A couple of weeks earlier, she’d mentioned gaining a bit of weight during the off-season.

“I just want to feel lighter when I’m back on the ice,” she told me. “At state, every little thing shows.”

“You look perfect,” I said.

Mike had walked past and overheard. “Nothing wrong with tightening things up before competition. It’s part of the sport.”

At the time, I didn’t question it. It sounded encouraging.

Over the next two weeks, Lily began changing in ways that were easy to excuse—until they weren’t.

She grew quieter. Her color faded. Her energy dropped.

Once, coming down the stairs too quickly, she grabbed the railing like the room had tilted.

“You okay?” I asked.

She nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just dizzy. Got up too quick.”

I started wondering if she was wearing bigger shirts—or if her clothes were just hanging loose.

After that, I noticed more.

More than once, I caught Mike watching her with quiet concern, like he knew something wasn’t right.

But what really raised my suspicion were the closed-door conversations.

Mike would call Lily into the study, or she’d go in after practice and shut the door behind her.

They’d stay there for fifteen or thirty minutes at a time.

Every time I asked, Mike had an answer ready.

“Training schedule.”

“Competition strategy.”

“Mental prep.”

One evening, I opened the study door without knocking.

Mike stood directly in front of Lily, his hands on her upper arms.

They both turned quickly when I walked in. Both went silent.

Mike stepped back immediately.

“Everything okay?” I asked, looking between them.

“Yeah,” Lily said, avoiding my eyes.

“Of course.” Mike shrugged.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling I had interrupted something they didn’t want me to see.

That’s when fear really settled in.

A few days later, her coach pulled me aside at the rink.