I don't sleep.
Instead, I spend the night googling Adrian Braxton, which is either research or masochism. Probably both.
The headlines paint a clear picture: "NHL Star Banned Indefinitely After Cheerleader Scandal." "Braxton Family Foundation Distances Itself From Hockey Career." "From Olympic Dreams to NHL Nightmare: The Fall of Adrian Braxton."
There are older articles too, from back when he was a junior pairs skater. Photos of a teenage Adrian with silver-blond hair and cold eyes, standing beside various partners on podiums. He was good. Really good. Junior national champion at sixteen before he quit figure skating entirely and focused on hockey.
The comments sections are vicious. Half the internet thinks he's a predator. The other half thinks the cheerleader was a gold digger. Nobody seems to care about the truth, just the spectacle.
I close my laptop at 3 AM and stare at my ceiling until my alarm goes off at seven.
The training center looks different in morning light. Less magical, more clinical. I park in the visitor lot since the main lot is full of Mercedes and BMWs. Braxton family money, probably. My Honda Civic looks like it wandered into the wrong neighborhood.
Coach Elena intercepts me at the entrance.
"You look terrible," she says.
"Didn't sleep."
"Because of Marcus or because of meeting?"
"Both."
She nods, understanding in her eyes. "Remember, Lila. Open mind. Fresh slate."
"Yeah, yeah." I adjust my duffle bag on my shoulder. "Who else is in there?"
"Federation officials. Choreographer. Sports psychologist." She pauses. "Richard Braxton."
My stomach sinks. "Adrian's father? Why is he here?"
"Braxton Foundation pays for half of Olympic training program. He has seat at table." Elena's expression turns stern. "You be polite. Be professional. Be yourself."
"Those first two might be mutually exclusive," I mutter.
She swats my arm. "Go. Room 3B. Don't be late."
The hallway stretches endlessly. My footsteps echo on polished floors, each one counting down to a moment I'm not ready for. Through the windows, I can see skaters practicing on the main rink. Normal people having normal practice sessions. Nobody's life imploding around them.
Room 3B sits at the end of the hall, door slightly ajar. I can hear voices inside. Male. Deep. Expensive-sounding, if voices can sound expensive.
I push the door open.
Six heads turn toward me. I recognize most of them: David Chen from the Federation, our team choreographer Marcus Oh, Dr. Sarah Kim the sports psychologist. And three men I don't know personally but recognize from their online presence.
James Chen sits nearest the door, compact and friendly-looking. Michael Torres is by the window, tall and classically handsome. And at the head of the table, like he owns the place, sits Adrian Braxton.
He's bigger than I expected. Hockey bulk, all shoulders and presence. His hair is still that distinctive silver-blond, shorter now than in his skating photos. He's wearing a suit. An actual suit, to a skating meeting. Everyone else is in athletic wear and here he is looking like he walked out of a boardroom.
His eyes meet mine. Gray-blue and utterly cold.
"Miss Hart." David Chen stands, gesturing to an empty chair. "Thank you for joining us. Please, sit."
I slide into the chair across from Adrian. Up close, I can see the scar along his jawline, probably from a hockey fight. There's another one bisecting his left eyebrow. Battle scars from a career he destroyed.
"Now that we're all here," Chen continues, "let's begin. As you all know, we have an unusual situation. Three male skaters in need of partners, one female skater in need of a partner, and twelve weeks until Olympic trials."
"Eleven weeks, six days," Adrian corrects, his voice low and precise. He hasn't stopped staring at me. "If we're being accurate."
"Right." Chen clears his throat. "The Federation has reviewed all technical scores, compatibility assessments, and training histories. We've also consulted with Coach Markovic about Miss Hart's strengths and areas for development."
I hate the way they talk about me like I'm not here. Like I'm a piece of equipment they're trying to fit into the right slot.
"Before we make any decisions," says the man at the head of the table, who must be Richard Braxton based on his resemblance to Adrian, "I'd like to hear from the skaters themselves. Miss Hart, why don't you tell us about your partnership with Marcus Sullivan?"
It's not really a question. It's a command wrapped in politeness.
"Marcus and I have been skating together for four years," I say, keeping my voice steady. "We've medaled at every competition this season. Our technical base value is competitive with the top pairs internationally. Our chemistry is—" I stop myself. "Was solid."
"Was," Richard Braxton repeats. "Past tense."
