Chapter Text
Each glide is a test of his willpower, the throbbing pain in his right ankle a constant reminder of his injury. He’s tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the motions of his routine. Every push off sends a spike of agony through his leg, the sharp, burning pain nearly unbearable. His vision blurs at the edges, and he has to bite down on his lip to keep from crying out.
Bradley forces himself to go through the motions—lutz, flip, and loop. His landings are shaky, his balance compromised by the pain that actively shoots through his ankle with every impact. The ice feels slick and treacherous beneath him, each step a gamble against the searing pain that threatens to topple him. He clenches his fists, pushing harder, driven by sheer stubbornness and the desperate need to prove that he can overcome this, that he can still be the best despite his injury.
The sharp twist into a triple axel sends a fresh wave of agony up his leg. Bradley’s knee buckles as he lands, the pain radiating through his ankle like wildfire. He stumbles, barely catching himself before he hits the ice. A strangled cry escapes his lips, echoing through the empty rink. He grits his teeth, tears of frustration and pain welling in his eyes.
"Nice fall," a voice echoes from the stands, cutting through the quiet. Bradley’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing as he spots Roxanne leaning against the boards, watching him with a smug smile. She’s dressed impeccably, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, a designer coat draped over her shoulders.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Bradley’s voice is hoarse, raw from the pain and the strain of pushing himself too hard.
Roxanne saunters over, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she approaches the ice. "Checking out the competition, of course," she says, her tone dripping with faux innocence. "Can’t have you thinking you’re the only one working hard for Nationals, can I?"
Bradley glares at her, the anger simmering beneath the surface. "Get lost, Roxanne. I don’t need your bullsh*t right now."
She raises an eyebrow, her smirk widening. “Oh, but I think you do. You’re skating like a drunk elephant. It’s almost painful to watch.”
Bradley’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles white under his gloves. “I bet you would know what that looks like. All the years of flimsy routines are catching up to you.”
“You’re a mess, Bradley. Everyone can see it. You’re hobbling around the rink like you’re one bad fall away from the ER.” she says, her voice lilting with sarcasm.
“f*ck off Roxanne.” Bradley snaps, his voice tight with barely contained rage.
Roxanne steps closer, her eyes gleaming with a mix of amusem*nt and something darker. "You think you’re invincible, don’t you? Skating on that busted ankle, pretending like you’re still in control. It’s pathetic." Bradley works best under pressure. When he has something to prove. Roxanne doesn’t have negative ulterior motives. She just wants to rile him up so he’ll take better care of himself before nationals.
Bradley’s vision swims with the intensity of his anger and pain. He wants to scream, to lash out, but he can only grit his teeth, the muscles in his jaw tightening painfully. “Go f*ck yourself, Roxanne.”
“Temper, temper,” she chides, her smile never wavering. “You know, Max mentioned you were having a hard time. Guess he wasn’t exaggerating.”
Bradley’s heart lurches at the mention of Max. He feels a fresh wave of betrayal wash over him, mingling with the physical pain. “Leave Max out of this.”
Roxanne’s eyes sparkle with mischief. If you want Bradley to do something, to see something. You have to force it out of him. “Why should I? He seems to care about you a lot. It’s cute, really. A shame you’re too busy ruining yourself to see it.”
Bradley’s chest tightens, the pain in his ankle nothing compared to the turmoil roiling inside him. “If you keep talking like that, I won't be the only one injured.”
“Suit yourself,” she says with a shrug, turning to leave. “But just remember, Bradley, Nationals aren't going to wait for you to get your sh*t together. Keep pushing yourself like this, and you won’t just lose to me—you’ll destroy yourself in the process.”
Bradley watches her go, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself together. He feels a hot tear slip down his cheek, quickly brushed away with a gloved hand.
With a growl of determination, he turns back to the ice. The pain is overwhelming, but he forces himself to move, each step a defiance against his body’s limits. He can’t afford to stop, can’t afford to show any weakness. Roxanne’s words echoes in his mind, a cruel reminder of the stakes he faced.
“Nationals aren't going to wait for you to get your sh*t together.”
