Chapter 9 The Box

POV: Silver Preston

I barely sleep after my clandestine visit to Ingalls Rink.

Every time I manage to drift off, my mind replays the evening in vivid detail. Eli's powerful stride across the ice, the precise sound of his blades carving through turns, the spray of ice crystals catching the arena lights like scattered diamonds.

But mostly, I remember that final moment when his gaze found me in the stands, sharp and knowing, like he could see straight through my carefully constructed anonymity down to the fracture lines running through my chest.

By morning, I feel like I've been hit by a zamboni.

Americus, naturally, is already in full hurricane mode despite the early hour.

Pop music blasts from a portable speaker that looks like it's been bedazzled by someone with a serious glitter addiction, and my roommate has applied what appears to be strategic streaks of gold eyeliner across her cheekbones like some kind of fabulous war paint.

"Room cleaning day!" Americus announces, spinning toward my bed with arms spread wide like she's addressing a Broadway audience. "Organization equals manifestation. If we manifest hard enough, maybe hot hockey players will spontaneously appear with lattes and homework help."

I groan, pulling my pillow over my head in a futile attempt to block out both the music and her relentless morning energy.

"That's not how manifestation works. Also, that's not even a real thing."

"Everything is real if you believe hard enough," Americus declares with the absolute conviction of someone who's probably convinced herself that glitter is a legitimate food group.

She's already sorting through her explosion of sequined tops, creating piles that seem to follow some organizational system known only to her.

"Besides, this room is a disaster zone. We can't properly bond in chaos."

I reluctantly sit up, surveying the damage.

My side of our Gothic dorm room has definitely seen better days. Syllabus papers scattered across my narrow desk, empty protein bar wrappers creating a small archaeological site, and the spare velcro straps from my knee brace tangled in the corner like some kind of medical confetti.

And shoved far under my bed, pushed back behind my duffel bag where I hoped it would remain invisible forever, sits the one thing I haven't been ready to confront.

The box.

It isn't particularly large. Just a plain black storage container with duct tape reinforcing the corners where the cardboard has started to weaken from multiple moves.

But I know exactly what lies inside, and the weight of those memories feels heavier than anything that should fit in such a compact space.

I try to distract myself by folding laundry with unnecessary precision, but Americus has developed what seems to be supernatural radar for detecting hidden secrets.

"What's that?"

Her voice cuts through the pop music with laser focused curiosity.

I freeze mid fold, clutching a Yale sweatshirt against my chest like armor.

"What's what?"

Americus, predictably, is not deterred by my attempt at innocence. She crouches down, sequins on her top catching the morning light streaming through our diamond paned windows, and tugs the storage box into view with the determination of an archaeologist uncovering buried treasure.

"This, obviously. Girl, you can't just hide mysterious boxes and expect me not to investigate. It goes against every principle of good roommate dynamics."

My pulse jumps into overdrive.

"Don't—"

But Americus has already settled cross legged on our small rug, positioning the box between us like it's an altar to curiosity. She flips the lid open with zero hesitation, apparently immune to concepts like privacy or personal boundaries.

Inside lay the carefully preserved pieces of my former life.

Competition medals gleam against black velvet. Junior international championships, Grand Prix events, regional titles that once felt like stepping stones toward something magnificent.

Glossy competition programs feature my photograph on multiple covers. Me mid spiral with arms extended like wings, me landing a jump with perfect form, me accepting bouquets with the kind of radiant smile that belonged to someone who still believed the future was limitless.

A crystal trophy shaped like an ice shard catches the morning light and throws rainbows across our dorm room walls.

Newspaper clippings with headlines like "Atlanta's Ice Princess" and "The Next American Sweetheart" have been carefully preserved in plastic sleeves.

And resting on top of everything else, still gleaming despite the months it spent hidden in darkness, is my Olympic Trials medal.

Silver.

The medal that was both vindication and curse. Proof that I'd been good enough to compete at the highest level, and a constant reminder that "good enough" hadn't been quite good enough.

Americus's mouth falls open in a way that would be comical under different circumstances.

She lifts the Olympic Trials medal with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts, turning it over in her hands like she can't quite believe it's real.

"Oh. My. God."

The words come out as separate declarations, each one pitched higher than the last.

"You're not just a skater. You're that skater. The kind they put on magazine covers and write articles about."

My chest constricts until breathing feels like work.

"Put it back."

But Americus is already reaching for one of the competition programs, flipping through pages that chronicle my junior career with the kind of methodical fascination usually reserved for studying ancient texts.

She reads aloud in a voice filled with growing amazement.

"'Silver Prestwood, America's rising star in ladies' figure skating. With her combination of technical precision and artistic flair, she represents the future of American skating. A potential Olympian in the making, Prestwood has already captured multiple junior titles and shows no signs of slowing down.'"

Americus looks up from the program, her expression cycling through awe, confusion, and something that might be hurt.

"Holy crap, roomie. You're actually famous. Like, legitimately, magazine cover, future Olympian famous."

My stomach churns with the familiar mixture of pride and shame that's become my constant companion since Nationals.

"I'm not. Not anymore."

The words taste like ash in my mouth, but they're true.

Whatever I was, whatever potential I carried, whatever dreams I embodied, died on the ice in Minneapolis along with my ACL and meniscus and any hope of Olympic glory.

Americus carefully sets the program aside and reaches for another medal, this one from a junior Grand Prix event where I landed my first clean triple triple combination in competition.

Her fingers trace the embossed figure skater on the front with something approaching reverence.

"Silver Prestwood," she says slowly, like she's trying to reconcile the name with the girl sitting across from her in an oversized hoodie and pajama pants. "Why didn't you tell us? Why didn't you tell me?"

The question hangs in the air between us, weighted with all the conversations we've had about "things" and passions and what makes people who they are.

I deflected and evaded and outright lied, when the truth has been sitting in a box under my bed the entire time.

Because the truth is more complicated than a collection of medals and magazine covers can convey.

The truth is that Silver Prestwood the figure skater and Silver Preston the Yale freshman feel like two completely different people, and I'm not sure I know how to be both simultaneously.

The truth is that every piece of metal and crystal in that box represents not just achievement, but also the crushing weight of expectations I never asked for and can no longer fulfill.