"Marcus tore his ACL yesterday. He's out for at least six months."
"And yet here you are, less than twenty-four hours later, looking for a replacement." His tone makes it sound like an accusation. Like I'm betraying Marcus by trying to salvage my career.
"I'm here because the Federation called me," I say sharply. "Not because I'm eager to replace my partner."
"Miss Hart has Olympic potential," Coach Elena interjects from where she's standing by the door. I didn't even notice her come in. "Her technical scores speak for themselves. What she needs is partner with strength for lifts and experience with pressure situations."
"What she needs," Adrian says, speaking for the first time since his time correction, "is someone desperate enough to gamble on an eleven-week partnership."
The room goes silent.
"Adrian," Richard Braxton says quietly. A warning.
"What? We're all thinking it." Adrian leans back in his chair, the picture of casual arrogance. "Hart's a good skater. Great, even. But there's a reason she's been stuck in fifth place all season. She's too aggressive on landings, her lines are sloppy, and her artistic interpretation is basically nonexistent."
Heat floods my face. "Excuse me?"
"You asked why I'm here instead of playing hockey." He says it matter-of-factly, like he's commenting on the weather. "I'm here because I made mistakes and I'm paying for them. You're here because your partner's knee exploded. We're both desperate. Let's not pretend otherwise."
"That's enough," David Chen cuts in. "This meeting is about finding solutions, not—"
"No, let him finish." I lean forward, anger making me bold. "You clearly have opinions about my skating. Please, share them with the class."
Adrian's mouth curves into something that's not quite a smile. "You want honesty?"
"I want you to back up your insults with facts."
"Fine." He ticks points off on his fingers. "Your triple lutz has a pre-rotation problem. You rush your footwork sequences. Your spiral is technically proficient but has zero emotional depth. You skate like you're checking boxes instead of telling a story." He pauses. "You're too rough around the edges."
There it is. The phrase that's haunted me since that sponsor event three years ago. I was twenty, trying to network, wearing a borrowed dress. He was the golden boy, the Braxton heir who'd conquered both skating and hockey. He'd looked at me like I was dirt on his custom Italian shoes.
"And yet," I say, voice deadly calm, "I'm the one who's been competing internationally for the past four years while you've been getting drunk and sleeping with cheerleaders."
The temperature in the room drops about twenty degrees.
"Lila," Elena warns.
Richard Braxton's face turns to stone. "Miss Hart, I don't think you understand the gravity of—"
"I understand perfectly." I stand up, chair scraping loudly. "I understand that your son needs figure skating more than figure skating needs him. I understand that the only reason he's even in this room is because your foundation bankrolls half the Olympic program. And I understand that I'm supposed to be grateful for the opportunity to skate with someone who thinks I'm beneath him."
"Sit down," Adrian says quietly.
"No."
"Sit. Down." His voice doesn't rise, but something in it makes me pause. "You want to know why I'm really here? Why I'm trading a multi-million dollar hockey career for the privilege of wearing spandex and throwing women in the air?"
"Enlighten me."
He stands too, and suddenly we're facing each other across the table like fighters in a ring. "Because I was good at this before hockey. Better than good. Junior national champion. On track for the Olympics before I walked away." His jaw tightens. "I walked away because I was eighteen and stupid and thought hockey would be easier. Thought I could coast on size and strength instead of artistry and precision. Turns out I was wrong."
"That's not an answer."
"That is the answer. Figure skating is what I should have done from the beginning. This is my second chance." He looks at me, really looks at me, and for a second the arrogance cracks. "And you're stuck with me because I'm the only one of these three who can actually lift you and land the throws you need to make the Olympic podium."
I glance at James and Michael. James is maybe five-foot-eight. Michael is tall but lean, no hockey bulk. Adrian's right. Neither of them has the strength for the high-difficulty elements that will separate us from the international field.
"Miss Hart," David Chen says carefully, "perhaps we should take a break and—"
"No." I sit down slowly, never breaking eye contact with Adrian. "No breaks. Let's talk logistics."
Adrian sits too. The ghost of approval flickers across his face.
"Logistics," Richard Braxton says, recovering his composure. "Yes. Adrian has been training secretly for the past two months. He's re-learned most of his technical elements, though his artistry needs work. His skating skills are rusty but solid."
"Two months?" I stare at Adrian. "You've been planning this?"
