Skaters didn't need microphones to make daggers.
Silver learned that brutal truth the hard way, sitting in the girls' locker room at Ingalls Rink where the air always carried the sharp bite of ice and the metallic tang of blade polish. The space wasn't built for privacy—it was all white subway tiles and industrial benches, designed for function over comfort. Sound bounced off every surface, amplifying the clatter of protective gear and the rhythmic scrape of blade guards against concrete.
And the whispers. Always the whispers.
They were sharp enough to slice deeper than any fall on unforgiving ice, precise as the edge of a freshly sharpened blade finding the exact spot where it could do the most damage.