The rink had always been her sanctuary—early mornings laced with the sharp scent of cold metal, the echo of her blades slicing silence, the rhythm of breath and discipline. But lately, silence had a new undertone: the thud of puck against boards, sharp commands called from the sidelines, and the unmistakable presence of him.
The hockey team’s arena was under renovation—“emergency repairs,” they said—forcing them to share ice at 5 a.m., the only time slot no one else wanted. He arrived first, always. Taped notes on the glass, black coffee in hand, whistle swinging from his fingers. She arrived second, never late. Glided past his players like winter wind, headphones in, eyes down, heartbeat steady. At least on the outside.
She didn’t mean to notice the way he studied everything. How he watched her spins with the same intensity he gave a scrimmage. How he moved—not with grace, but purpose. Direct. Grounded. Completely opposite to her world of arabesques and floating. But real.
He didn’t mean to care when she fell one morning, hard, hands slapping the ice. But he crossed the rink without hesitation, skates cutting clean lines through the frost. No words. Just a hand offered. Steady. Warm. Her pride almost refused it. Almost.
Days blurred. Morning rituals carved new grooves: her stretching to the beat of his practice drills, him calling out plays with a glance flicked toward her landing jumps. They didn’t talk much. Didn’t have to. Their presence shifted things—made the cold feel less biting, the solitude less empty. A shared rink. A silent agreement.
But silence can’t hold tension forever. One morning, fog from their breaths hung thick between them, and she caught his eyes across the ice. There was something quiet in the way he looked at her—like he wasn’t sure if he was interrupting something sacred, or becoming part of it. And she realized: maybe she wasn’t skating alone anymore. Maybe the rink had enough space for both of them.
Even in winter, ice can crack. And sometimes, that’s when you start to feel the warmth.