He gave me a knowing smile, his eyes reflecting the flicker of the streetlamp overhead. “Just forget about all of them. They're not worth losing that pretty smile over.”
"Trust me, that's the plan." I waved a quick goodbye and turned toward the one entrance I knew would be unlocked.
Mr. Macintosh often worked late at the arena, and he never minded when I came by for a late-night skate. It was a godsend really. There were so many emotions I needed to purge, and the ice was the perfect outlet. Even though I wasn’t playing hockey anymore, every rink still felt like home.
In the visitors’ locker room, I laced up my skates, then made my way down the tunnel. The ice was pristine, perfect. The Zamboni had come through after the high school game earlier, and nothing had touched the surface since. It was smooth and unblemished, without a single mark, no grooves, no shavings.
For the first time all day, a genuine smile tugged at my lips.
Travis couldn’t touch me here.
The first lap across the ice was the sweetest. It reminded me why I kept doing this, despite the poor pay and the even poorer prospects for women in the sport. The only thing that made it bearable was the solace of the rink. And in some ways, the fact that I had no family left to ask why I wasn’t “doing more” with my life.
The answer, honestly, was that I wasn’t sure.
I’d never seen myself as a mother, never entertained the typical dreams that society pushed. The only dream I had was to stay as close to hockey as I could, even if it meant scraping by.
By the time I reached my fourth lap, sweat was already beading on my skin. By the ninth, my legs were burning in that delicious, almost painful way that only comes after pushing yourself to the limit. In my mind, I was holding a stick, moving a puck—backhand to forehand, as if I were in the game.
The door by the benches suddenly banged open, and I skidded to a stop, my skates carving a sharp line in the ice as I turned to face the newcomer.
It was Mr. Macintosh, his graying hair so thin it resembled Bernie Sanders's, and oddly enough, he was wearing figure skates.
“Frankie!” he beamed, his face lighting up with his usual warmth. A young woman stood beside him, bending to remove her skate guards. She was pretty in an understated sort of way. Her chin-length black hair was so straight it looked like one solid sheet of silk, her thick glasses with clear frames magnifying her eyes. She was short and slight, fragile-looking, like one good fall on the ice might shatter her.
Mr. Mac wobbled onto the ice, arms flailing for balance like a child taking their first steps. I didn’t know how old the team’s owner was, but he had more energy than most people half his age. His arms flailed wildly, and without thinking, I skated toward him, ready to catch him before he fell.
“Thanks, Coach!” He grinned, steadying himself with my help.
“Um, sir…” I scratched the back of my neck, hesitating. “Are you sure you should be out here?”
He waved dismissively and nodded toward the woman gliding effortlessly in our direction. “My granddaughter Lucy promised to teach me how to skate.”
“In figure skates?” I bit my lip, fighting back a laugh at the sight of him, arms still flailing like a windmill.
Lucy remained silent, eyes focused on the ice beneath her.
Mr. Mac’s smile didn’t falter for a second. “It’s what she knows. Lucy, this is Frankie—one of the team’s amazing coaches.”
She gave a brief nod in my direction and offered a quiet, “Hello.”
Mr. Mac placed a proud hand on her shoulder. “She’s a student at UCLA, but she had a free weekend to visit her dear old granddad. Isn’t that the best?” His voice was thick with affection,his gaze fixed on her with such warmth and adoration that it felt almost too much to watch. I’d lost my grandparents when I was young—before my parents. They’d never been able to love me the way he loved Lucy.
The girl in question hugged her arms across her chest, her eyes cast downward at her skates.
“I can get out of your way,” I offered, taking a small step back. It was his arena, after all.
“Nonsense. You’re never in the way, sweetheart.” He gave me a mischievous grin. “Especially not when you’re whipping those boys into shape.” He turned to her, his eyes twinkling. “Did I ever tell you about the time Frankie sent our own Teddy to the penalty box during practice just because he annoyed her?” A loud, cackling laugh escaped him, echoing through the rink.
Lucy nodded with a smile. “That’s my favorite story of yours.”
She speaks! Her voice was soft but carried a sweet, melodic tone that made me realize she wasn’t rude, just incredibly shy.
When she finally looked up at me, she added, “I feel like I know every coach and player just from how often he talks about them.” There was warmth in her voice, and instantly, I liked her. Mr. Mac had a way of drawing affection from those around him, and anyone who cared for him was automatically good in my book.
“I didn’t know he had any grandkids,” I said.
“Oh.” Her cheeks flushed pink. “There are quite a few of us, but I’m around the most.”
