Chapter 37: MOLLIE ARRIVES

Georgia

My mother walked into my new life like she still owned every square inch of it.

I get no warning. One Thursday afternoon, walking back from class with my bag slung over one shoulder, I round the corner near the quad and find Mollie standing there, perfectly composed, dressed like she’s stepping into a boardroom rather than a college campus. Her sharp eyes scan me from head to toe before I’ve even fully registered that she’s real, and for a single disorienting moment I feel like I’ve slipped backward in time, like the last few weeks of my life have simply evaporated.

My pulse stutters. The bag strap digs into my shoulder as I freeze mid-step.

"Mom." My voice cracks on the word, my stomach lurching. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the area," she says, breezy, light, the tone she uses right before she says something designed to unravel me.

I know that tone. My jaw tightens automatically.

"You could have called," I say, tightly.

"I did call. You didn’t answer," she replies, clipped, already stepping closer.

Her eyes narrow, cataloging me the way she always does, some invisible checklist running behind her expression. My spine straightens on its own, muscle memory older than conscious thought.

"You’re slouching. And you’ve lost weight. Are you eating properly? Skaters need consistent caloric intake, Georgia, you know this," she says, brisk, clinical, circling me slightly like I’m a program up for evaluation rather than a daughter she hasn’t seen in weeks.

My skin prickles under the inspection. I fight the urge to smooth my expression into something acceptable.

"Have you been doing your core work?" she asks, sharp.

"I’ve been fine," I answer, flat.

"Fine isn’t a metric," she says, dismissive, already pulling a folder from her bag.

Actual paper. Printed pages. My throat tightens at the sight of the familiar red ink bleeding through the top sheet.

"I emailed your coach here. Yolanda, is it? She sent over your recent session notes. Your jump consistency has plateaued. Your triple lutz combination hasn’t progressed in three weeks," she says, reciting it like a verdict.

"Because I’ve been working on other things," I snap back.

"What other things?" she asks, eyebrows lifting, skeptical.

The conversation narrows around me, closing in like a fist.

"Georgia, this is exactly what I was afraid of," she continues, brisk and relentless. "New environment, new distractions, and suddenly there’s no structure to your training. Do you have any idea how quickly momentum disappears at your level? Scouts remember plateaus. They remember them for years."

"I’ve been happy here," I blurt, defensive, raw, hating how much the words cost me.

"Happiness doesn’t win competitions," she says, matter-of-fact, without cruelty, just cold certainty. "I’m not trying to be harsh. I just need you to take this seriously. Your schedule here seems unfocused. I want to see a proper training plan by the end of the week, broken down by session, with specific technical goals attached."

"Mom, I’m handling my own training," I say, my voice rising.

"Clearly not well enough if your jump consistency has stalled," she replies, already flipping open the folder.

Something in me shrinks, small and eleven years old again, standing in a kitchen with a red pen hovering over notes that don’t exist yet. I dig my nails into my palm, willing myself not to disappear entirely.

Movement catches my eye at the edge of the quad. My stomach drops.

Puck stands near the far corner of the courtyard, books forgotten at his side, utterly still. His whole body has gone rigid, shoulders locked, jaw set hard, the same predatory stillness I remember from that very first day on the cobblestones.

It isn’t the reaction of someone eavesdropping on an awkward family moment. Something older moves through him, bone-deep, primal, disproportionate to the conversation happening in front of him. Warmth cuts through my humiliation, fierce and unexpected gratitude that someone, anyone, understands exactly how small my mother can make me feel.

*He sees it too. He sees exactly what she’s doing.*

He doesn’t move to intervene. He doesn’t approach, doesn’t call out, does nothing except stand there, rigid and watchful, every line of him coiled like he’s holding something back through sheer force of will. I catch his eye for half a second, and something passes between us, wordless, a flicker of shared understanding I don’t have time to examine before Mollie’s voice yanks my attention back.

"Are you even listening to me?" she demands, sharp.

"Yes," I say, forcing myself to focus, though some part of me stays acutely aware of Puck’s presence at the edge of my vision for the rest of the conversation, a small, steady anchor against the tide of my mother’s disapproval.

We go back and forth for several more minutes, Mollie cataloging every perceived shortcoming in my training, my schedule, my apparent lack of urgency. By the time she finally winds down, checking her watch, she announces she needs to head back for a flight. I feel wrung out, small, exactly the way I always feel after these conversations. The familiar exhaustion settles into my bones, heavier now that I know what it feels like to exist without it, even for a few weeks.

"Think about the training plan," she says, already turning to leave, already moving on to whatever’s next on her own schedule. "I’ll check in Sunday. And Georgia, I’ve asked Yolanda to send me your session footage every Friday, so don’t bother trying to smooth things over before I see them myself."

She disappears toward the parking lot without so much as a real goodbye. I stand there in the quad for a long moment, hollowed out, the echo of her voice still ringing in my ears. Eventually I start walking toward The Fang, needing the ice more than I need anything else right now, craving its cold silence the way other people crave sleep.

Puck is waiting by the rink doors when I arrive.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there, present, steady, his earlier rigid tension from across the quad softened now into something quieter, watchful in a gentler way. There’s no pity in his expression, no intrusive questions waiting to spill out, just a quiet solidity that makes the ache in my chest ease slightly. I stop a few feet from him, unsure exactly what to say, exhaustion and old, familiar hurt still sitting heavy in my chest.

"You didn’t have to wait," I say, finally, quieter than I intend.

"I know," he answers, low, certain, and doesn’t leave.

*Something about the way he says it, like waiting was never a choice at all, settles under my skin and stays there.*