Chapter 4 - Lena

Two weeks. That’s how long I’ve been home. Long enough for my body to stop aching, for the bruises to fade, for my mom to stop hovering every time I stretch. Long enough to pretend I’m fine.

I’m not. Every morning, I wake up and tell myself I’ll go to the rink. I even lace my skates, pack my bag, and sit in the car with the keys in my hand. But the second I picture the ice — the glare of the lights, the echo of the crowd, the sound of my blade catching — my chest tightens.

Then comes the panic.

It starts small, like a tremor under my ribs, then builds until I can’t breathe. My hands shake, my vision tunnels, and all I can see is the fall. The pain. The failure. The way everyone watched me break.

So I don’t go.

Instead, I do yoga in the living room because it makes my mom happy. I stretch, breathe, and pretend the calm helps. I go to physical therapy twice a week, smile at the therapist, and nod when she says I’m healing well. But healing isn’t the same as ready. And now my coach is here.

Coach Daniels looks exactly the same, tall, steady, with that calm voice that somehow makes you want to work harder. He hugs me when he arrives, tells me he’s proud I came home, and then studies me like he’s reading between the lines.

“You’ve been doing your PT?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Yoga?”

“Sometimes.”

He nods, but his eyes narrow. “You haven’t been to the rink.”

I freeze. “I…”

“You don’t have to explain,” he says gently. “I can see it.”

I look away, embarrassed. “I thought I could. I just… can’t.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then glances out the window. Snow still dusts the ground, the air sharp and cold. “You know,” he says, “the pond behind the high school still freezes this time of year.”

I blink. “The pond?”

“Baby steps,” he says. “No crowds. No lights. Just you, me, and the basics.”

My throat tightens. “You think that’ll help?”

“I think it’ll remind you why you started skating in the first place.”

I stare at him, unsure if I want to cry or laugh. The idea of stepping back onto ice terrifies me, but the thought of doing it somewhere quiet, somewhere safe, almost feels possible. Almost. Coach smiles. “Tomorrow morning. Bring your skates.”

I nod slowly, my heart pounding. “Okay.”

After he leaves, I stand at the window and watch the snow drift across the yard. The pond is only a few blocks away. I used to skate there as a kid, before competitions, before pressure, before fear. Back then, the ice didn’t scare me. It felt like freedom. Maybe tomorrow, it can again. My breath fogs the glass. The idea of the pond feels… safer. Smaller. Like something I might actually survive.

I’m still staring outside when Mom steps into the room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “So,” she says lightly, “your coach had some ideas?”

I nod. “He wants to start at the pond. Just… basics.”

Her smile softens. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

I blink at her. “You do?”

“Of course.” She steps closer, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Sweetheart, I know you’ve been struggling.”

My stomach drops. “You..what?”

She gives me that look. the one that used to catch me every time I tried to sneak cookies before dinner. “A mother always knows when her baby is in trouble.”

Heat rushes to my face. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Oh, Lena.” She pulls me into a hug, warm and steady. “I’m your mother. Worrying is part of the job. But so is helping you find your way back.”

I swallow hard, my throat tight. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” she whispers. “That’s why the pond is perfect. No pressure. No crowds. Just you and the ice.”

For the first time in weeks, something inside me loosens, not much, but enough to breathe.

Maybe tomorrow won’t fix everything.

But maybe it can be a beginning.