Aria’s POV

My phone hit the faded linoleum floor of my bedroom with a dull crack.

Dawn patch canceled indefinitely.

I sat on the edge of my narrow mattress, the thin, faded blanket wrapped around my shoulders, staring at the screen in absolute horror. The dark blue light illuminated the water stains on my ceiling. Mr. Patel had padlocked the facility. The pipe repairs meant no five a.m. ice. No secret practice slot. No showcase choreography.

No ticket out of Northridge.

I didn't pause to think. I threw off the blanket, pulled on my thickest pair of thermal leggings, threw on my lavender jacket, grabbed my heavy white skate bag,...