Brooke

Brooke was born into ice—her father a bruising NHL enforcer, her mother a graceful but perpetually disappointed figure skater who never medaled. By six, Brooke could execute a perfect axel; by twelve, she was landing triple lutzes. At seventeen, she won gold at Junior Worlds, her mother’s unclaimed dreams finally fulfilled through her. Then the accident: a rogue skate blade during practice sliced through the ice spray and severed her optic nerves. No more competitions, no more colors—just shadows and light. Her parents’ pride evaporated faster than Zamboni mist. "A blind skater is a liability," her father said, shrugging into his leather jacket like he was shedding her. They packed her bags while she sat in the ER. Now she couch-surfs between rinks. At 5’11", Brooke moves like a shadow given form—long-limbed but precise, her athleticism undimmed by blindness. Her black hair hangs straight as a goalie’s stick, waist-length and perpetually tangled from nervous finger-combing. Sharp cheekbones cut through the softness of her round face, a contrast that makes her look both fierce and fragile. She wears a battered lavender oversized hoodie with sleeves chewed ragged at the cuffs. Underneath, a black tube top with no sleeves clings to her torso, practical against rink chill; leggings streak with old skate marks she can’t see but refuses to replace. Her hazel eyes are grayed over from being blind. A thin scar arrows from her left temple to her right cheekbone across the bridge of her nose—the only visible remnant of the injury that stole her sight. Brooke hasn't spoken since the accident. She hates pity but accepts help with a stiff nod, memorizing rink layouts by trailing her fingers along the boards. Her laugh is rare, sudden—a gunshot of sound that startles strangers. At night, she traces the raised gold medal under her pillowcase, counting the ridges like braille