BRULES (JOY)
Rockefeller Center at Christmas is a glitter bomb. Lights everywhere, the tree punching the sky, crowds pressed to the railings. The air smells of roasted chestnuts and hot pretzels, and somewhere “Carol of the Bells” is blaring. Kids shriek, couples grip each other’s hands. The rink glows so bright, it looks staged. Our Defenders charity skate sits right in the middle of it—jerseys, Santa hats, chaos on ice. The crowd spots our guys and goes wild. Phones up. Screaming. Holiday mania with blades.
I check my shot list. I need seven short clips and two stills: Dmitri with kids, Wesley steadying a skater, Novak being obnoxiously charming, a team-wide “we love you” shout-out, and a slow-mo group skate-by that makes our TikTok comments turn into heart-eye emojis.
My phone buzzes. Mother.
I consider letting it ring out, but hiding from her is pointless. She’d find me eventually.
“Darling,” she says crisply. “I saw Bennett at the Whitneys’ dinner last night. He asked after you.”
“That’s generous of him,” I say, keeping my voice light while framing a shot of Dmitri teaching a kid to hockey stop. “Tell him I’m thriving.”
“He’s from a good family. Solid, grounded. He’d make sense.”
“So does gravity, Mother. Doesn’t mean I have to fall for it.”
A pause—a chill even the rink below can’t match. “You’re really willing to throw away twelve million dollars to prove a point?”
“I’m not proving anything. I just don’t want to marry or get engaged to Bennett Vance the Fourth. Honestly, Mother, it sounds terribly depressing. I’d wither from lack of stimulation.”
“Darling—”
“Mother, please. I don’t like this guy. There’s nothing you can say that will change my mind.”
“Then what are you doing?”
I watch Wesley across the rink, patient and solid as he helps a teetering skater find their balance. “I don’t know. Technically, I don’t need the money. Grandma was a tyrant, and I won’t let her boss me around from her grave.”
Mother exhales through her nose, sharp and controlled. “Don’t confuse ideals with income, dear. You have ten days. I suggest you use them wisely.”
Then she’s gone.
For a moment, the noise rushes back—tourists, traffic, the faint ring of blades carving the frozen surface. I think of my students in Harlem, of heat bills and dance shoes, the trust that could turn into scholarships—if I can just hold onto it.
The wind lifts my hair. Ten days. Twelve million reasons to keep my balance.
I pocket my phone and refocus on work.
Wesley’s in a beanie and gloves, expression bright. There’s a kid clutching his forearm. He talks the kid through tiny pushes, patient, smiling.
I zoom in. He’s ridiculous. Alaska shoulders. Alaska calm. A face that looks carved when he’s serious and softens when a kid tries to stand without falling. He was born for this kind of content, even if he hates that I call it that.
A ripple runs through the crowd as Finn O’Reilly slides past backward, defying physics. He winks at a row of tween fans, spins to a stop, then reaches for the hand of the woman gliding in behind him. His wife, Jessica. She looks at home here. They cut a neat line through the chaos—him cocky, her laughing, both of them smooth.
“Show-offs,” I grumble, and aim my lens.
“Jealous?” Finn calls, because of course he heard me.
“Of your ego? Never.” I wave him off and keep moving.
“Joy!” Dmitri bellows from center. “Ris is making a spin!”
I pan left and spot her. Dmitri’s daughter Amneris—Ris—seven going on seventeen, wearing a tiny blue practice dress with sparkles and a serious face. She does a little two-foot turn, arms out, knees bent, tongue sticking out in concentration. She lands it, listing like a drunk penguin, then flashes a triumphant grin.
“You’re a star,” I yell. She beams. Dmitri might burst into tears from pride, and I hold my phone ready, because that would definitely break the internet.
Jessica glides backward in front of Ris and nods at her feet. “Edges,” she says, kind and firm. “Knees soft. Good. Again.” Ris tries and gets it cleaner. Dmitri claps his giant mitts together so hard that three pigeons probably take off in Jersey.
