Silver didn't remember leaving the hockey house. The details had blurred into fragments—the burn spreading through her chest like spilled acid, music pounding against her ribs until breathing felt like work, the image of Eli standing perfectly still while that brunette's hand lingered on his arm like she had every right to be there. Everything after that moment had dissolved into white noise and the desperate need to escape.
By the time Americus caught up with her on the sidewalk three blocks from the party, Silver's red cup was completely crushed in her fist, sharp plastic edges cutting into her palm hard enough to leave marks she'd probably feel for days.
"Roomie!" Americus gasped, her sequined top catching streetlight as she jogged to match Silver's furious pace. "Okay, yes, that was absolutely brutal to witness. But also—and hear me out—major plot development!"
Silver shot her a look sharp enough to cut through reinforced glass. The expression must have been effective, because Americus immediately raised both hands in theatrical surrender.
"Fine. Too soon for romantic analysis. Message received. I'll shut up."
Riley materialized a minute later, slightly out of breath and slipping her phone back into her jacket pocket with the kind of careful precision that suggested she'd been texting damage control to someone. "You don't have to explain anything, Silver. Let's just get you back to the dorm where you can process this in private."
Silver managed a single nod, her jaw clenched too tightly to risk actual speech. She didn't trust her voice not to crack, didn't trust herself not to say something she'd regret about how much seeing Eli with someone else had affected her.
Monday morning arrived without mercy or consideration for her emotional state. The rink called to her like a bruise she couldn't stop pressing, that familiar magnetic pull that had defined most of her conscious life. Even though her knee brace ached from Saturday night's awkward flight from the party, she found herself wandering toward the athletic complex between her morning classes, half-listening to Americus's enthusiastic chatter about karaoke nights at the student center and upcoming theater auditions.
The athletic building buzzed with the kind of energy that came from serious athletes preparing for serious competition. Hockey players moved through the corridors with the controlled urgency of people whose schedules were measured in practice blocks and game film sessions. The locker rooms echoed with voices and equipment sounds, and the distinctive smell of leather gear and freshly sharpened skate blades bled into the hallways like incense from a very specific church.
Silver slowed her pace, pulling her oversized Yale hoodie tighter around her shoulders as she passed the entrance to what she'd learned was the figure skating team's territory within the larger complex. She had no intention of going in—hadn't even considered trying to make contact with Yale's skating program—but something about being near the familiar sounds and smells felt like touching a live wire she couldn't quite bring herself to avoid.
And then she heard them.
Not Americus's theatrical commentary or Riley's gentle observations. Not the deep voices of hockey players discussing strategy and weekend plans. These voices carried the particular cadence of competitive figure skaters—sharp, precise, clipped with the rhythm of rink gossip that Silver had been drowning in since she was old enough to lace up boots.
"Wait, she's actually here? At Yale?" The first voice carried surprise mixed with something that sounded like anticipation.
"I swear I saw her during registration week. Same face, same hair, but trying way too hard to look invisible."
"No way she'd show up here after what happened at Nationals. She wouldn't have the nerve."
A laugh followed, sharp as a toe pick slicing through fresh ice, designed to cut rather than express genuine amusement. "Guess completely face-planting in front of twenty thousand people and a national television audience wasn't enough humiliation for one lifetime."
Silver's stomach twisted into knots that would have impressed a sailor. She pressed her back against the cold stone wall, hidden in the shadow of the doorway, every instinct screaming at her to walk away while she still could. But her feet seemed to have developed roots in the tile floor.
Another voice joined the conversation, quieter but somehow crueler in its measured delivery. "She's completely done, obviously. Washed-up before she even peaked. Kind of tragic, really."
"The knee injury was bad enough, but the way she just gave up during the program? Didn't even try to get back up and salvage something. That's not champion mentality."
"My coach said she was always mentally weak. Too much pressure from her mother, not enough internal drive. Some skaters just crack when it matters most."
Each word hit harder than any physical fall Silver had ever taken. Harder than the sickening snap in her knee, harder than Leona's cold disappointment in that hospital room, harder even than watching Eli's easy acceptance of another girl's attention. These weren't strangers making casual observations—these were people from her world, people who understood exactly how devastating her failure had been and were choosing to dissect it anyway.
Her pulse thundered in her ears loud enough to drown out the ambient noise of the athletic complex. She should walk away. Should turn around, head back to her literature class, pretend she'd never heard her career's autopsy being performed by people who probably couldn't land half the elements she'd been executing since middle school.
But her feet stayed planted on the cold tile, frozen by a combination of morbid fascination and masochistic need to hear exactly how completely she'd fallen from grace.
"I heard her mother completely cut ties. Stopped returning her agent's calls, started coaching some junior from Texas instead."
"Makes sense. Why waste time on damaged goods?"
"Still, kind of sad. She had potential before she fell apart. Those triple-triple combinations were actually pretty solid."
"Potential doesn't matter if you can't deliver when it counts. And clearly, she couldn't."
The conversation continued, but Silver couldn't process the individual words anymore. They blended together into a symphony of professional assassination, each comment another nail in the coffin of her competitive identity.
Washed-up.
Mentally weak.
Damaged goods.
The phrases echoed in her head like a mantra designed to reinforce every fear she'd been carrying since Minneapolis. They followed her as she finally managed to unstick her feet from the floor, as she walked mechanically toward her next class, as she tried to pretend that overhearing her former peers' casual cruelty hadn't just shattered what remained of her carefully constructed emotional armor.
Washed-up. The word clung to her like a curse she couldn't shake.