A couple of weeks earlier, she’d mentioned she’d put on a little weight over the off-season.
“I just want to feel lighter when I’m back on the ice,” she’d told me. “At state, every little thing shows.”
“You look perfect,” I said.
Mike had been passing by and heard us. “Nothing wrong with tightening things up before competition. It’s part of the sport.”
At the time, I let it pass. It sounded supportive.
“It’s part of the sport.”
Over the next two weeks, Lily started changing in ways that were small enough to excuse until they weren’t.
She got quieter. Her cheeks lost their color. Her energy dipped.
Once, when she came down the stairs too fast, she had to grab the railing like the room had tilted.
“You okay?” I asked.
She nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just dizzy. Got up too fast.”
I found myself wondering if she was wearing bigger shirts or if her clothes were just hanging off her.
Over the next two weeks, Lily started changing.
After that, I started noticing more.
More than once, I caught Mike watching her with quiet concern, like he knew something was wrong.
But the closed-door talks were the first thing that raised my suspicion.
Mike would call Lily into the study, or she’d drift in there after practice and shut the door behind her.
They’d be in there for 15 or 30 minutes at a time.
