“So I’ve heard. I’m sorry to hear that.” He nods, like that settles it. “Now, Ms. Abrams, I’ve reviewed your transcripts, and here’s where we stand. Since you’re no longer competing on the university’s figure skating team, your athletic scholarship is no longer in place. That means you’ll need to cover tuition another way—whether through financial aid, grants, or personal funding.”
I press my lips together. Hope Daddy plans on covering that, too, because my paycheck at the rink sure isn’t going to.
“Additionally, in order to stay enrolled and remain on track for graduation, you’ll need to maintain a minimum three-point-zero GPA. That’s non-negotiable.”
My stomach sinks. I barely had a two-point-five my entire college career. I’ve always relied on my skating scholarship and the notoriety of my name to keep my professors from completely flunking me. I nod anyway. It’s not like I’ll have skating to divert my attention anymore.
“You have eight credits left to complete your degree.” He slides a printed sheet across the desk. “Your remaining courses are listed here.”
He taps the page with his pen. “Your university email has been reinstated, and your login credentials for class registration are at the bottom of the page.”
“It’ll be a late registration, as the term begins January tenth. I’ve included a list of classes you can choose from that will allow you to complete your degree in Communications, with a few electives to choose from for your Sports Journalism minor.”
Classes start five days from now. The familiar pressure in my chest signaling an anxiety attack sits behind my rib cage. I tap my fingers nervously against my thigh, trying to ignore it.
“If you maintain your GPA and complete all required coursework, you’ll be eligible to graduate in May.”
He grabs a red pen and circles a name at the bottom of the page. “Should you run into any issues with registration or account access, contact Cathy Smith in student services. Her direct number is here.”
I suck in a breath. I had basically crossed this off as a possibility. Failing out last spring was a deep source of shame for me. I never loved school, but I did want a degree. Skating had a short shelf life.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Thank you.” My eyes are stinging as I stand and shake his hand. I walk quickly to the door before I can embarrass myself with an unusual display of emotion.
The dean’s voice stops me before I reach the door. “Ms. Abrams?” I turn to face him, my hand on the cold metal of the doorknob. I raise my eyebrows in question. “We’re glad you’re back.”
I nod once, my lips pressed tight into a closed mouth smile. A grimace? I’m not sure.
What I do know is this—I have spent the last year suffocating in my own failure.
At first, I fought. Clawed at the surface like a desperate animal, convinced that if I worked hard enough, if I pushed through the pain, I could fix it. Surgery. Physical therapy. Doctor’s appointments. Ice baths. Painkillers. A road map to recovery.
But then the timelines stretched. The improvements didn’t come. My ankle never quite got back to where it should have been. My mobility was severely limited. I kept taking the painkillers and I mixed them with the alcohol I was guzzling.And I raged.
I raged at my doctors, at my therapist, at my father. At my coach, at the world, at Elsie.
I was a scared dog backed into a corner, biting the hands that fed me. I was snapping at the friends who didn’t leave me first, the ones not on the Nationals team…and in doing so, I completely eviscerated those friendships. There was not a single person except my dad who still spoke to me. It was a real mixed bag on which failed relationships were entirely my fault and which weren’t. In the end, they were a blur of people-who-don’t-talk-to-Monroe-anymore.
Monroe Abrams does not take failure well.
And when the news of Aaron’s new partner and their Olympic debut finally made its way back to me? I had already stopped fighting. The rage had curdled into something worse—resentment, exhaustion, self-loathing.
I drank myself into oblivion that night. Hard. I don’t remember any part of the drinking outside of that first shot—and my recollection of time jumps to waking up nearly two days later, body aching, mouth dry, head splitting. I should have had my stomach pumped.
And maybe a better person would have taken all of this as a sign, a wake-up call. Maybe they would have pivoted, found a new purpose, built a new dream from the ashes. A phoenix rising. But not me.
Because Monroe Abrams was built for one thing. And when I lost that?I lost everything.
My brain has been screaming at me for over a year, feeding me poison, whispering insults until they weren’t just thoughts anymore. They became unequivocal truths.
They became me.
Monroe, you are nothing.
You have achieved nothing.
When you were handed a tough gig, you fucked it up.
Everyone has left you, and they were right to.