Ice doesn't break so easily
John Logan x Figure Skater!Reader Fanfic
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Part 19: Ice doesn't break so easily
For three days, the phone had remained untouched on the coffee table, lighting up every few hours with missed calls she never answered and messages she never opened.
Her coach had warned her they would find out eventually.
There was no way around it.
A scholarship athlete disappearing from the ice for weeks wasn't something parents simply overlooked, especially parents like hers. Parents who tracked competition schedules more carefully than birthdays. Parents who knew every score she'd ever received but couldn't remember the last movie she'd watched or the name of her favorite color.
She'd hoped for one more day. One more quiet morning. One more chance to breathe before everything she'd been avoiding finally caught up with her. The apartment was unusually silent. Normally there was always something. Music drifting from someone's apartment downstairs. The muffled laughter of college students stumbling through the hallway.
Logan dropping by unannounced because he "just happened to be in the building." Today there was nothing. Only the distant sounds of spring filtering through the cracked balcony door. Birds chirped somewhere across campus. Students laughed as they crossed Briar's courtyard, backpacks slung lazily over one shoulder, finals creeping closer but not close enough to ruin the sunshine.
Even when yours felt like it had stopped.
Y/n sat curled into the corner of her couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders despite the warm weather. The heating pad resting against her lower back had long since gone cold, but she hadn't bothered replacing it.
She couldn't seem to make herself move. Her eyes remained fixed on the phone sitting only a few feet away. Such a small object. So much power. She had competed in front of thousands of people. She had stepped onto Olympic qualifying ice with cameras pointed directly at her face. She'd landed jumps knowing a single mistake would cost years of work. She'd skated through fractured ribs. Sprained ankles. Fevers. Concussions that should have kept her off the ice entirely. None of those moments had terrified her like answering one phone call.
Because judges couldn't break your heart. Parents could. The screen lit up.
Her breath caught instantly.
It felt ridiculous that after everything she'd survived, four little letters on a screen could make her entire body lock up. Her fingers hovered over the answer button. For a brief, cowardly second, she considered letting it ring. Pretending she hadn't seen it. Waiting another day. But she'd spent twenty-one years avoiding difficult conversations. She couldn't spend the rest of her life doing the same. Her thumb pressed accept.
No greeting came from the other end.
A cold, calculating silence that stretched long enough for Y/N to hear the faint static of the connection.
He'd probably felt obligated after she'd officially withdrawn from upcoming competitions. Someone had to inform them. It certainly wasn't going to be her.
Before she could answer, another voice entered the call.
Already assuming the worst.
"What exactly is going on?"
The disappointment in his voice arrived before she'd spoken a single word. She inhaled slowly. One breath. Then another. Her therapist had taught her this months ago. Ground yourself. Don't react.
"I'm taking time away from skating."
The answer came so quickly she almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was so painfully predictable.
Something inside her gave a tired, exhausted sigh. For years, that single word had ruled her life. No, you can't stay for the birthday party. No, one missed practice isn't acceptable. No, second place isn't good enough. No, you can do better.
Always no. Always another expectation waiting just around the corner. She stared out the apartment window.
"I'm not asking for permission."
Another silence settled over the line.
"What exactly do you mean you're not asking?" her mother said, every syllable clipped.
Y/n could practically picture the expression on her face. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Already deciding that whatever came next would be wrong. Her heart hammered painfully against her ribs. She was terrified.
God, she was so fucking terrified.
Even now, after everything they'd put her through, some small part of the little girl inside her still wanted their approval. Still wanted them to say We're proud of you.
"That's not what we heard."
A bitter laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
Her orthopedic specialist had explained the risks in painstaking detail. The physical therapists had repeated the same warning every week. Logan had practically memorized every instruction the doctors gave, making sure she followed them even when she tried pretending she felt better. If she returned too soon... She could permanently damage her spine.
Not months. Not another season.
Yet somehow that still wasn't enough. Her mother sighed. The same disappointed sigh she'd heard since childhood. The sigh that made twelve year old Y/n apologize for earning silver instead of gold.
The sigh that followed report cards with one A-. The sigh that somehow carried the message: You almost made us proud. Almost. Never quite enough.
"Do you understand what you're throwing away?"
The question hit harder than she expected.
Not, How are you holding up? Are you in pain? Do you need us?
Only, What are you throwing away?