He pushes forward, every glide, every jump a testament to his stubborn resolve. His vision blurs with unshed tears, the pain a constant, brutal companion, but he refuses to let it break him.
Landing a triple lutz, he stumbles, barely catching himself before he falls. The pain in his ankle flares with a new intensity. He bites back a scream, his vision blurring with tears of frustration. He glanced at the clock, his mind calculating how much more practice he can squeeze in before his body gives out completely.
A sharp vibration in his pocket pulls his attention away from the relentless pain. Gritting his teeth, Bradley slows to a stop, wincing as he gingerly balances on his uninjured leg. He pulls out his phone, his heart sinking as he sees his father's name flash on the screen.
Father
I hear you’ve been missing practice.
Bradley’s stomach churns at the message, his hands trembling slightly as he typed a quick response.
Bradley
I’m handling it.
The reply is almost immediate, the harshness of his father's words cutting through the digital screen.
Father
Handling it? By destroying your career? You need to get your act together. Nationals are everything.
Bradley’s heart pounds in his chest, a mixture of fear and resentment bubbling up inside him. He knows his father meant well—or at least he tries to believe that—but the constant pressure, the relentless drive for perfection, is suffocating. He can almost hear his father’s voice, cold and demanding, echoing in his mind.
Bradley
I’m doing my best.
His thumb hovers over the send button, the weight of his father's expectations pressing down on him like a physical force. He hits send, the message vanishing into the digital ether, and he waits, his breath held, for the response he knew was coming.
The phone vibrates again, and Bradley’s heart sinks at the harsh words that appear on the screen.
Father
Your best isn’t good enough. You’re supposed to be a champion, not a failure. Get it together before you ruin everything.
Hot tears spring to his eyes, a knot forming in his throat. The words sting, each one a sharp jab at his already fragile confidence. His father’s approval has always been elusive, a goal he chased with a desperation that gnawed at his insides. He wanted to be the best, to prove himself, but the constant criticism, the never-ending push for perfection, is tearing him apart.
He shoves the phone back into his pocket, the pain in his ankle flaring as he takes a step forward. He stumbles, nearly falling to his knees as the agony shoots up his leg. He catches himself on the barrier, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. The rink seems to blur around him, the ice a cold, merciless expanse beneath his skates.
Bradley leans against the barrier, his eyes squeezing shut as he fights back the tears. His father’s words echo in his mind, a cruel reminder of the expectations that weigh down on him. He feels like he was suffocating, trapped in a cycle of pain and pressure that he can never escape.
For a moment, he considers leaving, walking out of the rink and never looking back. The thought of giving up, of letting go of the relentless pursuit of perfection, is tempting, a small, flickering hope in the midst of his despair. But he can’t. The fear of failure, of disappointing his father, is too strong, too ingrained in his psyche to ignore.
“Loosen up.”
“The only thing holding you back is yourself.”
The words ring in his head, fighting alongside those of his father.
“Nationals aren't going to wait for you to get your sh*t together.”
With a shaky breath, Bradley pushes himself away from the barrier, his ankle screaming in protest as he forces himself to skate again. Each movement is a test of his endurance, every glide a battle against the searing pain that threatens to consume him.
He skates on, his mind a whirlwind of fear and determination, his father’s harsh words driving him forward. The pain is relentless, a constant, burning presence that gnaws at his resolve, but he refuses to give in. He can’t afford to. Nationals are everything, and failure isn’t an option.
As he pushes himself through the routine, again, and again, and again, the rink becomes only fragments, the ice a cold, unforgiving enemy beneath his skates. His vision swims with tears, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself together. But he skates on, driven by a desperate need to prove himself, to be the best, no matter the cost.
.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.
Bradley stumbles into his apartment, his ankle throbbing with every step. He had managed to mask his limp as he left the rink, but now, in the privacy of his home, he can’t hide the pain any longer. He drops his bag by the door and leans against the wall, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
The apartment is quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos in Bradley’s mind. He makes his way to the living room, where Tank is sprawled on the couch, a hockey game playing on the TV. Tank looks up as Bradley enters, his expression shifting from casual to concerned in an instant.
