Bring it on

Chapter 1

I really have no idea why I'm still even pretending to be patient about it. The second the Zamboni finishes its round and the ice shines under those harsh overhead lights, it happens. I tense up. The hockey players show up soon.

Sure enough, like clockwork, a few minutes later, the first of them storms through the door, his oversized bag practically dragging on the ground behind him, his face a mixture of frustration and determination. You can tell by the way he stomps his boots on the rubber mat he's been waiting for this, he's here to own the rink.

I try to concentrate on my warm-up, but already my eyes are darting to the far corner, where they're all gathering, shoving and laughing like they're getting ready to wage war. They've got their sticks in hand, their pads on, their helmets pulled tight. They talk about drills like they're going to change the course of history, like their slapshots are going to make the ice crack. But here's the thing they don't get: I'm here to make the ice beautiful.

I'm a figure skater, and that means every move, every edge, every jump is an art form. I've spent hours-hours-getting my footwork perfect, my spins tight, my jumps clean. It's not just about skating; it's about telling a story with every glide. So when the hockey players come in, it's like they've walked into a theater and just started throwing popcorn at the screen.

Maybe I'm being over-dramatic. Okay, fine, I'm being over-dramatic. But you would never get it unless you'd stood in my shoes-or my blades, I should say.

The thing is, the ice is enormous, yes. But it's also public. And I hate sharing. I hate how they monopolize the entire center of the rink with their drills and crossovers and stupid slapshots. They leave no room for me to really breathe, to flow. Every time I attempt to glide out into the center, I'm overly aware of the fact that some guy is probably going to charge down the ice at top speed with stick in hand, and if I'm not careful, I'm going to get knocked over.

It's not that I don't get it. I understand hockey is intense. But figure skating takes all of another kind of concentration out there. The type of concentration where you can't always be looking over your shoulder to see if someone's going to run into you. And the hockey players, they don't even seem to realize it. They're too busy trying to perfect their slapshots, too busy getting their passes down with perfect precision. Meanwhile, I'm over here trying to land an axel without getting hit in the face with a puck.

And don't even get me started on when they decide to go full speed down the ice. That's when my heart rate spikes. They're all shooting pucks or doing these massive turns, slamming their sticks on the ice like they own the place. Last time I was out here, some fellow in a black jersey shoots a puck right past my ear. I practically fall over trying to get out of its way. You know how it is when something this fast flies by your head when you're in the air pulling off a jump? It's like at any moment, life could be over.

Sometimes I think they do that on purpose. They just don't care. Why would they? They're hockey players. To them, that's all that matters. They've got their own little world, their own little game. And I guess for them, that makes sense. But to me, well, it's different. I'm working out here. And the only thing worse than sharing the ice with hockey players is when they don't share it properly. When they leave their bags scattered all over the boards, or cut across the rink without looking. I've had to pull off some last-minute saves just to keep from slamming into them, and let me tell you, it's not fun.

I've had enough close calls to give second thoughts to my strategy. But what can I do, really? Confront them and ask them to kindly get out of my way while I perfect my camel spin? Not on your life. The only thing I can do is clench my teeth, swallow my frustration, and make my moves as carefully as possible-dodging, weaving, tiptoeing around them as though I was the one who didn't belong here.

Until, finally, after the longest eternity, there are only five minutes left upon the clock. That's when the ice finally clears. I can feel it deep in my bones, the knowledge that I have those last few moments of peace, the whole rink to myself, and I can actually fly again. Up until then, it is a battle. It was like, a constant game of "who's going to crash into me first" and "will they get their stick out of my way long enough to do my program."

I suppose that is the price I pay for sharing the ice with them. They get to skate however they want, fast and furious. Me? I have to be precise. Careful. Calm.

If they only knew how much harder it was to share the ice with them than it was to just skate on it alone. But for now, I'll keep dodging the pucks, ignoring the chaos, and doing my best to make the ice feel like it's just mine for a few precious moments.