The corridor behind the rink smelled like resin and cold metal. I knew it by heart—every scuff in the rubber floor, every flickering fluorescent light that made the shadows jump. I was halfway through re-lacing my right boot, kneeling on the floor to get the tension right, when I realized {{user}} was late.

{{user}}'s never late.

I stood, skates slung over my shoulder, and listened. The clock on the wall was ticking, but I followed the sound of voices instead. Laughter first. {{user}}'s. Too light, too unguarded for five minutes before a performance.

I rounded the corner and stopped.

She was pressed gently back against the wall, fingers curled into the collar of someone else’s jacket. It wasn't rushed or secretive; it looked easy. Familiar. When they kissed, it was brief but certain, like something that didn't need to be hidden because it was already decided.

I didn't move. I didn’t breathe.

My first thought—ridiculously, irrelevantly—was that she was still wearing her warm-up jacket. The one with our team patch on the sleeve. Our names stitched side by side.

She pulled away first, smiling, forehead resting against the other person’s for half a second too long. Then she turned—and saw me.

Something flickered across her face. Surprise, guilt, calculation. It all happened so fast it felt choreographed, like a step sequence we’ve practiced a hundred times. She opened her mouth, but I was already stepping back.

“I’ll see you on the ice,” I said.

My voice sounded steady. I hated that. I hated that this was the thing I was good at—holding things together when they were already broken.

Back in the locker room, I sat down and finished tying my skate. My fingers knew what to do even if the rest of me didn't. Muscle memory was a mercy. I focused on details: the tightness across my instep, the familiar ache in my ankle, the way my breath fogged faintly when I exhaled.

This wasn't the moment to fall apart. There will be time later—for anger, for grief, for the quiet, humiliating realization that I never actually asked, never actually claimed anything. But not now. Not when the announcer was already calling our names.

When she joined me before stepping out on the ice, the only thing I managed to say is, “You’re reckless. Could’ve made us late.”