“You look like sh*t, Baby.” Tank says bluntly, sitting up and pausing the game. “What the hell happened?”
Bradley forces a smile, though it doesn’t reach his tired eyes. “Just a rough practice,” he says, trying to downplay the severity of his injury. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
Tank raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “Bullsh*t. You’re limping like you’ve been hit by a truck. Sit down, Baby. Let’s talk.”
Reluctantly, Bradley eases himself onto the couch, wincing as he props his ankle up on the coffee table. Tank watches him closely, his concern evident.
“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” Tank says, his voice firm but not unkind. “I get it—you want to win Nationals. But at what cost, Bradley? You’re killing yourself out there.”
Bradley sighs, rubbing his temples. “I don’t have a choice, Tank. Nationals are everything. If I don’t push myself, I’ll never make it.” Tank is the only person Bradley lets himself be any level of vulnerable with. Probably because they’ve known each other so long.
Tank leans forward, his eyes locking onto Bradley’s. “Listen to me, man. Winning isn’t everything. Your health, your sanity, they matter too. You can’t keep going like this.”
Bradley looks away, his jaw tightening. “You sound like Max,” he mutters.
Tank chuckles softly. “Well, maybe Max has a point. Speaking of which, we’ve got our biggest game of the year coming up. You should come. Take a break from the rink, clear your head.”
Bradley’s first instinct is to refuse. No way. He had never been one for hockey, and the idea of taking time away from his training feels like a betrayal of his goals. He’s already been to a practice, he sees the appeal but he's not one for the sport. But Tank’s earnest expression and the genuine concern in his eyes makes Bradley hesitate.
“I don’t know, Tank,” Bradley sighs, his voice uncertain. “I’ve got so much on my plate already.”
Tank claps a hand on Bradley’s shoulder, his grip reassuring. “Just one night, Baby. Come out, support the team. You need a break, and we could use the extra cheerleading.”
Bradley manages a weak smile at Tank’s attempt at humour. “Alright,” he gives in, finally. “I’ll come. But if anyone asks, I’m there to study your footwork, not to cheer.”
Tank laughs, a genuine, hearty sound that eased some of the tension in the room. “Deal. But I expect you to be the loudest one there.”
As the evening wears on, Tank fills Bradley in on the details of the game, sharing stories about the team and their journey to this pivotal match. Bradley finds himself relaxing, the camaraderie and Tank’s easygoing nature providing a much-needed respite from the relentless pressure he had been under.
.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.
Bradley’s right ankle throbs silently, a constant reminder of the injury he had sustained earlier at the rink. The doctor advised rest and recovery, but Bradley can’t shake the nagging feeling that he’s falling behind in his training for Nationals.
Despite the pain, he’s made up his mind to attend Tank’s hockey game. Tank has been there for him countless times, offering support and understanding even when Bradley was at his worst. It was time for Bradley to return the favour, to be there for Tank in his moment of glory.
As he approaches the rink inside the arena, Bradley spots Tank talking to a few of his teammates, clad in his hockey gear. Tank’s face lights up when he sees Bradley, and he waves enthusiastically, beckoning him over.
“Bradley! You made it,” Tank exclaims as Bradley practically hobbles over. “I wasn’t sure you’d come, especially after…”
Bradley shrugs, offering Tank a wry smile. “Couldn’t miss the biggest game of the year, right?”
Bradley nods, his gaze fixed on the players darting across the ice. He had never been much of a hockey fan, but watching the game unfold with Tank’s animated commentary was surprisingly engaging. Tank explains the plays, the strategies, and occasionally yelled encouragement at his teammates.
As Bradley listens, nodding along, his eyes drift towards the powerhouse that is Max Goof. His movements on the eyes are calculated and neat. Him during practice doesn’t compare to this at all. Bradley is mesmerised. Fixated.
Bradley watches with a mix of awe and admiration as Max glides across the ice, effortlessly manoeuvring the puck and dodging opposing players with precision. Max’s speed and agility are on full display, his every movement deliberate and fluid. It’s a stark contrast to Bradley’s own struggles on the ice lately, exacerbated by his nagging injury.
