In The Forgotten Gilmore, Alessia Gilmore grapples with adolescence in Stars Hollow, a town where gossip flows as freely as coffee at Luke's Diner. Overshadowed by her mother Lorelai's bond with twin sister Rory, Alessia finds solace in her irrevere...
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The rink was almost empty, the echo of skates cutting across ice reverberating through the cavernous space. Early morning light filtered through the frosted windows, casting a cold, pale glow on the surface. The stands were deserted, and the only sound was the rhythmic thud of a puck hitting the boards, followed by the sharp hiss of blades carving into the ice.
Riley Hastings was alone, a figure of relentless motion, driving himself harder and faster with each lap. His breath misted in the frigid air, chest heaving as he pushed through the burn in his legs. He wasn't counting how many times he'd circled the rink—he didn't need to. The routine was ingrained in him, a physical outlet that had always been his escape. But today, the escape felt hollow.
It wasn't just about keeping in shape or sharpening his skills. This time, it was punishment.
Riley skated with a fierceness that bordered on reckless, forcing himself to push past the exhaustion that tugged at every muscle. The events of the game replayed in his mind on a loop—the dirty hit, Beau crumpling to the ice, the unnatural angle of his wrist. And every time, Riley saw himself just a step too late, not quick enough to protect his friend. He'd been sent to the penalty box for defending Beau, but it felt like he hadn't done enough.
His anger simmered, directed more at himself than at the opposing team. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd failed his closest friend. He should have had Beau's back, but instead, Beau was the one sidelined, his wrist in a cast, unable to play the game they both loved.
Riley's skate blades gripped the ice as he launched into a sharp turn, driving the puck toward the net with everything he had. The sound of the puck slamming into the boards filled the empty rink, louder than usual, amplifying his frustration. He took shot after shot, punishing the ice, the boards, and himself.
The ice had always been Riley's sanctuary, a place where nothing else mattered but the game. But today, it was a battleground, and he was fighting against his own guilt. Every sharp cut and furious shot was an attempt to drown out the voice in his head that kept telling him he'd let Beau down.
His vision blurred with sweat and strain, but he didn't stop. He pushed himself harder, skating faster, each movement more aggressive than the last. His lungs burned, and his legs felt like they were made of lead, but he kept going. He didn't care about the pain; he welcomed it. It was easier to feel the ache in his muscles than to confront the gnawing guilt inside him.
He executed another tight turn, nearly losing his balance, but he caught himself, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the glass. He barely recognized the tired, angry guy staring back at him. His hair was damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from the exertion, eyes dark with frustration and something deeper—regret.
Riley stopped, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He slammed his stick against the ice in a burst of anger that startled even him. The sound echoed in the emptiness, a stark reminder that he was alone out here, trying to skate away from feelings that wouldn't budge.
"Damn it," he muttered to himself, the words barely audible over the cold silence of the rink.
He bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath as he stared at the ice beneath him. Memories flashed before him—Beau's laughter, their times of playing together, the unspoken bond that had always been there. They'd always been a team. And now, Riley felt like he'd failed that bond.
Wiping his forehead with his sleeve, Riley straightened, his eyes fixed on the puck. He knew Beau would tell him to let it go, that he was being too hard on himself. But the voice in his head wouldn't quiet. Riley had always been his own harshest critic, and now he felt the weight of every moment he hadn't been there for Beau.
Riley set up for another shot, the ice beneath him feeling like the only stable thing in a world that suddenly felt uncertain. He wound up, swinging his stick with all the force he could muster, sending the puck careening into the boards with a loud crack. The impact reverberated through his bones, and for a brief second, it was like the weight lifted. But it always came back, heavier than before.
He skated to the center of the rink, standing still for the first time since he'd started. The silence pressed in, the chill seeping through his layers, and Riley closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. The rink was his space, his outlet, but right now, it felt like the only place he could let himself unravel.
Riley knew he couldn't change what had happened. Beau would recover, and they'd be back on the ice together soon enough. But until then, Riley would keep skating, keep pushing, and keep punishing himself for the moment he'd been just a step too late.
With one final, exhausted breath, Riley turned and skated off the ice, feeling no closer to absolution but unwilling to stop trying. The guilt wouldn't disappear overnight, but for now, the ice would be there to take his anger, his regret, and everything he couldn't put into words. It was all he knew how to do.
As he left the rink, the empty space echoed behind him, the ice glistening under the morning light—a silent witness to the battle Riley was fighting within himself.
