[Emily’s POV]
My blade guards disintegrate like a relationship built on shared Netflix passwords. One second they're protecting steel edges from the unforgiving rubber flooring, the next they're in pieces like someone's college aspirations after organic chemistry.
"Interesting structural failure," I tell the scattered plastic. "Very convenient timing for spontaneous mechanical divorce."
Practice has been running for twelve minutes and already the mean girls are operating at peak efficiency.
They've weaponized passive aggression into an Olympic sport nobody asked for. Jenna leads the charge with Carol and Sophie flanking like backup dancers who've memorized the wrong choreography.
"Scholarship kids really do struggle with equipment maintenance," Jenna announces to the air molecules. "Must be hard when you can't afford quality gear. Very tragic. Someone should start a charity for the skating impoverished."
"Equipment fails when someone loosens the screws," I say, loud enough for the entire rink to hear. "But that would require premeditation and access to tools. Very specific conspiracy energy happening here."
Carol laughs like someone taught her the concept but not the execution. "Maybe if certain people actually belonged here, their stuff wouldn't fall apart. Natural selection via sporting goods. Darwin would be fascinated."
Sophie nods with the enthusiasm of someone who just discovered agreeing.
"Taking spots from people who've trained their whole lives at real programs. Not whatever strip mall rink produces... this." She gestures vaguely at my existence.
I set my destroyed guards on the bench with the ceremony of placing evidence at a crime scene. The entire team has stopped pretending to stretch. We've become the entertainment nobody purchased tickets for.
"You want to discuss who deserves to be here? Let's settle it on the ice right now. Skills versus speculation. Unless talking is your only talent?"
The rink goes quiet like someone unplugged the ambient noise machine. Jenna's face cycles through emotions like a slot machine landing on confusion. "What are you even suggesting?"
"A skate-off. You and your commentary committee versus me. Whoever lands the cleanest program gets to decide who belongs." I'm already moving toward center ice. "Unless you're worried your money can't buy you a triple axel?"
Carol shifts backward like proximity to conflict might be contagious while Sophie examines her nails with sudden archaeological interest. And Jenna's mouth opens and closes like she's buffering.
"That's not how team dynamics work. We're not twelve having playground disputes."
"No, you're twenty and loosening equipment screws like that's more mature," I counter, noting how Maddie watches from across the rink. "Very evolved behavior. Your emotional development is truly inspiring."
Coach's whistle cuts through the tension. "Back to drills, everyone. Save the drama for reality TV auditions you'll never pass."
The mean girls retreat with the coordinated sulking of people who've practiced synchronized disappointment. Their resentment radiates at frequencies that could probably power small electronics.
I catch Maddie still watching, her expression carefully neutral like Switzerland during a war crime.
After practice, I wait until the locker room empties. Strategic timing for confrontations requiring privacy. Maddie's at her locker, organizing things that don't need organizing, performing busy to avoid interaction.
"Why didn't you say anything?" I don't bother with preamble. "You watched that whole performance and stayed silent like someone had removed your vocal cords for maintenance."
She doesn't even turn around. "Team dynamics are complicated. Captain responsibilities don't include taking sides in every minor conflict. Very delicate ecosystem I'm managing here."
"Minor conflict? They sabotaged my equipment and questioned my right to exist in this space." My voice rises despite intentions. "That's not minor. That's targeted harassment with mechanical assistance."
"Getting involved would undermine my authority." She closes her locker with unnecessary precision. "I can't show favoritism or the whole structure collapses. Leadership requires neutrality sometimes."
"That's coward's math and you know it." I step closer, anger building like interest on an emotional loan. "You're choosing self-preservation over basic human decency. Very inspiring captaincy happening there."
She spins to face me, eyes blazing. "You don't understand the position I'm in. One wrong move and everything I've built disintegrates. My whole life here depends on maintaining certain balances."
"Your whole fake life," I correct, moving into her space. "The performance you're so desperate to protect that you'll watch them destroy me rather than risk your precious throne."
"Stop acting like you understand my choices." She's close enough that I can see her pulse jumping. "Stop pretending you know what I'm risking by being here, by maintaining this image, by surviving however I can."
"I understand you're a coward playing dress-up in borrowed confidence," I snap, close enough to feel her breathing accelerate. "I understand you'll let them tear me apart if it keeps your crown steady."
Something snaps in her expression before she shoves me backward hard, and my spine hitting the lockers with a metallic protest.
"You don't get to judge my survival methods from your moral high ground."
I grab her shirt, pulling her against me with force that surprises us both. "Your survival looks a lot like collaboration with terrorists wearing skating skirts."
Her hands pin my wrists against the metal, and we’re staring at each other for several silent moments, breathing hard. Then suddenly her mouth is on mine and we're kissing like we're trying to prove opposing theorems through tongue.
It's angry and desperate, teeth catching lips, breathing forgotten.
"This is stupid," I gasped against her mouth, feeling her hands already pulling at my practice gear. "This solves nothing. Changes nothing. We're just making everything more complicated."
"Everything's already complicated," she counters as I yanking her shirt up to find skin. "Might as well add physical evidence to the disaster inventory."
She pushes my track pants down with efficiency that suggests prior planning. Her hand slides between my legs without ceremony, finding me already wet because apparently my body responds to conflict like it's foreplay.
"You're soaked from arguing," she observes while pushing her middle finger inside. "Is this how you process anger? Through vaginal enthusiasm?"
"Shut up and fuck me properly or leave," I demand, hips bucking against her hand. "Half-measures are for people who can't commit to their mistakes."
She adds a second finger with force that makes my head hit the locker and the sound echoes like punctuation on our terrible decisions. Her fingers pump with the rhythm of someone working through their own frustration via manual labor.
"Is this what you wanted?" She curls her fingers to hit that spot that makes my vision pixelate. "To fuck me against a locker because talking about feelings is still too complicated?"
"Like you're any better," she hisses as I grind against her palm for friction on my clit and speeds up, thumb finding my clit with targeted precision. "At least I'm consistent in my avoidance. You keep expecting honesty from someone who's told you repeatedly they don't have any left."
My orgasm builds with the inevitability of poor decision-making. "Maddie, I'm going to—"
"I know. I can feel you clenching like you're trying to break my fingers." Her thumb circles harder. "Come already so we can pretend this didn't happen."
When I come, it's with the force of repressed everything. My body shakes against the lockers while she watches with eyes that hold too much we won't discuss.
She pulls out immediately, wiping her hand on her pants with practical efficiency. "I have to go. See you in the dorm."
"Of course you do." My voice sounds wrecked even to me. "Very important captain duties that definitely matter more than this disaster we keep creating!"
She leaves without responding and the locker room door closes with finality that echoes.
I sit on the bench, legs still shaking, wondering how something this intense can be categorized as casual. How bodies can collide with this much force and supposedly mean nothing.
The math doesn't work, but we keep running the same equation anyway, hoping for different results that never come.
This is definitely just physical.
The emotional bruising is purely coincidental.