Bring it on

Chapter 7

I lean against the cold boards, eyes fixed on her. The rink is quieter now, the crowd's murmurs fading away as the lights overhead cast long shadows across the ice. My teammates are scattered in the locker room, waiting for their turn to practice, but I'm not going anywhere. Not yet. Not when she's out there.

Her figure skates bite into the smooth surface with a soft, almost rhythmic glide. I've seen her here before, always alone, always so focused-like the world outside the rink doesn't exist for her. Her routine has a quiet intensity, like she's telling a story only she knows how to tell. The first notes of August by Taylor Swift drift from the speakers, and I feel the air shift, as though the music itself has wrapped its fingers around my chest and squeezed.

She moves with the kind of grace that feels like effortlessness, like she's floating just above the ice, every spin and leap more fluid than the last. I try to remember the name of the jump she just executed-some double axel thing, maybe? I don't know, I'm not here for the technicalities. I'm here because there's something about the way she moves, the way she feels the music in her bones. It pulls me in, something magnetic, something tender, like a secret I shouldn't be listening to but can't help but hear.

The song builds, and so does the movement in her. Her body arcs, the curve of her back soft but strong, and I catch my breath. I didn't expect it, but the more I watch, the more I get lost in it, lost in her. Her face is calm, but there's this flicker of something in her eyes. Like she's caught between worlds-caught between the music and the ice and some memory only she knows.

I lean forward, elbows on the boards now, my attention split between her and the sounds of the song. Taylor Swift's voice hangs in the air, soft and haunting, and I think of August and what it's about-this fleeting, perfect moment that can never last. I can't help but feel it. The nostalgia in the lyrics. The ache in the melody. The way everything in life is like that-beautiful but temporary.

She's spinning now, faster and faster, her arms outstretched like she's trying to catch the wind, trying to hold on to something. I don't blink. Every time she comes around, her eyes flick to mine just for a second. It's subtle-so subtle that I wonder if it's even real, or if I'm just imagining it-but it makes my pulse quicken just the same.

I'm not supposed to be watching her like this. I should be gearing up for the game tomorrow, getting my mind in the right place, getting the right focus. But how could I focus when she's here, when she's out there on the ice, telling a story I can't even understand, but feel so deeply? The world feels different when she's skating. Quiet. Like everything's slowed down. Like time itself holds its breath.

She nails a jump, and her blades screech softly against the ice, and I almost let my breath out in relief, even though it wasn't me that was balanced on the edge of a fall.

But it is not only the perfect execution which keeps me nailed to the spot, but the feeling in the way she skates: gracious, controlled, vulnerable. It is all there. She doesn't look like she's performing. She looks like she's living something-something wild and free and fleeting. Something beautiful.

The music fades, and her routine begins to draw to a close. Slowing movements, the last notes hanging in the air like a quiet exhalation. The rink fills again with the sound of skates carving through the ice, but there's something hollow in it now. The magic's already left, and I can feel it.

She finishes breathless but composed, and the crowd starts clapping, polite, respectful. She bows, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips, but I catch the way she lets her eyes linger on the ground for just a moment before looking up again.

I stand up, clapping along with the others, but my palms are heavy, like I'm caught somewhere between wanting to stay silent and wanting to say something that matters.

She skates off the ice, toward the edge of the rink where her bag is waiting, and that's when I move. I'm already halfway across the rink before I realize what I'm doing, my skates cutting into the ice, following the path she's taken. She's pulling her hood over her head when I catch up, just a few feet away.

"Hey," I say, a little breathless. "You were-amazing out there."

She looks over her shoulder, her eyes widening for just a second. Then she smiles-that small but warm smile. "Thanks."

I feel like I should say more, but the words don't come. It's weird-being this close to her, when I don't even really know her. I've seen her skate before, sure, but this feels different. This feels like I'm seeing her for the first time.

"You-ah, you really felt the music," I say, awkwardly scratching the back of my neck. "I don't know how to explain it, but it was like... you weren't just performing. You were living it."

She stops for a second, then laughs softly, a sound that feels too delicate for the rink's harsh, cold atmosphere. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I don't know... when I'm out there, it's like nothing else matters. It's just me and the ice."

I nod, my gaze on her, trying to figure out if I'm imagining the way she seems to be saying more than just words.

"I get that," I say, taking a step closer. "I mean... not with skating, obviously," I chuckle a bit nervously, "but when I'm on the ice for hockey, it's the same thing. It's like I'm in another world. Just focused on the game."

She leans her head to the side, studying me for a moment. "So, what do you think-hockey or figure skating?" she asks with a teasing glint in her eye.

I grin, shrugging a little. "Honestly? I'd probably get destroyed in figure skating. But... I don't know, maybe I'd like it more than I expect."

Her smile widens and she steps back, pulling her bag over her shoulder. "Maybe you should try it sometime. You'd be surprised how much it messes with your balance. And your head," she adds with a wink.

I chuckle, the tension loosened between us. "I'll think about it. Maybe you can teach me some moves. Only if you're not too busy being amazing, though."
She laughs again then, more freely. "Maybe next time. I've got a routine to work on, but. I could show you a thing or two.

I'm about to respond when she looks back at the ice, and I catch how her expression changes-just for that moment. Her eyes soften, like she's already inside her own world, caught up in her next performance, the one she's already planning inside her head. It's the same look I've seen when she's skating-like nothing else matters but what's right in front of her.

I nod, giving her a small wave. "Next time, then," I say.

She gives one last smile before pulling her hood tighter and turning toward the exit, but I'm still watching her. Still thinking about how she skates, how she moves, how she gets lost in the music in a way that makes everything else-everything-fade into the background.

And for a moment, I swear I see her look over her shoulder, a flicker of something in her eye, as if she knows I'm still here watching.

It's a fleeting thing, like the last note of this song, but it stays with me long after she's gone.