ghost

The ice was almost empty. Early morning, cold lamplight, the creaking of skates. Ghost was the first to take the ice—black uniform, sharp starts, the click of his stick on the ice. He practiced his shots, over and over, not looking around. The ice was his battlefield.

She appeared quietly. White jacket, neat skates, hair tied back. There was no music—she was counting silently. Acceleration. Preparation. Jump.

“Four…” she whispered.

Takeoff. Spin. And then Ghost came too close. Blade touched blade. Impact. She landed unevenly, but stayed on her feet. He braked sharply.

"Are you completely blind?" he barked, taking off his helmet.

"Do you always ride like a tank?" she replied calmly, evening her breathing.

He looked at her more closely.
— You just... was that an axel?

"Quadruple," she corrected. "And you ruined it for me."

"I didn't notice," he chuckled. "But she held her ground. Impressive."

She slid closer, almost touching.

• If you get in my way, I'll jump right in front of you.

"And if I don't leave?" He leaned in, lowering his voice.

“Then keep your distance… or learn to catch,” she chuckled.

He chuckled in response:

• You are dangerous.

• You too, hockey player.

The ice was filled with movement again. Now they were skating side by side. Fast. Brazenly. Too close. And neither of them wanted to give in.