"I've been preparing for options," he corrects. "Hockey was always temporary. I knew eventually my past would catch up with me."
"By 'past' you mean the scandal."
His expression goes carefully blank. "I mean a lot of things."
"The personal drama doesn't matter," Chen interjects. "What matters is whether you two can work together. Coach Markovic, can you assess compatibility?"
Elena moves to the front of the room, arms crossed. She looks at Adrian, then at me, then back to Adrian. "On paper? Perfect match. He has power and experience with pressure. She has technical precision and fire. Together, they could be very, very good."
"Or very, very explosive," Dr. Kim adds. "The psychological dynamics here are concerning. There's clearly existing tension."
"We can work past tension," I say.
"Can you?" Adrian challenges. "Because I'm not going to babysit your ego while trying to resurrect my career."
"And I'm not going to be your redemption project while you work through your guilt."
"Enough!" Richard Braxton's palm hits the table. "You're both professionals, or you're supposed to be. The question is simple: can you put aside personal feelings and skate together?"
I look at Adrian. He looks at me.
"Yes," we say simultaneously.
Chen sighs. "Before we finalize anything, we need to see you on the ice together. Both of you, rink A, fifteen minutes. We'll run basic compatibility tests. Lifts, throws, timing drills. If it's a disaster, we'll reassess."
The meeting breaks up. James and Michael file out, disappointment clear on their faces. They know they've already lost. This decision was made before I walked in the door.
I'm gathering my things when Adrian appears beside me.
"For the record," he says quietly, "I didn't mean those things about your skating."
I look up at him, surprised. "Yes, you did."
"Okay, I meant them. But I shouldn't have said them like that." He runs a hand through his hair, the first uncertain gesture I've seen from him. "I'm out of practice with the whole teamwork thing. Hockey is different. You can hate your linemates and still play well together."
"This isn't hockey."
"I noticed." The corner of his mouth twitches. "The uniforms are significantly less forgiving."
Despite everything, I almost laugh. Almost.
"Why did you really quit skating?" I ask. "The truth."
Adrian's eyes go distant. "Because my father wanted me to be the best, and in his mind, the best meant most successful. Most money. Most fame. Figure skating doesn't pay like hockey."
"And now?"
"Now I don't give a damn what he wants." The ice in his voice could freeze the sun. "Now I want what I should have fought for eight years ago."
"And if I'm not good enough to get you there?"
He looks at me then, really looks at me, and something shifts in his expression. "You're better than you think, Hart. You just need a partner who can match your intensity instead of holding you back."
"Marcus didn't hold me back."
"No, but he didn't push you forward either. You need someone who challenges you." His gaze is uncomfortably direct. "Someone who isn't afraid of your fire."
Before I can respond, Elena appears in the doorway. "Rink. Now. Time is wasting."
Adrian heads out first. I start to follow, but Elena catches my arm.
"You sure about this?" she asks.
"No."
"Good. Certainty makes you complacent." She releases me. "Go show them what you can do. Both of you."
The walk to the rink feels like a march to execution. Adrian's already there, stretching on the mats. He's changed into practice clothes: black pants and a fitted long-sleeve shirt that shows exactly how much bulk hockey added to his frame.
I change quickly, lacing my skates with shaking fingers. Through the glass, I can see the Federation officials setting up in the stands. Richard Braxton sits front and center, phone in hand, probably already composing press releases.
"Ready?" Adrian asks.
"No."
"Perfect. Neither am I." He stands, offering me his hand. Not to help me up. To shake. "Partners?"
I look at his hand. At his face. At the career and complications and chaos he represents.
I take his hand. His grip is strong, callused from hockey sticks and a thousand other battles.
"Partners," I agree.
We step onto the ice together.
The first touch is awkward. Adrian's hand on my waist feels wrong, too big, too unfamiliar. We circle the rink, finding rhythm, and I'm hyper-aware of every point of contact.
"Basic lift first," Elena calls from rinkside. "Star lift, hold for three seconds."
Adrian moves into position behind me. "On three?"
"Just go."
His hands grip my waist. I jump, and he lifts. For a second, I think it's going to be a disaster. Then my body finds the position, muscle memory kicking in, and suddenly I'm suspended above the ice, his arms locked and steady beneath me.
Three seconds. Four. Five.
He sets me down smoothly, no wobble.
"Again," Elena calls. "Arabesque lift."
