2
IVY
NOVEMBER 30
The biting wind howls across the open stretch in front of me. I shiver, wishing I had more layers on. Below me, the track they’ve created for the qualifying rounds for the Ice Cross World Circuit snakes through the snowy landscape of the outskirts of Montreal, like a ribbon of ice.
My brothers, Max and Dean, are beside me. This is our third year competing in the qualifying rounds together, though only Max has two seasons under his belt. For Dean and I, last season was our first after we broke into the top twenty in our respective groups and earned our spots.
Max runs his hands over the gear with meticulous precision. He double-checks his skates because the sport we’ve chosen is equally thrilling and dangerous. Without the right equipment or protection, a moment of carelessness could end a career or worse. We wear the same type of heavy padding as ice hockey players, each piece a protective barrier against the impact of falls, crashes, and jumps.
Dean is bouncing on his feet, full of never-ending energy, working out the kinks with a few quick stretches. He cracks his neck and gives me the devilish grin I’ve seen a thousand times before from the baby of the family.
“You sure you’re ready for this, Bubbles?” he asks, using the nickname I got as a child. “I get the feeling you’re about to leave us both in the dust this season. All the additional off-season training is about to pay off.”
“Are you guys ready for me to break your records?” I push the helmet over my braided deep blue hair, a playful challenge in my voice.
“Just don’t take any unnecessary risks, sis, and you’ll be golden.”
Glancing down the icy track, I size up the twists and turns. My heart picks up its pace as I take it all in. This feeling right here is what I live for. There’s not many things in the world that fill me with the same rush.
“Competitor twenty-one, Ivy Campbell from the US. Are you ready?” the official calls out from the side of the track, snapping me from my running thoughts.
A sudden jolt of nerves and overflowing excitement mixes in my chest. I toy with my lip ring, the nervous habit I can’t shake. Nodding firmly, I give them a thumbs-up and turn on the GoPro camera on top of my helmet.
This isit. The moment I’ve been waiting for since the last race in March.
The buzzer sounds, shrill and sharp. I push off hard, rocketing down the track. The first turn comes up fast. Leaning into it, I feel the ice beneath my pink custom-made skates, decorated with white lightning bolts on the sides. My breath comes in quick bursts, each inhale jagged as adrenaline spikes.
Each jump is a test of my limits, a constant balancing act between speed and safety. There’s zero hesitation in my movements. The track opens up beautifully in front of me, and I glide down with the grace of an athlete who’s done this hundreds of times in the past. The home stretch flashes close and I push harder for the last few meters.
Crossing the finish line, I shoot up my fist in victory. The official’s voice crackles over the speakers, loud and clear. “Time for Ivy Campbell: 36.5 seconds, putting her speed at 19.2 meters per second. That’s nearly forty-three miles per hour for my non-metric friends.”
I did it.I beat my own record from the previous year! A rush of pride flashes through me. I’ve worked so damn hard for this moment alone. It was all worth it; every grueling practice, every early morning run before a shift, and every late-night meal prep when I wanted to go to sleep.
For now, my time is enough. It’ll most likely guarantee me a spot; I’ve done what I came here to do. Whatever happens next, whatever the other competitors bring to the table, I’ve most likely secured my place in the Circuit.
I wait by the finish line until Max and Dean race across, both coming in within five seconds of each other. Max is second while Dean is fourth in the men’s group. Unless something unexpected happens, all three of us Campbell kids will be heading back to the Circuit. I’m looking forward to sharing the road again with all the racers, and my brothers, this season.
Ice Cross is more than a sport to us all. It’s a lifestyle, a religion of sorts.
A calm settles inside me as I watch my celebrating brothers giving each other back slaps. No matter where the track leads, we’ll keep pushing and challenging ourselves together. Thisjourney isn’t about medals or records. It’s about being there for each other through every fall and victory. At this moment, I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
Even if it means sacrificing my nonexistent dating life and time for anything outside of my day job and training during the off-season. The grind can be tiring, both mentally and physically, but I push forward. I hope it all pays off, so I can enjoy a few more seasons before retiring from the sport and maybe, finally, settle down with a man worth my big heart.
Surrounded by my wonderful parents, brothers, a large extended family, and close friends, I’m truly loved. I’m grateful for them every day for that reason alone. But it’s not thesame. There’s an empty space inside me that only romantic love can fill, a growing ache to find that one person who feels like home. Maybe it’s foolish to believe that, but I do.
The main issue keeping me from living my happily ever after is that I have the worst track record when it comes to men. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my previous dating experiences, it’s that I’m a magnet for the broken and emotionally unavailable. As a nurse, I’m always gravitating towards the wounded, especially the ones with the invisible kind. I’ve dated aspiring musicians, broke Broadway hopefuls, guys with mommy issues, all with delusions of me financially supporting them. Every time, it’s the same damn pattern. I pour everything I have into the situationship, thinking I can help them heal if I care enough, waiting for them to meet me halfway. They never do.
None of it ever gets serious. I’ve never brought anyone home to meet my parents and brothers. Never introduced anyone to my many uncles, aunts, and cousins. Despite spotting the blaring warning signs, I often stay longer than I should, out ofmisplaced hope or stubbornness. Maybe even from some twisted sense of pride.
I have no idea how to stop trying to save people who wouldn’t catch me if I fall. Sometimes I wonder if my failed romantic relationships are partly to blame for my intense interest in downhill skating from the start. The extreme sport I call mine doesn’t need fixing. It needs guts, speed, and commitment instead. No mind games or second-guessing are involved. The track is the one place where I don’t carry someone else's weight.
Later, after the buzz of the qualifying rounds fades into the background, the three of us head to a cozy local diner for dinner. We won’t hear the final results for another three weeks, which kills any real celebration vibes, even with my new personal record.
Sliding into the booth next to Dean, a wave of bone-deep exhaustion tugs at me. It's the type of tiredness that comes with accomplishment, so I push through it. We order steaks and fries with beers, diving into a lighthearted exchange about the track, dissecting every curve and jump.
Max’s phone dings with a new text, and his expression softens. It must be Kayla, his partner and my close friend. Kayla has been part of the Ice Cross scene for a few years, and though she couldn’t make it to Montreal this weekend due to work, she’ll be on the same ice next weekend for her own qualifier. She and Max got together last season, and I can’t wait to be in the Circuit together with her again.
