The video drops at 2 AM.
I know because that's when my phone starts exploding with notifications. I wake up to seventeen missed calls, forty-three text messages, and my Twitter mentions climbing into the thousands.
I squint at the screen, brain foggy with sleep. The top trending topic in sports: #IcePrincessTrailerTrash.
My stomach drops.
I click on the hashtag and immediately wish I hadn't.
The video is from our first practice. Someone filmed through the observation window, catching every brutal moment. Me falling during the throw jumps. Adrian dropping me during the death spiral. The awkward lifts. The visible frustration on both our faces.
But that's not the worst part.
The worst part is the caption, written in bold white text across the thumbnail: "Ice Princess meets Trailer Trash: Watch Adrian Braxton's comeback crash and burn with his charity case partner."
The video has 2.3 million views. In three hours.
I scroll through the comments, each one a knife to the gut.
"She's so stiff. No wonder he looks miserable." "Braxton could do better. Why is he skating with a nobody?" "This is what happens when you let trailer trash into elite sports." "She's holding him back. He should've picked literally anyone else."
There are defenders too, people pointing out that it was our first practice, that all partnerships start rough. But they're drowned out by the hate. By the gleeful mockery. By people who've decided I'm the problem before I've even had a chance to prove otherwise.
I call Adrian. He answers on the first ring.
"You saw it," he says. Not a question.
"Two point three million views."
"Two point five now. It's climbing fast." He sounds tired. Defeated. "Lila, I'm sorry."
"For what? You didn't post it."
"No, but it's my fault you're in this position. If I hadn't chosen you as a partner, you wouldn't be getting torn apart online right now."
"If you hadn't chosen me, I wouldn't have a shot at the Olympics at all." I scrub a hand over my face. "Do we know who posted it?"
"Working on it. But I have my suspicions."
"Sabrina."
"Sabrina," he confirms. "The angle, the timing, the caption. It's her style. Vicious and personal."
I pull up the video again, studying the account that posted it. "SilverBladeGossip" with no profile picture, created three days ago. Only one video posted. No other activity.
"She made a burner account," I say.
"Probably. Gives her plausibility deniability." Adrian's bitter laugh crackles through the phone. "She's done this before. During our partnership, she'd leak practice footage to make other teams nervous. Or post rumors on anonymous forums. She's good at working in shadows."
"Can we get it taken down?"
"On what grounds? It's not copyrighted material. It was filmed in a public facility. Technically, it's fair game."
I want to throw my phone again. "So we just let it destroy us?"
"No. We do what we've been doing. We work harder. We get better. We prove every single person in those comments wrong." He pauses. "Practice at six. We'll run the program until we can do it in our sleep."
"Adrian, it's two in the morning."
"Then you have four hours to not look at social media and get some rest. See you at six."
He hangs up before I can argue.
I don't sleep. Instead, I make the mistake of reading more comments. Diving deeper into the hate until it's all I can see.
By the time I drag myself to the training center at 5:45, I'm running on caffeine and spite.
Adrian's already there, running through footwork. He looks as bad as I feel. Dark circles under his eyes, jaw tight with tension.
"You look terrible," I say.
"Right back at you." He skates over. "Ready to prove them wrong?"
"Born ready."
We practice for five hours straight. Elena shows up at seven and immediately puts us through hell. Every element, every transition, every split second of choreography refined until our muscles scream.
"Again!" Elena barks as I stumble out of a spin. "You think Olympics will be forgiving because you had bad night? You think judges care about viral videos? No! They care about execution. So execute!"
We run the program again. And again. And again.
By noon, I've landed the triple throw successfully eight times. By two PM, our death spiral is locked in. By four PM, we're moving like we've been skating together for months instead of days.
"Better," Elena finally concedes. "Much better. Now go home. Ice everything. Sleep. Tomorrow we add the music and see if you can actually skate to a beat."
I'm gathering my things when my phone rings. Unknown number. I almost ignore it, but something makes me answer.
"Is this Lila Hart?" A man's voice, unfamiliar.
"Who's asking?"
"This is Dave Morrison from Sports Illustrated. I'm writing a piece about your partnership with Adrian Braxton and wanted to get your comment on the viral video."
My grip tightens on the phone. "No comment."
"Just a few questions. How do you respond to critics who say you're not talented enough to skate with someone of Braxton's caliber? Is it true that the Federation forced this partnership against his wishes? What's your response to being called a 'charity case'?"
Each question lands like a punch. I can feel Adrian watching me from across the rink.
"I said no comment." I hang up.
The phone immediately rings again. Different number. I decline the call. It rings again. And again.
"Turn it off," Adrian says, appearing at my elbow. "Don't engage. That's what they want."
