PUCKING MY BULLY ROOMMATE

PRISCILLA Tonight is my nineteenth birthday and I’m stripping on stage at a nightclub. I'm barely covered in a skimpy dress that scratches my thigh every time I move. The pole is ice-cold under my palms. The stage lights burn my eyes, turning the crowd into a sea of hungry men. Every grind of my hips, every slow spin, is another month the machine keeps my father alive. I told Andrew I was at the ice rink interning. Filing paperwork. Sharpening blades. Being the good, serious figure-skating girlfriend he could brag about to his teammates. He has no idea I sell my dignity every Friday so the hospital doesn’t cut off my dad’s oxygen. The bass vibrates through my bones. I hook my knee around the pole, arch my back, and spin. The crowd whoops. Money rains onto the stage. I keep my eyes closed and pretend the cheers are coming from the rink. Until my body locks mid-spin. Because, fifteen feet away in the VIP section, bathed in red and purple lights, is Andrew. His hand is halfway up another girl’s thigh. Ice-blonde ponytail. Sharp cheekbones. I could never forget that face even in my dreams. Layla Vale. The girl he bought three-hundred-dollar custom skates for while I was on my knees begging him for two hundred dollars to cover Dad’s latest dialysis bill. He leans in and presses his mouth to her exposed neck. Slow. Deliberate. Possessive. The exact way he kisses me when we’re alone. My stomach drops so hard I almost vomit right there on the stage. The pole feels slippery under my suddenly sweaty palms. This can’t be real. But I know that sharp line of his jaw the way I know the ice under my blades. I know the way his thumb strokes her skin like he owns it. I know the tilt of his head when he’s turned on. Four years. Four years I spent freezing my ass off in the Lakewood Arena stands, screaming his name until my throat bled. Four years stroking his ego, telling him he was the best player on the ice even when his stats said he was hot garbage. Believing that when I finally confessed where the money came from, he would pull me into his chest, kiss my forehead, and say, “Why didn’t you come to me sooner, Cilla?” That delusion was the only thing keeping me upright. Now it shatters me completely. One second I’m under the spotlight. The next I’m stepping off the stage, bare feet slapping the sticky floor, pushing through the crowd until I’m standing at the edge of their VIP booth. Layla smells me coming. Her ice-blue eyes roll the second they land on my cheap dress. She murmurs something into Andrew’s ear. He looks up. Our eyes meet. And then he looks away. Casually picks up his red plastic cup, takes a sip, and sets it down like I’m an annoying waitress hovering for a tip. “Andrew.” Nothing. “Andrew, what the hell?” My voice cracks and I hate myself for it. My hands shake so hard my nails dig into my palms. He sets the cup down with a sharp clink. “Priscilla. What.” No guilt. No panic. Just the flat, irritated tone he uses when I text him too many times. “Tell me this isn’t real,” I choke out. “Look at me and tell me I’m not seeing—” “Can you not do this right now?” He rubs his temple like I’m a migraine with legs “One night, Priscilla. I’m asking for one night. Is that too much?” “I just watched you shove your tongue down her throat and you’re asking me for space?” “Lower your voice.” “You’re not even a little ashamed? I caught you with your hands all over my rival, and you’re—” “Oh, I should be ashamed?” Andrew laughs. Short, ugly and mean. He leans forward, eyes locked on mine with zero remorse. “You’re the one up there shaking your ass for a room full of strangers. Every Friday. For months.” The words hit like a bat to the stomach. Everyone pins their eyes on us. Watching. Whispering. “And you want to lecture me about shame?” he spits. The floor falls out from under me. “How… how did you—” “Everyone knows, Priscilla. The whole damn city knows.” He shakes his head with pure disgust. “So climb back up on your little pole and save the victim speech for someone who’s buying it.” My lips part, but my defense dies in my throat. It wouldn’t matter anymore. Not to him. A perfectly manicured hand slides across Andrew’s chest. “Relax, babe,” Layla purrs. “I’ll handle her.” She stands, towering over me in six-inch heels. This is the same girl who shook my hand at the Silverblade University auditions two weeks ago and said, “May the best skater win.” “Judging by the way you’re running that mouth,” Layla says, head tilting with fake sympathy, “you haven’t checked your phone yet.” Ice shoots down my spine. With trembling fingers I reach under the waistband of the cheap dress and pull out my phone. The screen is a warzone. Missed calls. Texts. A hundred notifications. I open the top one. BREAKING NEWS: SILVERBLADE FIGURE SKATING CANDIDATE CAUGHT STRIPPING AT A NIGHTCLUB. There are videos. Of me. On the pole. I scramble to my email. *Dear Ms. Connell, the admissions board has decided to revoke your acceptance due to conduct unbecoming of a Silverblade athlete…* I was rejected. I look up. Layla is smiling like the devil herself, tapping her own phone screen and turning it to face me. *Dear Ms. Vale, Congratulations on your acceptance into Silverblade…* Andrew doesn’t even glance over. He’s back on his phone, arm slung around the booth, Layla’s lipstick smeared on his neck like a trophy. Don’t cry. Do not cry. I lock my screen. Take one last look at Andrew, burning this moment into my brain so I will never forget what it felt like to love someone who could destroy me without losing a second of blink. Then I look at Layla. “Keep him,” I say, voice ringing clear and cold . “I don't need him anymore.”