Chapter 1 The Fall

POV: Silver Preston

The ice looks too clean to be real.

I've skated on plenty of rinks. Cramped training facilities with flickering fluorescents. Outdoor ponds that crack under winter sun. Even the gleaming Olympic oval in Colorado Springs where dreams feel tangible as morning frost.

But this? This sheet of ice stretches before me like polished glass, so perfect it seems manufactured rather than frozen.

Every overhead light catches its surface, throwing back my reflection in fragments. A flash of sequined blue. The sharp line of my ponytail. Eyes that have learned to hide doubt behind determination.

The crowd presses against the boards of the Nationals arena, a wall of expectant faces blurred into motion and color. Parents clutch programs. Coaches scribble last minute notes.

Somewhere in the darkness beyond the spotlights, cameras wait to capture either triumph or devastation, ready to replay either outcome until it becomes legend.

My stomach twists.

Not from nerves, not exactly. Nerves I can handle. I've performed under scrutiny since I was eight years old, when local news stations first called me Georgia's golden girl and skating magazines put my gap toothed smile on their covers.

I learned to swallow fear like medicine, bitter but necessary.

This is different.

This program isn't just another competition. It's the gateway. The performance that will either launch me toward the Olympics or leave me scrambling to explain why America's sweetheart stumbled when it mattered most.

"Remember the Lutz setup."

Leona's voice cuts through the arena noise, sharp as blade edges.

"Low and forward, not up and back. You've been telegraphing it in practice."

I nod without looking toward the coaching box.

I can picture her expression perfectly. Lips pressed thin. Arms crossed. That particular stillness that means every muscle is coiled tight with expectation.

Leona Preston has been many things. Coach. Manager. Media handler.

Mother always came last on the list.

"You don't get to fail," she said during warm up, gripping my shoulders hard enough to leave marks. "Not here. Not tonight. This is what we've worked for."

We.

As if she'll be the one launching into the air, trusting physics and prayer to land safely.

The music begins.

Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2, sweeping and dramatic, the kind of piece that demands everything from both skater and audience.

I let the opening notes wash over me, feeling my heartbeat sync with the melody's pulse.

This is the moment when doubt has to disappear. When Silver Preston the person steps aside to let Silver Preston the performer take control.

I push off.

Blades carve into ice that sings beneath me. The opening sequence unfolds like muscle memory. Spiral into triple toe loop, check, double axel with arms that paint lines against the spotlights.

Each movement feels sharp and clean, practiced until perfect, then practiced some more.

The crowd responds with appreciation that builds like rising tide. Applause mixes with camera shutters and the occasional whistle from someone's proud parent.

I catch glimpses of faces as I move.

A little girl pressed against the glass, eyes wide with wonder.

An older man with tears on his cheeks.

Teenagers holding phones high to capture moments they'll replay later.

But in the coaching area, Leona remains statue still.

Approval has to be earned, not given.

I transition into the program's centerpiece sequence, the triple Lutz that will either make or break everything.

My money jump, as sports commentators love to say.

The element that secured me three national junior titles and launched a thousand social media clips tagged with NextOlympian and IceQueen.

I carve the entry edge with precision born from repetition, feeling the blade grab ice just so.

The crowd holds its breath.

They know this moment, have watched me nail this jump in competition after competition. I feel their expectation like heat against my back.

The takeoff is perfect.

For one crystalline second, I'm weightless, spinning in controlled chaos above ice that reflects arena lights like scattered stars.

Time suspends.

The crowd's roar begins building, recognition and anticipation blending into something that feels like flying.

Then my left skate catches.

The sound isn't loud, barely a whisper against the music's swell.

But to me, it's everything. The sound of physics betraying preparation, of bodies failing when perfection is required.

My knee twists midair as momentum carries me forward while my leg pulls sideways.

The landing spot rushes up to meet me, unforgiving as concrete.

Pain explodes through my leg, white hot and screaming.

I hit the ice shoulder first, my head snapping back against the surface with a sound that carries to the front rows. The impact sends shock waves through my spine, driving the breath from my lungs in a sharp gasp that the microphones catch and amplify.

The arena falls silent except for the music, which continues its sweeping arc toward crescendo, indifferent to the catastrophe unfolding on ice.

I try to stand.

My left leg refuses the command, buckling the moment I put weight on it.

The world tilts, edges blurring as tears I refuse to shed make everything swim.

Through the chaos of pain and shock, I catch sight of Leona in the coaching box.

She's on her feet now, but not moving forward. Not rushing to help.

Just standing there with lips pressed into that familiar razor thin line, disappointment already crystallizing into something harder.

No shouting, no visible emotion.

Just that look I know too well. The one that says this is what happens when you're not good enough.

The music plays on, building toward the climax that will never come.

My chest heaves as I try to draw breath that doesn't come wrapped in glass. My hands scrape against ice, gloves sliding uselessly as I attempt to push myself upright.

I can taste copper where my teeth caught my lip during the fall.

"Get up," I whisper, the words lost beneath Rachmaninoff's soaring melody. "Get up. Finish it."

But my knee screams in protest, locking against every command my brain sends.

Pain floods my vision until the arena lights fracture into kaleidoscope pieces, beautiful and devastating at once.

Somewhere beyond the spotlights, the little girl who'd been pressed against the glass is crying.

Somewhere in the coaching area, Leona still stands frozen, unwilling to move toward my broken form.

Somewhere in television booths, commentators are already crafting narratives about dreams deferred and comebacks that might never materialize.

My last coherent thought before consciousness slips away isn't about skating, or medals, or the Olympic dreams that are dissolving like morning frost.

It isn't even about my mother's disappointment or the crowd's collective gasp of sympathy.

It's simpler, more desperate.

This can't be how it ends.

The arena lights dim to black as I, Silver Preston, America's figure skating sweetheart, learn that sometimes the ice wins.