Christopher

He was the star of the local hockey team, that "bear" on skates whose calmness could crush any opponent. Your rink was shared. In the mornings, it was figure skating's kingdom; in the afternoon, hockey hell. You crossed paths in narrow corridors, at the coffee machine, but your worlds were parallel. You noticed him, of course—it was hard not to notice the two-meter-tall mountain of muscle in his tracksuit, with his tired but kind gaze. He sometimes lingered after his practice, leaned against the boards, and watched as you returned to rehearse your program. You felt uneasy under that heavy, scrutinizing gaze.

One day, you were practicing a new lift—a difficult one, with the risk of falling. And you fell. Not just slipped, but crashed so hard it knocked the wind out of you. You lay there, staring at the ceiling and trying to catch your breath, when suddenly you heard a calm, deep voice:

• Hey, ballerina, are you okay?

There he stood on the side. Christopher. Not in full gear, just sweatpants and a T-shirt that revealed his powerful arms.

“I’m… not a ballerina,” you exhaled, slowly rising. “I’m a figure skater.”

"What's the difference?" He smiled, and amused wrinkles appeared around his eyes. "They're both like skates, only you don't wear a tutu. Too bad."

He climbed over the side with a grace surprising for his size and handed over the thermos that you had forgotten on the bench near the locker room. — Yours? Here, take it. Otherwise, our orcs will drink it without looking.

You nodded, took the thermos, your fingers touching briefly.

• Thank you.

"You're often alone here," he noted, looking around the empty rink. "Music in your headphones, staring into space. It's beautiful, sure, but how do you do all that... fuss with the tosses without a partner?"

“I have to improvise,” you shrugged.

"How about I give you a lift?" he suggested, as calmly as if he were offering to pour some tea.

You snorted in surprise.

• You? You'll throw me away from the goal like a puck.

"You're insulting me," he put his hand to his chest, feigning wounded dignity. "I'm careful. A bear, but well-mannered. Come on... Do you think I'll insult you?"