I power down my phone, hands shaking. "How do you deal with this?"
"Lots of practice." His expression is grim. "Welcome to life in the spotlight. It only gets worse from here."
"Comforting."
"I'm not here to comfort you. I'm here to prepare you." He zips up his jacket. "The press will keep calling. The comments will keep coming. People you've never met will have opinions about your skating, your body, your worth as a human being. You can let it destroy you, or you can use it as fuel."
"How very inspirational."
"I'm serious, Lila. This is the game. If you can't handle it, tell me now."
I meet his eyes. "I can handle it."
"Good. Because it's about to get worse."
He's right.
By evening, the video has eight million views. It's been picked up by major sports networks. ESPN runs a segment titled "Braxton's Comeback: Dream or Disaster?" Figure skating blogs are posting frame-by-frame analysis of my technique, pointing out every flaw, every imperfection.
I make the mistake of checking Twitter one more time before bed.
A new hashtag is trending: #SaveBraxton. As in, save Adrian from me. From my inadequacy. From the dead weight holding back his Olympic dreams.
There's even a petition. "Petition for US Figure Skating to assign Adrian Braxton a partner worthy of his talent." It has 47,000 signatures.
I close my laptop and stare at the ceiling, trying not to cry.
My phone powers back on automatically at midnight. I forgot I had auto-restart enabled.
The notifications flood in. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands.
One stands out. A text from an unknown number.
"Enjoying your fifteen minutes of fame? 😘"
No signature. But I know who it's from.
I'm composing a response when another text comes through. This one from my landlord, Mr. Kowalski.
"Lila, we need to talk. Call me ASAP."
It's midnight. Nothing good happens in midnight texts from landlords.
I call anyway.
"Mr. Kowalski? Is everything okay?"
"Lila." He sighs heavily. "I'm sorry to do this, but I'm going to have to raise your rent."
My stomach lurches. "What? Why?"
"There's been media attention. Reporters have been hanging around the building, bothering other tenants. Someone leaked your address online. I've got photographers in the parking lot at all hours." He sounds genuinely apologetic. "I can't have that kind of disruption."
"I understand, but raising my rent won't make them go away."
"No, but it'll compensate me for the headache. And honestly, if you can't pay, maybe it's better if you find somewhere else to live."
The words hit like ice water. "You're kicking me out?"
"I'm giving you an option. New rent is double what you're paying now. If you can manage that, you can stay. If not, I need you out by the end of the month."
"Double? Mr. Kowalski, I can barely afford current rent. There's no way I can pay double."
"I'm sorry, Lila. I really am. But this situation isn't sustainable." He pauses. "You have until Friday to decide. Three days. Either you pay the new rate or you start packing."
He hangs up.
I sit there in the dark, phone in hand, trying to process what just happened.
My rent. Doubled. Three days to pay or I'm homeless.
I pull up my bank account. After paying this month's rent and training expenses, I have $847 to my name. Next month's rent at the current rate is $1,200. At the new rate, it'll be $2,400.
I don't have $2,400. I don't have half that.
The viral video isn't just destroying my reputation. It's destroying my life.
I text Adrian: "We need to talk. Tomorrow before practice."
His response comes immediately: "What's wrong?"
"Everything. Just meet me at 5:30."
"I'll be there."
I try to sleep but my brain won't shut off. Rent. The video. Sabrina. The petition. The comments. The reporters. Everything spiraling out of control.
At 3 AM, I give up and start packing. Not because I've decided to leave, but because I need to know what I'm working with. How much stuff I have. Where I'd even go if I got evicted.
My apartment is small. Studio, barely 400 square feet. But it's mine. Or it was mine. Now it's just another thing slipping through my fingers.
My phone buzzes. Another text from the unknown number. Sabrina.
"Tick tock, Lila. ⏰"
I meet Adrian in the parking lot at 5:30. He takes one look at my face and swears.
"What happened?"
I tell him about the landlord. The doubled rent. The three-day deadline.
His expression darkens with each sentence. "That's illegal. He can't just double your rent with three days notice."
"He can in Colorado if he claims 'disruption to other tenants.' I looked it up. There's a clause in my lease about maintaining a 'peaceful environment.'" I laugh bitterly. "Apparently being internet famous violates that."
"How much do you need?"
"No."
"Lila—"
"I said no. I'm not taking your money."
"Why not? I have plenty of it."
"Because that's exactly what people are saying. That I'm a charity case. That I'm using you for money and connections." I shake my head. "If you pay my rent, you prove them right."
"I don't care what they think."
"Well, I do!" The words come out sharper than intended. "I care that people think I'm only here because of you. That I didn't earn this spot. That I'm some poor girl who got lucky because Adrian Braxton needed a partner and couldn't find anyone better."
