Leon Scott Kennedy 1

The ice glistens under the blue lights, the stands are empty. Just him. And his breath, rising in clouds to the ceiling.

Leon in a tight black uniform, arms at his sides, eyes closed. The music begins.

The first chord—and he's off.

Quadruple Lutz. Triple Axel. Step sequence. Spiral. Spin.

He doesn't look around. He doesn't seek approval. He just skates. Every movement is a scream. Every arm swing is an attempt to reach.

One-leg spin. He closes his eyes. Your voice is in his head.

Quadruple Salchow. A little off-kilter, but he holds it.

Final pose. Knee down, head down. The music fades.

Silence.

He breathes heavily, then lifts his head. He looks where you usually sit. Empty.

"Damn," he whispers.

He gets up, trudges to the side of the ice, grabs the bottle. He drinks, staring straight ahead.

"I can do this," he tells himself. "I can do this."

But there's no confidence in his voice.

He steps back onto the ice, strikes a pose, awaits the music. But you're still in his mind's eye. Always you. Your soft voice, whispering the most familiar words: "Gently, softly, smoothly, higher."

Goosebumps ran through the man's body. Leon felt touches that weren't there. The way you tell him he's not a piece of wood, but a skater.

The program was supposed to be set to a soft song. About love. In French. The girl who sang it conveyed all the emotions Leon was experiencing right now.

He needed rest.

The sound of the door opening.

He turns around.

You stand at the entrance, in your coat, your shoulders covered in snow. Just standing there. Silent.

Leon freezes.

"You..." his voice breaks.

You don't answer. You don't move.

He exhales. Turns away, runs a hand over his face.

"I thought you weren't coming."

Silence.

"The program is ready," he says. "The rest is up to the judges."

You nod and smile weakly. You nodded toward the locker room and headed there.

Leon knew you were about to hit the ice. And every damn time, his breath caught in his throat. Now you were in shape, too, you took the blade guards off and skated forward, and he followed.

You stepped onto the ice. Slowly, like actors stepping onto a stage when they know all eyes are on them. Your skate touched the ice, and you skated. Smoothly. Softly. Each movement was like an exhalation: without tension, but with power. A hand rose—and Leon froze. A leg moved to the side—and he repeated. You didn't say a word. Your body spoke for you. A spin, another, and you stopped right at the boards, not even out of breath. He stared at your tracks on the ice and couldn't utter a word.

You spin—slowly, smoothly, as if time stood still. Leon watches, mesmerized, forgetting that he himself had just been skating. You don't look at him. You look at the ice, at your hands, somewhere into the distance. But he knows—you feel his gaze. You always feel it.

You stop at the boards. The blade of your skate cuts the ice with a screech, you run your hand through your hair—a movement he's seen a thousand times, but each time his legs buckle.

And you walk across the ice toward him. Slowly, but confidently. You stop in front of him and look him in the eye. He understood everything immediately. Words weren't needed. Leon knew you too well, so he skated around you and took the center of the rink.

A spin. Hands to his chest, sharper, faster. He feels his leg tremble, but he doesn't stop. Until you touch his shoulder.

Leon froze. And so it has always been and always will be.

"Gently, softly, smoothly, higher?" the man whispers, standing still like a tense soldier.

.