Tank notices Bradley’s focused gaze and nudges him gently. “Impressive, right?” Tank says with a grin. “Sharpshooter is on fire tonight. He’s been training hard, just like you. Though I don’t think you noticed.”
“Yeah,” Bradley replies quietly, torn between marvelling at Max’s skill and battling the jealousy that gnaws at him. Max’s dedication is evident, and Bradley can’t help but feel a pang of guilt for the recent tension between them. Maybe Max’s focus and determination are qualities Bradley should learn from rather than envy.
As the game progresses, Max scores a crucial goal, sending the crowd into a frenzy of cheers and applause. Bradley finds himself clapping along, caught up in the electric atmosphere of the arena. He steals glances at Max whenever he can, noting the way Max celebrates with his teammates, the camaraderie evident even from a distance.
Tank nudges Bradley again, this time with a knowing smile. “He’s something, isn’t he?”
Bradley nods, his expression softening. “Yeah, he is.”
Tank claps a hand on Bradley’s shoulder, his voice tinged with encouragement. “You’ll get back there, too, Bradley. Nationals are coming up, and you’ve got the talent. Just take it one step at a time.”
As the final buzzer sounds, signalling the end of the game and a victory for Tank’s team, the arena erupts in cheers. Bradley claps along, feeling a mix of genuine excitement and an undercurrent of envy gnawing at him. His eyes are glued to Max, whose radiant smile and effortless charisma seem to draw everyone’s attention.
Max skates towards the boards, his face flushed with exhilaration. He high-fives his teammates, his laughter echoing through the rink. Bradley watches intently, feeling a strange mix of admiration and bitterness. Max looks so alive out there, so in his element. He radiates confidence and camaraderie, qualities that Bradley feels slipping through his own grasp lately.
How does he manage it all? And how does he look so damn good while doing it?
Then, as if to twist the knife further, Bradley’s gaze falls on Roxanne. She’s making her way through the crowd, her stride confident and purposeful. Bradley’s heart sinks as he sees her approach Max. The way she moves, the casual elegance in her steps, is a stark reminder of the effortless grace she brings to her skating. It’s a grace Bradley feels he’s lost amidst the pain and pressure of his training.
Roxanne reaches Max and wraps him in a congratulatory hug. Max’s smile widens, and he returns the embrace with a warmth that sends a jolt of jealousy through Bradley’s chest. He watches as Roxanne pulls back, her hand lingering on Max’s arm, her eyes sparkling with admiration and something else—something that looks disturbingly like affection.
Max seems at ease with Roxanne, their interaction light and natural. They share a laugh, and she playfully ruffles his hair, an intimacy that makes Bradley’s stomach twist. It’s not just the sight of them together; it’s the ease with which Roxanne fits into Max’s world, a world Bradley feels increasingly alienated from.
Bradley clenches his fists, the throbbing pain in his ankle a dull echo of the ache in his heart. He can’t tear his eyes away from the scene, even as it feels like a knife twisting deeper into his insecurities. Roxanne whispers something in Max’s ear, and he laughs again, his gaze meeting hers with a familiarity that makes Bradley’s chest tighten.
A flare of irrational anger surges within him. He wonders if Max sees the same fire and determination in Roxanne that he used to admire in Bradley, or if he’s already written Bradley off as a lost cause.
As the celebration continues on the ice, Bradley’s vision blurs with a mix of envy and frustration. He feels a burning desire to prove himself, to reclaim the confidence and grace that have been slipping away. But most of all, he feels an intense longing to be the one standing next to Max, sharing in his triumphs, instead of watching from the sidelines.
Tank, sensing Bradley’s turmoil, nudges him gently. “Hey, you okay?” he asks, concern lacing his voice.
Bradley forces a tight smile, nodding stiffly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… tired, I guess.”
As the team continues to celebrate, Bradley turns away from the ice, the image of Max and Roxanne seared into his mind. He can’t shake the feeling of being left behind, overshadowed by the very people he’s trying so hard to outshine. And as he limps toward the exit, the pain in his ankle a constant reminder of his struggles, he silently vows to reclaim his place—not just on the ice, but in Max’s life as well.
