I nursed my pint of some local IPA the airport bar was pushing, ordering myself not to puke. LAX was crowded—shocker—but at least I’d snagged a stool, squeezed between a man in a cheap suit and a bleached-blonde woman wearing too much flowery perfume. I should have known better when Emily suggested we all go out for “just one drink” as a bon voyage.

I figured I deserved one last night out with my training mates, especially since Toronto was going to be all business. If it wasn’t the Olympic season, there was no way I’d voluntarily spend every day with Henry Sakaguchi, but Mr. Webber really wanted me to go.

My fingers slid on the condensation as I took a gulp of beer, and I almost dropped the glass. My throat was too tight, and I coughed, pretending that’s why my eyes were watering. Cheap Suit shot me a glare, and I pretended he was a Ukrainian judge and gave him my most charming smile.

It was a game I played when I was traveling—deciding which strangers were the judges from various countries. The woman who reeked of roses could have been an Australian judge who randomly showed up on panels sometimes. The bartender with a man bun was too young to be a judge, but he did have nice forearms displayed as he poured a pint.

There. I wasn’t going to cry. Mr. Webber was going to be okay. He wasn’t giving up and neither were the doctors. I felt like an asshole abandoning him—if I stayed, maybe I could do something to help, though I had no clue what.

But he wanted me to go train with the Richardsons, so I’d do it. And he was going to beat the odds. And I wasn’t going to cry every time I thought about not having him by the boards giving me that impatient-but-fond glare.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I knew who it was before I looked, and I guessed it was time to bite the bullet. The bar was so noisy with people talking and Sports Center on the TVs that I didn’t walk away to answer.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Where are you?”

“Waiting for my boarding call.”

She exhaled noisily. “I don’t like this.”

“I know, but it’s not up to you.” How many times could we have the same conversation? A zillion, apparently.

“I’m still your mother.” If she were next to me instead of Cheap Suit and Blonde Perfume, she would have jabbed my arm as she said it.

“Of course you are. But this is my career. I pay for my training now. I make the decisions.” It had been the only way Mr. Webber would take me on four years ago after I stupidly failed to make the Olympic team. No skating mothers were allowed at his rink second-guessing and butting in. “It’ll be fine.”

“Fine?” She sighed dramatically. “Sometimes I think you don’t even want to win.”

I gulped my beer, drowning my first response to tell her: no shit. “Of course I want to win,” I said dutifully. And I did.