Chapter 4
612words
That day, approaching the rink as usual, I spotted a crowd swarming the entrance.
Dad stood trapped at the doorway, his face ashen.
I pushed through the mob, bombarded by reporters' questions firing like machine guns.
"Coach Shaw, what's your response to Lucas Lane's allegations?"
"Did you physically abuse your students during training sessions?"
I only learned the full story later.
Lucas had given a tearful interview to a major sports outlet, accusing my father's club of systematic physical abuse.
The video exploded online.
Headlines grew increasingly sensational by the hour.
"Champion Coach or Child-Abusing Monster?"
"Abuse Rampant in Elite Skating: Who's Protecting Our Children?"
I read those reports with trembling hands.
They had no idea what the truth was.
Figure skating is inherently dangerous—every movement like dancing on a knife's edge.
One inch off in force application or one degree wrong in landing angle means the difference between success and serious injury.
Dad had dedicated his life to skating and had seen countless kids injured from poor technique.
That's why his methods were strict.
When Lucas first arrived, his fundamentals were shaky, but he was desperate for quick progress and always attempting advanced moves.
Dad warned him repeatedly, but he never listened.
Once, he insisted on attempting a triple jump with completely wrong technique and nearly shattered his ankle on landing.
Dad lost it and cuffed him on the back of the head.
"How many damn times have I told you? Without fundamentals, everything crumbles! Do you want to skate for a lifetime or be crippled for one?"
That was the extent of the "abuse."
It was an experienced coach's frustration with raw talent, a mentor's tough love for a stubborn protégé.
But in Lucas's telling, everything became twisted beyond recognition.
The media salivated over the story.
A talented underdog from humble beginnings, a seemingly kind but secretly monstrous coach, a traumatic past, a courageous whistleblower.
It was the perfect narrative.
Worse still, someone dug up the old report about my mother's alleged abuse.
Though that investigation had concluded no abuse occurred, it poured gasoline on the current fire.
"The whole family is a nest of abusers! How is this club still operating? Shut it down now!"
Content vultures circled like sharks scenting blood.
Public outrage snowballed out of control.
Then came the parents.
The same parents who'd given us gifts, presented honorary banners, and sent grateful holiday messages.
Now they showed their true colors.
"Refunds! We demand refunds!"
When blood's in the water, even friends become predators.
Those once-smiling, grateful faces transformed overnight into snarling accusers.
The club's business collapsed.
Existing students withdrew in droves, and no new ones appeared.
The rink we'd partnered with for years informed us they wouldn't renew our contract.
Each day brought fresh disasters.
Within six months, the club was finished.
On our final day, I helped my parents pack everything up.
The walls still displayed those honorary banners: "Excellence in Teaching," "Tireless Mentor," "Students Across the Nation"…
The gold lettering caught the sunlight, mocking us.
Dad removed each banner carefully, folded them, and placed them in cardboard boxes.
Watching him, I realized how much he'd aged in these few months.
That once-vibrant coach, that father who'd taught me to skate hand-in-hand, that beloved "Coach Shaw" surrounded by adoring students…
Now he stooped like an ordinary old man crushed by life's cruelty.
And the architect of all this destruction? The very student he'd poured his heart and soul into training.
Lucas Lane.
Little did I know, this was just the beginning of my downfall.
