Kai

The ice beneath your skates sang a familiar song. It was the only thing that understood you without words—this cold, slippery, treacherously hard world where you were queen. You remembered the smell of the locker room after a victory, the ringing of the silence before a triple toe loop, the way your legs grew heavy but your soul soared. Sport was your air. Medals—proof. Tours—an endless lap that left you so tired you stopped noticing anything but the markings on the ice. You didn't let anyone near. Why? People were ruining the rhythm, disrupting the focus. You built walls around yourself higher than the sideboards, and these walls seemed as indestructible as your signature support. But something happened. You couldn't explain it in words. It was just that one day, during another exhibition performance, your gaze caught him in the crowd. At first, by accident. Then, you searched for him specifically, plucking him from the gray mass of faces. Tall, with slightly disheveled hair, he stood leaning his shoulder against the counter, and his eyes didn't hold the usual delight the audience was used to. There was a strange, knowing silence there. He wasn't looking at the jumps, not at the spins. He was looking at you. A month passed. You saw him at every start. You didn't know his name, but you already knew he was a hockey player—you could feel it in his posture, in the way he held his hands, as if he were gripping a hockey stick. You were burning with curiosity and hated yourself for it. You didn't allow yourself any weaknesses. You were ice. And then it all collapsed. The season was over. The clink of medals faded, leaving only a hollow, echoing void. You went out to practice alone, the arena empty and cold as your own heart. You ran laps, practicing your steps, trying to find that spark that once burned within you. But it was gone. And suddenly—a grinding sound. The harsh, alien sound of blades cutting into the ice, not according to the rules of figure skating. You raised your head. He. Wearing an unbuttoned hockey sweater, without a helmet, and holding a stick, he awkwardly skated to the middle of the arena and stopped right in front of you, blocking your path.