Chapter 1: Mira
I stood in Dean Morrison's office at Northbridge University, watching my entire life implode in what I could only describe as spectacular slow motion.
"I'm sorry, what?" I said, my voice climbing an octave I didn't know I still had access to. "Sam did what?"
Dean Morrison adjusted his glasses in that particular way administrators do when they're about to ruin your day and want to look sympathetic while doing it. "Sam has transferred to Westwood University, effective immediately."
"Westwood," I repeated, the word tasting like freezer burn. "Our rival school. The one we literally just competed against at regionals."
"Yes."
"And he transferred because...?"
The dean cleared his throat, which is never a good sign. In my experience, when middle-aged men in positions of authority clear their throats, whatever comes next is going to be either humiliating or financially devastating. Sometimes both.
"There was an incident involving Coach Brown's wife."
I blinked. Then blinked again. "I'm sorry, did you just say—"
"Coach Brown discovered text messages between Sam and Mrs. Brown that were, shall we say, inappropriate in nature."
For a moment, my brain simply refused to process this information. Sam—my partner of three years, my boyfriend of three years, the person I'd literally trusted to throw me in theair and catch me without dropping me on my head—had been having an affair with our married coach's wife. And somehow, in all that time, he'd forgotten to mention this tiny detail to me.
"So let me get this straight," I said, my hands curling into fists at my sides. "Sam has been sleeping with Patricia Brown, and instead of, I don't know, telling me, he just... transferred schools?"
"It appears that Westwood offered him a full scholarship and the opportunity to partner with Julia Michaels."
Julia Michaels. Of course it was Julia fucking Michaels. The woman who could land quad jumps in her sleep and made me feel like an ancient, decrepit has-been.
"When did this happen?" I asked.
"The transfer was finalized yesterday."
"Yesterday." I laughed, but it came out sounding slightly unhinged. "Yesterday. And when exactly was Sam planning to tell me? Christmas? My birthday? My funeral?"
Dean Morrison had the grace to look uncomfortable. "I understand this is distressing—"
"Distressing," I echoed. "That's one word for it. Other words include 'career-ending,' 'scholarship-destroying.'"
"Yes, well," the dean continued, shuffling papers on his desk in a way that screamed I have more bad news. "That brings me to the next issue. Without a partner, I'm afraid your athletic scholarship is no longer valid."
The world tilted sideways.
"Excuse me?"
"Your scholarship is specifically for pairs skating. Without a partner, you don't have a competitive program, and without a competitive program—"
"I don't have a scholarship," I finished, my voice flat. "Or housing. Or meal plan. Or literally any reason to stay at this university."
Three years. Three years of split lips from eating ice during bad landings. Three years of wearing nothing but athletic wear because who had time for real clothes? Three years of 5 AM practices and ice that was never quite cold enough and coaches screaming about pointed toes. Three years of no parties, no social life, no normal college experience whatsoever.
All for nothing.
I thought about my parents—my dad working three jobs, my mom still packing my lunches in Tupperware containers that were older than my youngest cousin. They'd sacrificed everything for my Olympic dreams. Everything. And I was about to call them and say, "Hey, remember how you mortgaged the house and ate ramen for five years so I could pursue figure skating? Yeah, funny story..."
"However," Dean Morrison said, and I perked up slightly because "however" was better than "unfortunately" or "regrettably" or "I'm afraid I have to ask you to vacate your dorm by Friday."
"However?"
