with new partner. Best of luck to them both. They'll need it. ✨"
"She's coming for us," I say.
"She's posturing." Adrian pushes off the boards. "Ignore her. She does this. She gets dramatic when she feels left out."
"You think she feels left out?"
"I think she's used to being the center of attention and hates that I moved on without her."
Elena pockets her phone. "Moved on from partnership or moved on from more than that?"
Adrian's silence is answer enough.
"Great," I mutter. "So we have to deal with press, Federation politics, and your jealous ex-partner. What's next, a meteor strike?"
"Don't tempt fate," Adrian says.
We finish practice, but the energy is off. I can feel Sabrina's presence like a weight, even though she's no longer visible. The observation window is empty, but somehow that's worse. At least when I could see her, I knew where she was.
Now she could be anywhere.
The photo shoot three days later is a special kind of torture.
We're at an outdoor rink in downtown Colorado Springs, the Rocky Mountains providing a dramatic backdrop. The photographer keeps positioning us in increasingly intimate poses.
"Closer," she commands. "You're partners, not strangers."
Adrian's arm slides around my waist. I try to relax into it, but my body is rigid with awareness. We've touched plenty during practice, but this is different. This is performative. This is selling a fantasy.
"Smile, Lila," the photographer calls. "You're supposed to look happy."
"I'm happy," I say through gritted teeth.
"You look constipated. Try again."
Adrian's laugh rumbles through his chest. "She's right, you know."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
"Professional conduct clause, remember?"
"That says no fighting. Doesn't say I can't tease you." His hand tightens on my waist. "Come on, Hart. Give them a real smile."
"Why should I?"
"Because if we look miserable, the press eats us alive. If we look happy, they have to find something else to write about." He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Because this is the performance we signed up for."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
I smile. Not a fake press smile. A real one, thinking about how ridiculous this all is. How three weeks ago I was happily skating with Marcus, and now I'm contractually obligated to pretend I enjoy Adrian Braxton's company.
"There!" The photographer snaps rapidly. "That's it! That's the shot!"
We do a dozen more poses. Adrian lifting me. Both of us mid-jump. Sitting on the boards, skates off, looking like we're sharing secrets. By the end, my face hurts from smiling.
"Beautiful work," the photographer says, reviewing her shots. "You two have great chemistry on camera."
If only she knew.
We're packing up when I see her again. Sabrina, standing by the parking lot, partially hidden behind a SUV. She's not trying to be subtle this time. She wants us to see her.
"She's here," I tell Adrian.
He follows my gaze and swears. "What the hell is she doing?"
"Maybe she wants to talk?"
"Sabrina doesn't want to talk. She wants to make a scene." He starts toward her, but I grab his arm.
"Don't. That's what she wants."
"I'm not going to let her stalk us."
"And confronting her in a public parking lot is going to help how?" I pull him back. "Ignore her. Get in your car, drive away. Don't give her the satisfaction."
He looks between me and Sabrina, jaw working. Finally, he nods.
"You're right. Let's go."
We walk to our cars. Mine's parked three spaces from his. I can feel Sabrina's eyes on us the entire time, but I don't look back.
I'm unlocking my door when my phone buzzes. Unknown number. I almost ignore it, but something makes me check.
A text message. A single photo.
It's from today's photo shoot. The photographer must have posted previews on social media already. The image shows Adrian and me, his arm around my waist, both of us laughing. We look happy. We look real.
Below the photo, three words: "How cute. 🙄"
I look up. Sabrina's across the parking lot, phone in hand, watching me. She waves, the gesture mocking.
Then she types something else. I watch her fingers move across the screen, watch her hit send, watch my phone buzz again.
This message is longer: "He'll never love someone like her."
My breath catches. Before I can process it, before I can respond or delete it or do anything, Sabrina's getting into a silver Mercedes. She drives past slowly, window down, sunglasses on. She blows a kiss in Adrian's direction.
Then she's gone.
I stand there, phone in hand, reading and rereading that message.
"He'll never love someone like her."
Adrian appears at my shoulder. "You okay?"
I shove my phone in my pocket. "Fine."
"You don't look fine."
"Just tired." I force a smile. "Photo shoots are exhausting."
He studies me for a long moment. "If Sabrina contacts you, tell me."
"Why would she contact me?"
"Because that's what she does. She finds pressure points and pushes." His expression darkens. "Just promise me you'll tell me if she tries anything."
I think about the text burning a hole in my pocket. About Sabrina's cold certainty. About the implication that Adrian and I are just playacting at partnership while something deeper is impossible.
"I promise," I lie.
He nods, satisfied, and heads to his car.
I get in mine and sit there, engine running, staring at my phone.
In the observation window of the building behind me, barely visible in the late afternoon light, a figure stands watching. Sabrina. Phone in hand. The glow of the screen illuminating her face as she types.
My phone buzzes again.
"He'll never love someone like her."