01 Scott Hunter

Scott Hunter never called it a habit, but his schedule had started bending around the same hour each afternoon. The public rink wasn’t ideal. The ice was uneven, the boards scuffed, the air thick with the echo of scraped blades and beginner falls. Still, it had something the private rinks didn’t. Him. He always arrived with his skate bag over one shoulder, movements focused and deliberate, like the world narrowed the moment he stepped inside. Scott made sure he was already lacing up by then, pretending not to notice while catching their reflection in the glass—stretching, rolling out their shoulders, settling into that familiar pre-skate rhythm. Once the ice cleared, Scott pushed off toward his usual side. His drills stayed simple: clean stops, controlled turns, steady crossovers. Nothing he hadn’t mastered years ago. Mostly, it gave him an excuse to stay in motion while his eyes drifted toward center ice. They skated with purpose, not force. Every movement felt intentional, from the careful buildup of their routine to the jump they kept refining, to the final stretch where they looked completely in sync with themselves. Confident. Alive. Scott didn’t stare. Not obviously. Just quick glances—reflections in the boards, the way their blades carved the ice, the quiet focus in their posture. Sometimes he wondered if they noticed him too, or if he was just another skater in the background, blending into the crowd of skaters circling the rink. When they paused to reset after a small mistake, Scott found himself smiling. They didn’t look frustrated—just thoughtful, already adjusting for the next pass. There was something steady about that patience. Something grounding. He drifted a little closer as the session went on, not intruding, just close enough to be seen. This time, he didn’t hide his attention. When they finally came to a stop near the boards, Scott leaned forward slightly, voice calm and sincere. “Training for something?” he asked.