𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭

twelve

Kaiden

The rink was still quiet when I showed up, early enough that I thought I'd have the place to myself. I lugged my bag over my shoulder, feeling the weight of my gear, and let the silence sink in as I walked toward the ice. Nothing beat these early mornings. Just me, the fresh ice, and a few hours to get in some drills without interruptions.

But as I came around the corner, the silence was shattered by the sound of someone yelling.

The voice was deep, commanding, cutting through the cold air in harsh French. I squinted, trying to make out the shapes on the ice, and then realized who it was: Delphine and her coach.

She was circling the rink, her movements fast and precise, but there was something... off.

Her coach was at the edge of the rink, his arms crossed and his expression severe, barking instructions in rapid-fire French.

I couldn't understand a word of it, but the tone made it clear he was on her case, pressing her to go faster, push harder. He gestured sharply with his hand, emphasizing every syllable. The intensity radiated off of him, and the way Delphine skated, you'd think she was trying to outrun her own shadow.

"Encore! Ce n'est pas suffisant, Delphine!" he bellowed, his voice echoing around the empty rink.

("Again! That's not enough, Delphine!")

I hesitated on the sidelines for a moment, unsure if I was interrupting something, but I finally stepped onto the ice, claiming my side of the rink.

She barely acknowledged me, her focus zeroed in on her coach, who was glaring at her with the kind of intensity that made me wonder how she could stand it. I started warming up, focusing on basic drills, but my attention kept drifting back to her.

"Arrête de danser! C'est du patinage artistique, pas un spectacle de ballet!" her coach barked, his hands cutting through the air.

("Stop dancing! This is figure skating, not a ballet show!")

Delphine shot him a look, her jaw clenched in frustration. I couldn't hear her response, but from the way her lips moved, I could tell she was talking back, and not nicely. Even though I didn't understand French, I could catch the sarcasm in her tone.

She pushed herself into another routine, gliding across the ice with sharp, practiced movements, every step controlled and precise. There was a rhythm to the way she moved, a kind of grace and grit that I could almost admire—not that I'd ever say it out loud. But she looked tired, like she'd been going at it for hours already.

"Non, tu fais ce que tu penses être bien. Mais tu te trompes!" He snapped, his voice rising in frustration.

("No, you're doing what you think is right. But you're wrong!")

I tried to focus on my drills, skating back and forth, working on my shots. But every time I glanced over, I saw Delphine struggling to keep up with his relentless pace.

Her face was pale, and there was a slight tremor in her movements, like she was just barely holding it together.

"Tu es trop lente! Plus vite, Delphine!" her coach demanded, his voice grating on my nerves just from listening to it.

("You're too slow! Faster, Delphine!")

I shook my head, letting out a low breath as I pushed off again, trying to get back into the rhythm of my own practice. But the more I watched, the more I could see her faltering, her legs trembling as she landed each jump. She was obviously exhausted, but she kept going, pushing through each spin and jump as if her life depended on it.

Her coach's voice grew louder, more insistent, his words blending into a blur of French reprimands that I didn't need to understand to know he was tearing into her.

Delphine's face was flushed, her breathing shallow as she struggled to keep up, but she didn't stop. I had to admit, the determination was impressive, even if it seemed borderline insane.

As I circled back to my side, I caught her coach glaring at me, clearly annoyed by my presence, but I shrugged it off.

It wasn't like I was going to leave just because he didn't want me here. I went back to my drills, trying to ignore them, but Delphine's movements kept catching my eye.

She launched into a jump, her form nearly perfect, but when she landed, her knee buckled slightly, and she stumbled, just for a moment.

Her coach yelled something else, his voice sharper than before. Delphine gritted her teeth, her hands curling into fists as she steadied herself, her face set in defiance.

"Ne te laisse pas distraire! Concentre-toi, Delphine!" her coach snapped, shooting me a glare, as if I were the reason she was slipping up.

("Don't let yourself get distracted! Focus, Delphine!")

She didn't even glance in my direction, just squared her shoulders and started again, pushing herself even harder. Her movements were still precise, but there was a strain in her posture, like she was running on fumes. It was obvious she was barely holding on, but she kept pushing, her face a mask of determination.

The rink was quiet except for the sound of her blades slicing through the ice and the occasional, irritated huff from her coach. I tried to go back to my own routine, but I couldn't help watching as she circled the rink, her face growing paler with every turn.

Then, suddenly, she stopped.

Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide as she stumbled toward the edge of the rink, barely making it off the ice before she doubled over, her shoulders shaking.

It took me a second to realize what was happening, and when I did, I felt a strange twist in my stomach.

Her coach followed her, his face hard as he spoke to her in French, his voice low and unforgiving.

"Tu dois être plus forte que ça, Delphine," he said, his tone dripping with disappointment.

("You need to be stronger than this, Delphine.")

She didn't respond, just wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looking as if she were barely holding herself together.

I felt a strange urge to go over, to say something, but I held back, unsure of what I'd even say.

It was obvious she didn't want anyone's help, least of all mine.

Her coach kept going, his voice a quiet hiss that I could barely make out, but the look on her face said it all.

She was exhausted, humiliated, but she wasn't going to let it show. She straightened up, brushed herself off, and nodded, as if she were agreeing to something. I couldn't help but feel a grudging respect for her—she didn't back down, even when it was clear she was at her limit.

"Encore une fois, mais cette fois, fais-le bien," he said, his voice softer but no less demanding.

("One more time, but this time, do it right.")

She took a shaky breath, nodded, and stepped back onto the ice, her face a mask of cold determination. I watched as she pushed off again, her movements steady but slower, like she was conserving what little energy she had left.

It was hard not to be impressed, even if it was borderline crazy. I couldn't imagine putting myself through something like that, not for anything.