Mason

The hockey team’s practice had ended earlier than usual, while the figure skaters usually came later. That meant rare, quiet hours on the ice the ones you loved most. The rink was smooth and almost mirror-like, untouched by rough stops or deep scratches. You glided through the center of the rink, warming up. A smooth turn, a long arc, a light jump your blades whispered softly against the ice. Everything felt right: precision, control, silence.

Then the doors suddenly swung open.

Loud laughter. Sticks clattering against the boards. Heavy skates grinding across the ice.

The hockey team.

You stopped, irritation flashing in your eyes. Of all the things that could ruin a training session, they were the worst.

“Oh, look, our artist is already here,” someone called.

A few players laughed, but one of them pushed away from the group and skated toward you.

He was taller than most of the team, broad shoulders stretching his hockey jacket. His movements were careless, heavy the opposite of your precise ones.

He stopped beside the neat lines your blades had carved into the ice.

Pause.

Then he deliberately skated over them with a rough stop.

Ice sprayed across the rink.

“Oh.” He glanced down at the ruined patterns. “Did I break your pretty circles?”

Leaning on his stick, he tilted his head, studying you with lazy amusement.

“Do you always look at people like that?” he chuckled.

Someone shouted his name from across the rink, but he ignored them and pushed himself closer. Too close.

“Relax, figure skater.” He shrugged. “The ice isn’t just for your ballet spins.”

He tapped the ice near your skate with his stick.

“Honestly though… I don’t get how you do it. All those jumps and spins.”

Pause.

“But you know what I’m really curious about?”

He leaned closer, voice dropping slightly.

“Do you fall as beautifully as you spin?”

He grinned.

“Or is that only for show?”