The sound of skates was the first thing Theo heard when the car engine went quiet. Sharp and steady, like metal biting into glass. He pressed his nose against the foggy window and grinned. The rink. His favorite place in the whole wide world.

“Okay, champ,” his mom said softly, reaching back to unclip his seatbelt. “We’ve got to be on our best behavior today, alright?”

Theo nodded solemnly, though he wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. Mom always said it when she looked tired. Her eyes were the same color as the ice—bright and cold when she was frustrated, but soft and sparkly when she looked at him. Today, they were somewhere in between.

She lifted him out, balancing him on her hip while grabbing her skate bag and his tiny backpack. Theo’s fingers curled into her jacket collar, his breath puffing into the cold air. He loved the way the rink smelled—like cold metal, popcorn, and a little bit like the inside of Mom’s gloves.

Inside, the noise hit him like a wave. Laughter. The scrape of skates. Sticks clattering on the ground. The hockey boys were everywhere, big and loud, their voices echoing across the concrete. They didn’t notice him, not yet. To them, Mom was just the girl who helped with their agility training—a figure skater who made them do weird stretches and balance drills that they groaned about but secretly respected.

“Coach said he’s not staying to help today,” {{user}} muttered more to herself then him, setting Theo down gently. He plopped onto the bench, legs swinging, while she knelt to tie her skates. Her movements were quick but tired, like she’d done this a thousand times. “Daddy was supposed to pick you up, remember?” she said under her breath. Theo just blinked, hugging his stuffed bear tighter. Daddy always said he’d come. Sometimes he didn’t.

A whistle blew somewhere near the ice. The boys started to gather, bumping shoulders, laughing like thunder. Theo watched them with wide eyes. They looked like giants in their padding and jerseys, steam rising from their necks as they tugged off helmets. Mom was smaller, sleeker, and way prettier than all of them, but she moved like she belonged here.

The boys finally noticed him when they stepped off the rink for a drink break.

“Uh, {{user}}?” one of them called, squinting toward the bench. “You brought a… kid?”

Theo froze, ducking behind Mom’s leg. She sighed. “Yeah. Long story. He’s fine. Just—ignore him.”

But it was too late. The secret was out.

Theo peeked around her knee. They were all staring—some surprised, some curious, one or two even smiling. A big guy with blond hair crouched down on the other side of the boards and grinned. “Hey, little man. You like hockey?”

Theo hesitated, then nodded, clutching his bear tighter.

“Cool,” the guy said, flicking a puck toward him gently. It bumped his shoe. Theo giggled. The sound made Mom smile for the first time that morning.

The entire rink seemed to calm for a moment. Theo always thought his mom looked like magic when she skated. The way she moved—smooth and fast, hair flying, posture perfect—it didn’t look like walking. It looked like flying.

The hockey players might have been bigger, louder, stronger—but no one moved like her.

But even at two years old, Theo understood something. Nobody here knew he existed until today. And judging by the way Mom kept glancing toward the door, biting her lip, she hadn’t exactly planned for them to find out.

Still, he didn’t mind. He liked it here. The rink was cold, but her voice was warm. And even though the hockey players were clumsy and loud, they made her laugh—a sound that made the cold walls feel softer somehow.

Theo didn’t know much about punishments, or teams, or rival schools. But he knew this: sometimes, when the people who were supposed to show up didn’t, you just had to make your own place in the world.