We move through the progressions. Each lift slightly harder, slightly higher. Adrian's strength is undeniable. Where Marcus had to work for the height, Adrian makes it look effortless. We're not in sync yet, not even close, but the raw potential is there.
"Throw jump," Chen calls. "Double axel to start."
This is where it gets dangerous. Throw jumps require absolute trust. The man launches the woman into the air, and she has to rotate and land without his support. If the timing is off even slightly, people get hurt.
"You comfortable with this?" Adrian asks.
"Are you?"
"I used to throw my partner into triple salchows. I think I can handle a double axel."
"Then stop talking and throw me."
We build speed. Adrian's hand finds the small of my back, his other hand gripping my free arm. The approach is choppy, our timing still foreign, but then I feel him launch me and I'm flying.
Two rotations. Clean. I spot the ice, prepare for landing, blade hits, and—
I'm down. Hard.
"Hart!" Adrian skates over, but I'm already pushing up.
"Again."
"You need a minute."
"I need to land this." I brush ice shavings off my pants. "Again."
We try five more times. I land it on the sixth.
By the time Elena calls us off the ice, forty minutes have passed. My hip is bruised, my pride is battered, but we've completed every compatibility test they threw at us.
The officials huddle. Adrian and I stand at the boards, not looking at each other, both breathing hard.
"That was rough," he says finally.
"That was a starting point."
"You fell. A lot."
"I also got back up. A lot."
He almost smiles. "True."
David Chen approaches with Richard Braxton and Elena. The verdict committee. I brace myself.
"Well," Chen says, "that was certainly... interesting."
"It was garbage," Richard Braxton corrects flatly. "They have no chemistry, their timing is off, and Hart fell more times than she landed."
"With respect, Mr. Braxton," Elena interjects, "that is first practice with new partner after traumatic injury to old partner. Of course it's rough."
"Rough is fine. Dangerous is not." Richard turns to his son. "Adrian, you have other options. James Chen is experienced, reliable—"
"And thirty pounds too light for the throws we need," Adrian interrupts. "Dad, I know what I'm doing."
"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, you're choosing the hardest possible path."
"Good. Easy hasn't worked out great for me lately."
Father and son stare at each other. Some silent battle of wills happening in the space between them.
Chen clears his throat. "The Federation's position is this: you have potential, but it's raw. Very raw. We're willing to give you three weeks to prove this partnership is viable."
"Three weeks?" I protest. "That's not enough time to—"
"Three weeks or nothing, Miss Hart." Chen's tone leaves no room for argument. "Three weeks from today, you'll perform a full short program for the selection committee. If you pass, you get to continue training for trials. If you fail, we move on to other options."
My mind races. Three weeks to develop a short program from scratch with a partner I just met. Three weeks to build the kind of trust that took Marcus and me years. It's impossible.
It's the only shot I've got.
"Fine," I say.
"Agreed," Adrian adds.
Chen nods. "Then it's settled. Coach Markovic will coordinate your training schedule. You'll practice together daily, six hours minimum. And for God's sake, work on that chemistry. You're supposed to look like partners, not enemies."
The officials disperse. Richard Braxton leaves without another word to Adrian, disapproval radiating from every stiff line of his body.
Adrian and I stand alone at the boards.
"So," he says. "Partners."
"I guess we are."
"You know this is crazy, right? Three weeks is nothing."
"I'm aware."
"We're going to kill each other before we kill it on the ice."
"Probably."
He grins then, sharp and dangerous. "Good. I work better when things are difficult."
"Lucky you, because I am nothing but difficult."
"I'm counting on it, Hart." He pushes off the boards, skating backward away from me. "Practice tomorrow, 6 AM. Don't be late."
He's gone before I can respond, leaving me standing alone on the ice.
Elena appears at my elbow. "Well. That was something."
"That was a disaster."
"That was a beginning." She hands me my skate guards. "Come. We need to talk about training schedule, diet plan, and how to keep you two from murdering each other."
"Elena," I say as we head off the ice. "Am I making a huge mistake?"
She considers this. "Probably. But sometimes huge mistakes lead to huge rewards." She pats my shoulder. "Besides, you don't have choice. Federation was clear."
"What do you mean?"
Elena stops at the locker room door, her expression grim.
"You'll skate with Adrian Braxton, or you'll skate with no one. Olympics are in eight months."