Memories crashed into her so suddenly they stole the air from her lungs. She was twelve again. Standing in freezing skates with a silver medal around her neck. Searching the crowd. Finding her parents.
Her mother had looked at the medal before saying,
"The landing on your triple loop was sloppy."
No congratulations. No hug. Just criticism. She was fourteen. Winning Regionals.
"The judges were generous."
"You lost points on presentation."
"Now you have to prove you're worth it."
Twenty one. A spinal injury.
"...Get back on the ice."
Her grip tightened around the phone until her knuckles turned white. Something inside her cracked. Not shattered. Not broke. Cracked wide enough for years of buried anger to finally spill through.
Her father's voice sharpened instantly. Y/n pushed herself to her feet. She crossed the apartment slowly until she stood in front of the balcony window overlooking Briar's campus. Students walked freely below. Laughing, living, choosing. Something she'd forgotten she was allowed to do.
"I'm not throwing anything away."
Her hands shook violently.
She could hear her own heartbeat. Feel every pulse racing through her fingertips.
"I'm finally listening to the people who actually care whether I can walk when I'm thirty."
Her voice cut through her mother's for the first time in her life. The interruption stunned even herself.
The words poured out faster now, years of swallowed hurt finally finding a voice.
"I did everything you asked me to do."
"I skated through pneumonia because you told me champions don't quit."
"I competed with stress fractures."
"I spent birthdays in hotel rooms."
"I missed dances, school trips, sleepovers, holidays... I stopped making friends because there was never time."
Tears blurred her vision, but she didn't stop.
"I built my entire life around making you proud."
Her breathing became uneven.
"I don't know what food I actually like because every meal was planned around competitions."
"I don't know what hobbies I enjoy."
"I don't know who I am when I'm not wearing skates."
The line remained completely quiet.
For one impossible moment...
She thought maybe they'd finally heard her.
Y/N stared through the apartment window as another wave of students crossed campus below. And just like that... Everything became clear. They hadn't listened to a single word she'd said. Not one. The tears stopped. Not because they no longer hurt, the sting was so fresh she could feel it like a physical manifestation. But because she suddenly understood something she should have realized years ago. They were never waiting to understand her. Only waiting for their turn to speak.
She wiped her face. Lifted her chin.
She took one final breath.
"And if you can't tell the difference..."
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
"...then maybe that's your failure, not mine."
Her father's breathing grew louder through the speaker. A sharp inhale. Then another.
The silence was so complete that Y/N could hear the grandfather clock ticking somewhere in the background of her parents' house. The same clock that had stood in the foyer for as long as she could remember, marking every second she'd spent growing up beneath that roof.
When her father finally spoke, his voice was no longer controlled.
"My failure?" he repeated, each word dangerously quiet. "Everything we have done, everything WE sacrificed, and you have the nerve to call this our failure?"
The weapon they'd sharpened over the course of two decades.
"We drove you to every competition."
"We rearranged our lives so you could chase your dream."
"Our dream?" she asked softly.
"Our family's future," her mother corrected immediately. "You were gifted, Y/n. Do you know how many children would kill for the opportunities you've had?"
"I never said I wasn't grateful."
"Then stop acting like it."
She let out a slow breath through her nose, willing herself to stay grounded.
The words landed with enough force to make her chest tighten.
"You're walking away because things got difficult."
Y/N laughed, the sound hollow and exhausted.
She looked down at the faint scar peeking out from beneath the waistband of her sweatpants, where months of treatment had left reminders she carried every day.
"You think this is because things got difficult?"
"You're quitting because you're scared."
"I'm stopping because I can't feel parts of my back some mornings."
Neither of them answered.
"I can't sit through some of my lectures without my spine locking up."
"My doctor told me there's a chance I won't recover completely if I keep pushing."
Her voice cracked despite her best efforts.
"And you're still asking me to skate."
Her father's tone hardened.
"You've worked through worse."
Y/N shook her head, even though they couldn't see it.
"I convinced myself I had."
A breeze drifted through the open balcony door, stirring the curtains behind her. She watched them sway, trying to focus on anything except the ache building in her chest.
"I've spent years pretending every injury wasn't as bad as it felt because I knew what you'd say if I admitted I was hurting."
"You've always been dramatic."
The sentence struck harder than she expected. Not because it surprised her. it didn't. It was the same thing she'd heard after every twisted ankle. Every pulled muscle. Every tear she'd hidden in the locker room.