"That's not what happened."
"That's exactly what the video implies. That's what Sabrina wants everyone to think." I slump against my car. "I need to figure this out on my own."
Adrian's quiet for a long moment. "What if I loan you the money? You pay me back when you can. No charity, just a loan between partners."
"Adrian—"
"Hear me out. We're locked into this partnership. If you get evicted and have to move, that disrupts training. Disrupts our Olympic prep. From a purely practical standpoint, keeping you housed is in my best interest." He crosses his arms. "Think of it as a business investment."
It's a good argument. Logical. Removes the emotion from it.
And I'm desperate enough to consider it.
"I'd pay you back," I say. "Every cent."
"I know you would."
"With interest."
"Don't push it." He pulls out his phone. "What's the amount?"
"I can't let you do this."
"You're not letting me do anything. I'm offering. There's a difference." He looks at me. "Lila, let someone help you. It doesn't make you weak. It makes you smart."
My pride wars with my desperation. Pride is losing.
"Twenty-four hundred," I say quietly. "For next month's rent. That gives me time to figure out a permanent solution."
"Done." He starts typing on his phone. "What's your Venmo?"
"Adrian, wait. We should write this down. Make it official. So you know I'm serious about paying you back."
"You want me to draft a loan agreement at 5:30 in the morning?"
"Yes."
He studies me for a moment, then nods. "Okay. We'll do it right. After practice, we'll write up terms, both sign it, make it legal." He pockets his phone. "But I'm serious about this being a business investment. You're my partner. Your success is my success. We're in this together."
"Together," I echo.
We head into the training center. Elena's already there, setting up cones for footwork drills.
"You're early," she says. "Both of you. This is good sign or bad sign?"
"Good sign," Adrian says. "We're motivated."
"Motivated by what? The eight million people who watched you fall on the internet?"
"Ten million now," I mutter. "It hit ten million while I was driving here."
Elena crosses herself. "Mother of God. Okay, new plan. We make video of our own. Show them what you can really do. Fight fire with fire."
"Coach, I don't think—"
"I am not asking, I am telling. We make beautiful video of you two skating perfectly. Post it on social media. Take back narrative." She claps her hands. "But first, you actually have to skate perfectly. So let's practice until you can do this program with your eyes closed."
We practice for six hours. Every element, every transition, every second of choreography drilled until it's muscle memory.
By noon, we've run the program seventeen times. By two PM, we're finally hitting every element cleanly.
"Again!" Elena shouts. "With feeling this time! You're not robots, you're artists!"
We run it again. This time, something clicks. The movements stop being individual elements and start flowing into one cohesive performance. For thirty seconds in the middle of the program, we're not Lila and Adrian. We're a single unit, moving in perfect synchronization.
It's beautiful.
It's also exhausting.
By the time Elena calls practice, my legs are jelly and my lungs are burning.
"Good," she says. "Tomorrow we film. Make sure you sleep tonight. You need to look alive, not dead."
"No promises," I mutter.
Adrian and I grab lunch at a diner near the training center. He pulls out his laptop and drafts a loan agreement on the spot. Terms, repayment schedule, interest rate (zero percent, which I try to argue about but he refuses to change).
We both sign it. He sends me the money before we finish our sandwiches.
My phone buzzes with the notification. $2,400 deposited to my account.
I text Mr. Kowalski: "I'll have the new rent amount by Friday."
His response: "Good. I'll draw up the new lease."
Adrian watches me over his coffee. "Feel better?"
"I feel like I'm drowning slightly slower." I set my phone down. "But yeah. Better. Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just land your jumps and we'll call it even."
We're walking back to our cars when my phone rings. Mr. Kowalski. Again.
"Lila, I'm sorry," he says without preamble. "I can't wait until Friday."
My heart stops. "What?"
"There's more reporters. Someone started a protest outside the building. People with signs saying you don't belong in figure skating. It's a circus. I need you out now."
"Now? But you said Friday—"
"I said Friday if things stayed manageable. They're not manageable. I've got tenants threatening to break their leases if this continues." He sounds genuinely distressed. "I'm sorry, but I need you out by end of day Friday. Three days. Pack your things and find somewhere else to live."
"But I just sent you the money—"
"Keep it. Use it for a deposit somewhere else. I'll return your original deposit too." He sighs. "I'm sorry, Lila. I really am. But this is beyond rent increases now. This is about protecting my other tenants."
The line goes dead.
I stand there, phone in hand, the world tilting sideways.
"Lila?" Adrian's voice seems to come from far away. "What's wrong?"
I look at him. "My landlord just called. The rent increase doesn't matter anymore. He's evicting me. I have three days to find a new place to live or I'm homeless."