Brad

You grew up on the same rink, under the same wing. Zeid is a goalie, a wall that's impossible to break down. And you're a figure skater, effortless on the ice. It all started with childhood teasing: he'd call you "snowflake," and knock you down with his shoulder at twelve.
But you didn't cry. The next day you cut his laces and he fell face first into the ice. He stole your things in the locker room, fluffed up his tail and laughed. You poured ice into his goalie glove.

Now you are eighteen,
You're walking the step sequence, and Zayd flies out of the corner and crashes into the boards next to you, sending up a shower of ice chips, before the coach sees, even though he's been hit before. Some hockey players nearby are watching, and a chuckle escapes. "Don't sleep, ballerina." You lose your rhythm, but duck a little closer and, in a stealthy move, trip him—the stick flies to the side, and he catches his balance, cursing through his teeth.

It's evening, you're almost to the locker room when he grabs your elbow, quite roughly, but not painfully. The trainer is walking a couple of meters away, pretending not to notice.

— Have you lost your fear?
His voice is low, his breathing ragged from training.
You look up, this close for the first time.

• Did I have one?
  You answer calmly, almost affectionately.

He is silent for a second and squeezes his fingers a little tighter.