She remembered being fifteen, sitting in the passenger seat after a competition with an ice pack pressed against her hip.
"It can't hurt that much."
Seventeen, limping through the airport after Nationals.
"Champions push through pain."
Nineteen, crying in the physical therapist's office after being told she needed months off.
"You'll lose your momentum."
Every memory layered on top of the next until she could hardly separate them anymore.
She'd mistaken endurance for love. Obedience for worth. Pain for success.
The words surprised even her. She repeated them, stronger this time.
"No more pretending I'm okay."
"No more apologizing because my body has limits."
"No more believing that if I just win one more medal, you'll finally be proud of me."
Then her mother sighed again.
Y/n's eyes filled immediately.
If she'd heard those words ten years ago, she might have believed them. If she'd heard them after Regionals. After Nationals. After earning her scholarship. If she'd heard them before every sentence that began with but. Instead, now they sounded hollow.
"We're proud of what you've accomplished," her mother continued. "Which is exactly why you can't throw it all away."
The invisible string attached to every ounce of affection she'd ever received. As long as she kept performing. As long as she kept winning. As long as she kept sacrificing herself.
She leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window.
"You know every medal I've ever won."
She swallowed the lump in her throat.
"But you don't know your daughter."
"You don't know what my favorite book is."
"You don't know that I switched from coffee to tea because caffeine makes my back spasms worse."
"You don't know that I've had nightmares since my injury."
"You don't know the names of the people who stayed with me when I couldn't even get out of bed."
A tear slipped down her cheek.
Outside, the campus bells chimed the hour. The sound echoed faintly through the apartment.
"I've spent my entire life trying to become someone you'd love."
"And I finally realized..."
She wiped away another tear.
"...I've been enough this whole time."
The words hung between them.
Her father broke the silence first.
"If you walk away from skating, don't expect us to support this decision."
Y/n closed her eyes. The ultimatum she'd feared. The one she'd been waiting for. For a moment, she felt that familiar urge to apologize. To backtrack. To tell them she'd reconsider. Instead, she drew one slow, steady breath.
"I hope someday you understand why I had to do this."
"But if I come back before I'm ready..."
She glanced toward the discarded pair of skates leaning against the wall near the front door.
"...I might regret that for the rest of my life."
No one said goodbye. The call ended with the sharp, impersonal tone of a disconnected line. Y/n lowered the phone from her ear. The apartment felt impossibly still. For several seconds, she simply stood there, staring at the now dark screen. Then the strength she'd been clinging to dissolved. Her knees gave way, and she sank onto the hardwood floor.
The sob that escaped her chest was raw, years of grief pouring out all at once. She cried for the little girl who thought gold medals earned love. She cried for every injury she'd hidden. For every birthday she'd missed. For every version of herself she'd abandoned in pursuit of perfection.
She cried for the daughter who had spent twenty-one years chasing parents who had never learned how to meet her halfway.
The apartment remained silent long after her tears had subsided. The sun disappeared beyond the buildings outside her window, leaving soft streaks of amber and violet stretching across the Briar skyline before fading into night.
She never moved from the floor. Her phone rested beside her, face down now, the screen dark. For the past three days, she'd imagined this conversation.
I rehearsed different versions in the shower, during long drives to with John, while staring at the ceilings in my room. Sometimes I screamed. Sometimes I apologized for something I hadn't even said yet. Sometimes I imagined that they hugged me and told me they loved me exactly as I was.
Reality had been much quieter.
Eventually, I wiped at her swollen eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt and reached for her phone. Dozens of notifications filled the screen.
Most were from numbers I didn't have the strength to look at. Instead, I opened the one conversation that had slowly become home over the past year.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard before she finally typed.
Need some time alone.
I'm okay.
Just... thinking.
Love you guys.
She hit send before she could change her mind. Within seconds, the typing bubbles appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. Finally, a single message came through.
A fresh wave of tears threatened to spill over. She powered her phone off. For once, she didn't want advice. She didn't want someone trying to convince her she'd done the right thing. She simply wanted the silence she'd been denied for most of her life.
Nearly two hours passed before someone knocked on her apartment door. Three gentle taps. She ignored them. Another knock. Softer this time.
Her heart clenched. She knew that voice instantly. She considered pretending she wasn't home. But John had always been impossible to fool. Another pause.
