Chapter 107: Static

POV: Georgia

I let go of Liam’s arm the moment the bell rang, both of us flinching apart like the sound had physically struck us. He didn’t say anything else. He just straightened his jacket with shaking hands, gave me one last look that seemed to apologize and warn and plead all at once, and walked toward the science building without looking back. I stood there in the wet grass for a long moment, replaying the way his whole body had seized around the words he couldn’t say, before I finally made my way back to my dorm alone.

My mother’s voice on the phone finally sounds very far away, like it belongs to a different life.

I don’t expect that when her name lights up my screen. I’m back in my room after the walk with Liam, sitting on my bed with my wet jacket hanging off the desk chair and my cane propped against the wall. My hands still feel strange, like they’re remembering the way his arm shook under my fingers. Mandi is at her student council meeting. The room is quiet except for the radiator, which clanks every few minutes like someone knocking from inside the wall.

The phone buzzes again. Mom.

I almost let it ring out. Then I think about how Mollie reacts to unanswered calls, which is to call the front office and ask someone to knock on my door. I press the green button and put her on speaker so I can keep my hands free.

"Georgia. Finally."

"Hi, Mom."

"I’ve been trying you since four. Do you know how many times I’ve called?"

"Three," I say, because I can see it on the screen. "I had class."

"Class ended at three-fifteen. I checked the schedule." She says it like she’s catching me in a lie. I hear a clink in the background, probably her good teacup against the saucer. I can picture her at the kitchen island in her gray cardigan with her reading glasses pushed up into her hair. She always sits perfectly straight, even when nobody’s watching. "I want to go over your rehab report. Dr. Patel sent me the notes."

"Dr. Patel sent my mother my medical notes?"

"I’m listed as a contact."

"I’m eighteen."

"And I’m the one who pays for it." The teacup clinks again. "Now. Your range of motion is at eighty-one percent. Eighty-one. At this point in the timeline you should be closer to ninety. I’ve been looking at what other athletes have done in your position, and the ones who come back are the ones who treat recovery like training. Are you doing your exercises twice a day?"

"Once in the morning and once at night."

"Fully? Not rushing through them?"

"Fully."

"Because the notes say you skipped a session on the fourteenth."

I did. I skipped it because I spent the whole evening writing names into overlapping circles. I look at the notebook sitting on my pillow, closed, its cover a little bent at the corner. I don’t say that.

"I was tired," I say instead.

"Tired is not a reason. Tired is a mindset." Her voice sharpens, falling into the rhythm I’ve known my whole life, the one that sounds helpful and feels like a hand tightening around the back of my neck. "And your posture, Georgia. When we video called last week, you were slouching. I could see it even through the screen. Your shoulders were rolling forward. That’s going to affect your alignment on the ice, and the federation will notice."

I wait for the familiar feeling to arrive. I know exactly how it goes. The heat in my face. The shrinking sensation, like my body is trying to fold itself smaller. The instinct to apologize and promise and say I’ll fix it, I’m sorry, I’ll do better. I’ve done that since I was seven years old and wearing a sequined leotard two sizes too big.

It doesn’t come.

I sit there and listen to her talk about my shoulders, and I wait, and nothing happens. It’s like reaching for a light switch in a room I’ve lived in all my life and finding the wall bare.

"And your diet," Mollie continues. "I saw the photo you posted. That pasta. Is that what they feed you? You need lean protein, not carbohydrates in a bowl. I’m going to send you a meal plan. I’ve already spoken to a nutritionist."

"You spoke to a nutritionist about me."

"Someone has to think about your future."

My eyes drift to the window. It’s dusk now, the sky a bruised purple, and the glass is streaked with rain. Beyond the quad, past the lamps and the stone halls, the forest sits in one long black line against the last of the light. The trees are so dense that the edge looks like a wall.

Somewhere in there, there are people who can heal in two seconds. People whose eyes burn gold. A circle in my notebook with a word in the middle that I’m never going to cross out again.

"...and I think we should talk about the Rosethorne coach," Mollie is saying. "She’s not pushing you hard enough. I’ve watched the footage. You need someone with a sense of urgency. I’m going to make some calls, see if we can arrange for you to work with someone else, maybe over the winter break..."

I hear every word. That’s the strange part. I can repeat them back. But they sound like they’re coming through a bad radio signal from a town a thousand miles away, crackling and thin. Posture. Percentages. A nutritionist. A schedule.

They’re so small.

I think about last week, when I would have sat here with my stomach in knots, doing math in my head about how to satisfy her. How many hours I’d have to train, how many pounds I’d have to lose, what I’d have to give up to make her voice go warm for thirty seconds. I think about how much of my life I spent trying to guess what she wanted.

And then I think about Liam shaking in front of me, begging me to believe him. I think about Bella dropping her phone and running. I think about Puck’s burning hand and the warm light that ran up my arm and settled where the ache used to be. I think about how much is happening in this place, how big it is, how old and strange, and how it has nothing to do with my alignment on the ice.

My mother is worried about my shoulders. There are wolves in the woods.

A small, surprised breath escapes me. It almost turns into a laugh.

"Georgia?"

"Mm."

"I asked you a question."

"Sorry. What was it?"

"I asked whether you understand how important this window is." Her voice goes tight and brittle. "Scouts don’t wait. If you let this year slip, you may not get another chance. Everything I’ve done, everything we’ve both worked for..."

Everything you’ve worked for, I think. It arrives quietly, with no heat behind it. It’s just true.

"Are you even listening to me?" Mollie snaps.

I look out my window at the dark tree line. The last gray light is gone. The forest is a single black shape now, and I swear, for just a moment, I can feel it looking back.

"Not really, no," I say quietly.

The line goes dead silent. I can hear her breathing. I can hear the radiator clank behind me.

I press the red button and set my phone face down on the blanket.

I wait for the guilt - the stomach twist, the sting behind my eyes, the old voice listing all the ways I’ve just ruined everything.

It never shows up.