Silver told herself the staring had meant nothing. Just curiosity about whether Eli Hayes possessed functioning brain cells beneath all that controlled arrogance. Just shock that someone who spent his days slamming into other players at high speed could discuss Gatsby's psychological complexity without sounding like he was reading from Wikipedia.
But the truth followed her back to their Gothic dorm room, infiltrated her dreams where she found herself trying to explain literature to faceless judges, and settled into the persistent ache in her reconstructed knee that reminded her daily how thoroughly her body had betrayed her ambitions.
Which was exactly why Americus ambushed her two mornings later with the kind of cheerful determination that had probably convinced armies to march into battle.
"Surprise!" Americus chirped, throwing open their heavy wooden door with enough force to rattle the diamond-paned windows. "Guess who just scored you the medical appointment of the century?"
Silver blinked up from her desk, where her American Literature notebook lay open but depressingly empty despite an hour of staring at blank pages. "What appointment?"
"My dad's in town for some boring conference thing, which means perfect timing for operation 'Get Silver Back on Ice.'" Americus beamed with the satisfaction of someone who'd just solved world hunger through strategic scheduling. "He's a sports therapist. Like, the kind who's worked with half the U.S. Olympic teams and probably has more athletic medals than a small country. Lucky you, I already booked your consultation."
Silver gripped the edge of her desk hard enough to leave fingernail marks in the wood. The familiar panic response kicked in—elevated heart rate, shallow breathing, the overwhelming need to flee. "Americus—"
"Don't thank me yet," Americus interrupted, wrapping a sparkly scarf around her neck with the kind of theatrical flair that belonged on Broadway stages. "Save the gratitude for when you're landing triple jumps again and I can bask in my genius as the roommate who made it all possible."
Silver opened her mouth to argue, to explain why this was a terrible idea on multiple levels, but the words lodged somewhere between her brain and her vocal cords. She couldn't find a way to articulate the terror that came with hope, the way medical appointments felt like sentencing hearings where her future would be decided by people who measured success in degrees of joint flexibility.
Dr. Carter's office occupied a corner of a sleek medical building just off Whitney Avenue, close enough to campus that she could walk despite her knee's protests but far enough away to feel like entering foreign territory. The lobby smelled faintly of industrial-strength lemon disinfectant and carried the hushed atmosphere of a place where serious medical conversations happened behind closed doors.
Silver followed Americus through the maze of corridors, her knee brace squeaking against her jeans with each step—a sound that seemed to announce her damaged status to every person they passed.
"Dad!" Americus announced, bursting through the office door without bothering to knock, because apparently basic courtesy was optional when you were someone's daughter.
Dr. Carter looked up from a desk covered with what appeared to be genuine medical journals rather than the sports magazines Silver had been expecting. He was tall and broad-shouldered in the way that suggested he'd probably been an athlete himself before transitioning to fixing other people's broken dreams. Kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and the kind of calm, steady presence that reminded Silver of the rare coaches who actually cared more about their athletes' wellbeing than their medal counts.
"Americus," he said warmly, standing to envelope his daughter in a hug that looked genuinely affectionate rather than performative. Then his professional gaze landed on Silver with the kind of recognition that made her stomach clench. "You must be my daughter's mysterious roommate."
Silver shifted uncomfortably under his assessment, acutely aware that her reputation had probably preceded her into this office. "Silver Preston."
Recognition flickered across his features for just a moment—not the kind of starstruck awe she'd grown accustomed to during her competitive peak, but something more complex. Understanding, maybe. Or sympathy she didn't want.
"I see," he said simply, which somehow felt worse than elaborate expressions of concern would have been.
Americus claimed the chair across from his desk like she was settling in for a lengthy performance. "She's absolutely amazing, Dad. But she needs professional help because she's too stubborn to admit she's dying to get back on the ice."
"Americus," Silver muttered, heat flooding her cheeks with the kind of embarrassment that came from having your personal trauma discussed like a collaborative project.
Dr. Carter gestured toward the examination table with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent decades coaxing reluctant athletes through medical assessments. "Why don't we take a look at that knee and see where things stand?"
The appointment unfolded with the brutal familiarity of medical déjà vu. The same questions she'd answered dozens of times since Minneapolis, delivered in the same careful tone that suggested the answers mattered deeply while revealing nothing about what the questioner actually thought.
How much range of motion did she have now compared to six months ago? Where was the pain sharpest during weight-bearing activities? Did she experience instability when changing direction quickly? Could she feel any grinding or catching in the joint during extension?
Silver answered each query mechanically, jaw clenched tight enough to give her a headache. Every response felt like peeling back a scab that had just begun to form, exposing wounds that hadn't properly healed despite months of trying to pretend they didn't exist.
Dr. Carter conducted his examination with the kind of thorough professionalism that suggested he understood exactly what her knee had once been capable of and what it would need to accomplish if she ever hoped to return to elite-level competition. His hands were gentle but precise as he tested her joint stability, measured her range of motion, and assessed the strength of the muscles that would need to support the kind of explosive movements that figure skating demanded.
Finally, he sat back in his chair, expression shifting into the carefully neutral mask that medical professionals wore when they had to deliver news no one wanted to hear.
"You've made significant progress," he began, and Silver's heart lifted for exactly three seconds before he continued. "The joint is measurably stronger than it was immediately post-surgery, and you've regained most of your basic mobility. But..."
Silver's chest constricted. She'd learned to dread that word more than any technical skating term or coaching criticism.
"But you're not ready for the ice. Not for serious skating."
Her throat closed completely. "I've been doing all the physical therapy. Every exercise, every appointment. I can walk without limping most days, I can climb stairs, I can—"
"You can handle normal daily activities," he interrupted gently, his voice carrying the kind of practiced compassion that suggested he'd delivered similar verdicts countless times before. "But figure skating isn't normal activity. The rotational forces on triple jumps, the impact stress of landing from height, the lateral pressures during spins—your knee isn't ready for that level of demand."
Silver's stomach churned with the sick recognition of dreams dissolving in real time. "When will it be ready?"
The pause that followed lasted approximately three heartbeats too long.
"I can't promise it ever will be," he said finally, each word precise and devastating. "There may always be some degree of instability. Pushing too hard too soon could risk permanent damage that would affect your basic mobility, not just your athletic career."
Her pulse roared in her ears loud enough to drown out the ambient sounds of the medical building around them. Never. The word echoed in her head like a death sentence.
Americus leaned forward in her chair, glitter from her shirt catching the office lighting. "But there's still hope, right? Some possibility?"
Dr. Carter sighed, and that small sound carried more weight than any of his previous explanations. "There's always a chance with continued rehabilitation and time. But she needs to be realistic about what that might look like."
Silver wanted to scream. To tell him he was wrong, that he didn't understand how much work she was willing to put in, how badly she needed skating to define who she was. To tell Americus to stop dragging her into appointments she hadn't asked for. To tell herself that she wasn't irreparably broken.
Instead, she forced her voice into something approaching steady and delivered the lie that had become her default response to unwanted sympathy.
"I'm fine."