There’ssomethingaboutthesound of skates on scraped ice that still gets to me.
Even now, a year and a dozen bus rides into this thing I used to call a dream. I can’t hear it without feeling like I’m seventeen again. Like I’m still chasing something I’m not sure I deserve to catch.
But that’s not today.
Today, I’m just trying to get across the locker room without falling on my ass from exhaustion. My legs are jelly. My shoulder’s bruised. Someone threw up on the team bus this morning, and I’m pretty sure I’ve had three granola bars and one vending machine Red Bull in the last twelve hours.
This was the choice I made, and it was worth it. Choosing New York meant a two-way contract starting on their developmental team. Did I have a chance to go straight onto the pro roster in Arizona? Yes. Did I consider it for more than thirty seconds? No. Because I was happy to prove myself. To take the time to furtherdevelop my skills before moving up. So now I know that I’ve earned my place.
So, here I am, exhausted but happy. Tired, sore, and behind on laundry. But happier than I ever knew I could be.
I push through the double doors of our practice rink and step into the wind outside. It bites through my hoodie, slicing along my neck, but I don’t care.
Because I get to go home. To her.
Our place isn’t big. Nothing is in Manhattan, but we make it work. I’ve learned to live under the same roof as the cluttered space she calls an office. It’s the second “bedroom” that could moonlight as a closet. Papers are stacked in random corners, and she’s got tripods and lights set up to create the perfect setting for the videos she still makes.
They’re just a little more analytical now. She melded her job perfectly with her influencing. Her work laptop is covered with hockey stickers, and the cats are constantly in and out, leaving their toys lying around everywhere. The kind of mess that would have driven me to distraction a year ago. But to her, it’s the perfect workspace. And I’m learning to accept the fact that not everything has to be perfect all the time.
Bluebeard meets me at the door as always, winding around my ankles. I stumble, cursing, then reach down to give him a scratch under the chin. He lets out a chirp that’s one part greeting, two parts passive-aggressive guilt trip for abandoning him.
Simon, our white and orange menace, yawns from the top of the couch, tail twitching. Winston, the new black floof, is nowhere to be seen. Which means he’s probably inside a drawer. Or in the fridge. Or plotting a heist in the closet.
“Hey, monsters,” I say, dropping my gear bag and toeing off my shoes. “Anyone break anything today? You hold down the fort?”
Bluebeard blinks at me like I’m the idiot in this equation.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet, but I already know where she is. Celeste’s performance starts in an hour.
I throw on a sweater and book it down the block to the nearest train, texting Luna as I go.
Me: On my way. Don’t kill me.
She replies with a skull emoji and a GIF of a ballerina dropkicking someone. I chuckle. She’s right. It wouldn’t be Luna causing me bodily harm if I showed up late. It would be her sister.
By the time I slip into the theater, the lights have already dimmed, but I show my ticket to the usher, who points me toward the front. Luna’s in the second row from the stage on the aisle. Her profile is silhouetted in the stage glow, sharp and beautiful and familiar in a way that still knocks the wind out of me.
I slide into the seat beside her, and she doesn’t look at me, just hands me a folded program.
Celeste’s name is circled in pink highlighter and surrounded by at least six stars.
“She’s got a solo pretty soon,” Luna whispers, not mad. She understands. And that’s the beautiful thing about us. I’m still getting used to it over a year later. There are no strings, no expectations. We understand the responsibilities of each other’s jobs. But we know we can count on each other when it counts.
I nod, trying not to make too much noise as I’m settling in.
A familiar ache rises in my chest as Celeste takes center stage. She’s grown. Not taller, but steadier. Stronger. Her arms glide through the air with impossible grace. She dances across the stage as if she’s floating, and then she spins. Something deep inside me cracks.
It’s not the usual thunderstorm of panic, not that chest-tight, world-narrowing dread. It’s the other kind, the kind I used to fear because that depth of emotion was frowned upon. Weak.
But I let myself feel. Because this matters. Because she matters. Our lives are inextricably woven together now.
Luna slips her hand into mine and leans in, whispering low. “Are you crying again?”
I swallow. “No.”
She smirks. “Then what’s with the excessive blinking?”
“That’s called blinking.”
