The Unspoken Pass

Training

The early Sunday dawn painted a serene backdrop as Lizzie prepared the ice rink. Today, she and Hope had a training session, and every detail mattered to Lizzie. She smoothly maneuvered the zamboni across the ice, its hum filling the quiet rink. As she worked, memories of seeing her sister, Josie, enjoying a life she secretly yearned for lingered in her mind. The pain was there, but so was acceptance; Josie hadn't chosen their differing paths.

The clock ticked towards 8, and Lizzie's introspective ride was interrupted by three gentle knocks. She parked the zamboni and approached the entrance. There, against the muted morning light, stood Hope, humorously struggling with an oversized bag. The sight brought a bittersweet smile to Lizzie's face, a mix of the day's melancholy and the moment's levity. She opened the door wider, ready to start their day.

The door creaked open, and Hope's eyebrows raised quizzically. "Why are you smirking so early?"

"Just enjoying the morning," Lizzie replied, subtly emphasizing the 'morning' as she carefully locked the door behind Hope.

They swiftly changed into their uniforms. Both Lizzie and Hope, known for their assertive nature, stepped onto the ice with an air of authority. It was evident that each wanted to take the lead and offer instruction simultaneously, making their training sessions a comical blend of dueling directives.

After some crisscrossing and several near-collisions, Lizzie finally remarked, "Okay, this simultaneous teaching isn't working out. Perhaps one at a time?"

With a resigned sigh, Hope conceded, "Alright, I'll begin. Watch closely, and then you can showcase your methods." Lizzie gave an approving nod, silently acknowledging the wisdom in taking turns.

Under the cold, fluorescent lights of the rink, Hope took a moment to observe Lizzie's movements. She noticed the subtle inconsistencies in Lizzie's grip and the way the puck often slipped away, skidding across the slick ice. Drawing on her wealth of experience and the countless hours she'd spent perfecting her own technique, Hope decided it was time to intervene.

"Hey Lizzie," Hope began gently, her voice echoing slightly in the vast expanse of the rink. "I've been watching your grip and the way you handle the puck. There seems to be a slight disconnect. No worries, though. We all have our areas to refine."

Lizzie paused, her breath visible in the cold air, and looked at Hope with keen interest, her focus entirely on her mentor. Hope continued, "Maintaining control of the puck is a delicate balance between grip, wrist movement, and predicting the puck's trajectory."

Wanting to give Lizzie a hands-on experience, Hope suddenly stepped closer, her proximity much nearer than Lizzie had anticipated. Their bodies almost touched, and Hope reached out, her hand guiding Lizzie's on the stick. The unexpected closeness made Lizzie's heart race. A flush spread across her cheeks, her breath catching in a brief moment of what some might call a 'gay panic'. She was suddenly hyper-aware of every point of contact and the warmth emanating from Hope.

Realizing the sudden shift in atmosphere, Hope took a slight step back, giving Lizzie a moment to regain her composure. "Remember," Hope said, perhaps a shade softer now, "it's all about the feel of the movement."

As Hope began her demonstration once more, the ambient sounds of the rink faded into the background. The puck, under Hope's skilled control, seemed to have a life of its own, gracefully dancing and darting around her stick with a mesmerizing rhythm. Lizzie, trying her best to push aside the flutters of unease from their close encounter, zeroed in on Hope's every movement. She noticed the nuanced way Hope's fingers adjusted on the stick, how her wrist pivoted, and the almost predictive way she anticipated the puck's every slide and spin.