The transition from the gym floor to the ice was like switching from a steady walk to a tightrope act over a canyon. On land, Jen could feel the grip of her sneakers. On the ice, there was only the razor-thin edge of a blade and the unforgiving hardness of the frozen surface.
"Today’s the day," John said as they stepped onto the ice for the 5:00 AM freestyle session. The rink was mostly empty, save for a few dedicated skaters and the distant hum of the heater. "We’ve done the off-ice rotations. Your muscles know the move. Now, your mind just has to let them do it."
Jen nodded, though her stomach felt like it was doing backflips. She performed her warm-up laps, her crossovers feeling smoother than ever. But as she approached the "jump corner" of the rink, she saw a group of skaters gathered near the boards.
Sasha Miller was there, looking radiant in a custom-made lavender skating dress that probably cost more than Jen’s mom’s car. Beside her were two other girls from the elite club, their arms crossed.
"Oh look," Sasha announced loudly as Jen glided past. "The 'Late Starter' is going to try a jump. Everyone, move back. We wouldn't want to get hit by flying limbs when she crashes."
Jen’s grip on her own courage faltered. She looked at the ice, suddenly feeling every inch of the height she would have to reach to complete a single-and-a-half rotation.
"Ignore them," John commanded, skating to her side. He placed a hand on the small of her back. "The ice doesn't hear them, Jen. It only hears you. Take the lead-up. Long edge. Left foot forward. Reach for the sky."
Jen took a deep breath. She skated to the far end of the rink. She turned, building speed. Her heart was a drum, beating against her ribs.
Left foot forward. Deep outside edge.
She launched.
For a fraction of a second, the world tilted. She felt the air rush past her face. She pulled her arms into her chest, her body spinning—once, then halfway. But as she reached for the landing, her blade caught a rut in the ice—a deep, jagged scratch that shouldn't have been there.
CRACK.
Jen didn't just fall; she slammed. Her shoulder hit the ice first, followed by the side of her head. The world spun in sickening circles.
"Jen!" John screamed, his blades sparking as he did a hockey stop right next to her.
Through the ringing in her ears, Jen heard a sharp, high-pitched giggle. She looked toward the boards. Sasha was whispering to her friends, a small, handheld metal tool—a lace tightener used to gouge ice—disappearing into her bag.
Sasha hadn't just watched. She had sabotaged the "launch zone" while Jen was warming up.
"Let me see it," John said, his voice shaking with a mixture of fear and fury.
They were in the small, cramped first-aid room. Jen sat on the bench, a bag of ice pressed to her shoulder. Her "dress rehearsal" outfit—the simple black dress she had been so proud of—was torn at the seam.
"I'm fine, John," Jen lied, though her arm was throbbing. "It was just a bad fall."
"It wasn't just a fall. Look at this." John held up a photo he’d taken on his phone of the ice where she tripped. The gouge was deep, intentional, and shaped like a 'V'. "Sasha did this. She’s trying to break you before you even get to the competition."
Jen looked at the torn fabric of her dress. The "outcast" inside her wanted to cry, to go home and never come back. But then she looked at John. His eyes weren't just sad anymore; they were burning with the same fire she had seen in the Medalist manga—the fire of someone who refused to let talent be bullied.
"She didn't break me," Jen said, standing up. The ice bag fell to the floor. "She just ruined my dress."
John looked at her, surprised by the steel in her voice.
"John, your dad said to put your heart into it, right?" Jen gripped her bruised arm. "Sasha thinks I’m a joke because I started late. She thinks she can own the ice because she’s been here longer. But I’m not skating for her. I’m skating for the girl who used to hide in her locker. And I’m skating for you."
John’s expression softened, a look of pure admiration crossing his face. He stepped forward and took her hand. "Then we don't wait for tomorrow. We fix the dress, we find a clean patch of ice, and we show her what a real 'Medalist' look like."
An hour later, the rink was officially open for the public session. Music was playing over the speakers—a soaring, orchestral piece that John had chosen for Jen’s first program.
Sasha and her crew were in the center, practicing their spins, thinking they had won.
Then, the music changed. John had gone to the booth and handed the DJ a specific track.
Jen stepped onto the ice. She wasn't wearing her torn dress; she was wearing John’s oversized black training jacket over her leggings. She looked small, but as she began to move, she looked powerful.
She didn't go for the corner Sasha had ruined. She went for the center.
She built up speed, her crossovers silent and lethal. She felt the "connection" John had talked about. She wasn't fighting the ice; she was part of it.
Forward. Edge. Jump.
This time, she didn't think about the fall. She thought about the sandbox. She thought about John’s hand in the gym. She thought about the gold.
She soared. One rotation. One and a half.
Snap.
Her right blade hit the ice with a crisp, clean sound. She held the landing, her back arched, her arms extended like wings. A perfect Single Axel.
The rink went silent. Even the kids in the "Learn to Skate" classes stopped to watch.
Jen glided past Sasha, who stood frozen, her mouth slightly open. Jen didn't say a word. She didn't have to. The look in her eyes said everything: I’m coming for your throne.
John was at the boards, clapping so hard his hands must have hurt. He had a smile on his face that was brighter than the rink lights.
"That," John whispered as she skated back to him, "was the jump of a champion."
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