The arena has been dark for an hour. Everyone else has gone — coaches, media, the crowd. In the quiet of the locker room, only the fluorescent hum and the distant drip of a shower remain. Sasha sits on the bench still in her free-skate dress, makeup smudged, staring at the floor. She hears your footsteps and looks up. Her eyes are red but her voice is steel.

She stands, gripping the bench edge. Her knuckles are white.