"I know you asked for space."
His voice carried easily through the wood.
"And I'm going to respect that."
"...But respecting your space doesn't mean leaving you alone."
She let out a watery laugh despite herself. Of course he'd say something like that.
"And before you tell me you're not hungry..."
"I also brought cheesecake."
She stood slowly, her back protesting as she made her way toward the front door. When she opened it, John was exactly where she'd imagined. One hand balanced a paper takeout bag. The other held a small cardboard box from the bakery just off campus. His hair was slightly windblown, like he'd rushed over without bothering to fix it.
The moment he saw her face, his smile disappeared. He didn't ask if she'd been crying. He already knew.
"You don't have to say anything," he said quietly.
That was all it took. Every wall she'd rebuilt after the phone call came crashing down. She stepped forward, and John immediately wrapped his arms around her. No hesitation. No awkwardness. Just warmth.
She buried her face against his shoulder, gripping the back of his sweatshirt as another sob escaped her chest.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
His hand gently rubbed circles against her back.
"For making you come over."
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His brows drew together in quiet disbelief.
"You never have to apologize for hurting."
The words settled somewhere deep inside her. A place she'd forgotten still existed. He brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face.
"You know what I heard today?"
"I heard someone choose herself."
"It doesn't feel like winning."
He reached down and intertwined his fingers with hers.
"It feels like everything you've ever known is falling apart."
"But that's what courage usually looks like."
"I've watched you win competitions."
"I've watched you land impossible jumps."
"I've watched entire arenas stand up and cheer for you."
"And none of those moments impressed me as much as today."
A tear rolled down her cheek.
"You stood up to the people you've spent your whole life trying to make proud."
"You chose your future over their expectations."
"...this is the first time you've ever really won."
For the first time that day Y/n smiled. A small one.
And somehow... That felt like the beginning of something.
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Summer settled over Briar.
The campus emptied as students scattered across the country for internships, vacations, and jobs. For the first time in years, Y/N wasn't training six hours a day.
Instead, her mornings began with physical therapy. Walks around campus. Coffee with friends. Movie nights that stretched past midnight. Painting classes she'd signed up for on a whim.
She was learning herself. Not the skater. Just... Y/n.
Her back still hurt some mornings. Healing wasn't linear. Neither was grief. But she laughed more now. She slept through most nights. And for the first time in years, her future wasn't measured by competition schedules.
It was measured by possibility. Her relationship with her parents remained silent. No calls. No texts. No apologies.
Until one Tuesday afternoon. An envelope arrived in the campus mail. No return address. She recognized the handwriting immediately. Her mother's. Her stomach tightened as she carefully unfolded the letter. It wasn't long.
We've rewritten this letter more times than we can count because every version sounded like we were trying to defend ourselves.
Your coach called us after your conversation. Not because we asked him to. He told us about the injury. About the months of rehabilitation. About the days you could barely stand after practice.
He also told us something we never wanted to hear. He said that everyone around you noticed you were hurting long before we did. Everyone except your parents.
For weeks, your father insisted the coach was exaggerating. Then we watched old competition videos. Not the routines.
We saw how often you reached for your back when you thought cameras weren't looking. How tired your smile had become. How afraid you looked before stepping onto the ice. We don't know how we missed it.
Maybe because we spent so many years looking at your medals instead of your face.
The words hit like a punch.
You asked us if we knew our daughter. And we've come to the harsh reality that we don't know anything at all.
By the time she reached the final page, tears were falling freely again.
We're sorry. Not because you stopped skating. Because we made you believe our love depended on whether you did.
No child should ever feel that. If you'll let us... We'd like to learn who you are outside of the rink. Not the athlete. Our daughter.
We know forgiveness isn't something we're entitled to. We know trust has to be earned. We're prepared to spend however long that takes.
Y/n lowered the letter into her lap. For several minutes, she simply stared out the window. She wasn't magically healed. The hurt hadn't disappeared. Twenty one years couldn't be undone by a few pages of paper.
But... For the first time...
They hadn't talked about medals or rankings. They had talked about her. She folded the letter carefully. Not because everything was fixed. It wasn't. Not yet at least. Healing, she'd learned, wasn't about pretending the pain never happened. It was choosing, every day, to move forward anyway.
For the first time in all their lives
They were finally learning how.
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