"She's on the ice," Hannah says as soon as she sees me, head tipping toward the glass.
I follow her chin and find them. Aubrey working through drills with the focus only a nine-year-old who's been skating since she could walk possesses. Silas is beside her in warmups—practice jersey, gloves, no helmet because it's family skate and he knows every kid out there by name. He's not coaching her basics because she's got those down. He's showing her how to sell a fake, how to read a defender's hips.
"Weight on your inside edge," he calls, demonstrating. "Make them think you're going wide."
She mimics him but nearly loses her balance before tightening her core. "Like that?"
"Less drama, more control all the way through. You're not trying out for theater."
"You said sell it!"
"I said sell it, not perform a one-woman show."
I catch his profile reflected in the glass—mouth easy, eyes soft. Not scanning exits. Not counting doors. Not pretending to watch his sister while tracking threats. Just existing on ice like that's what he was built for and this is what it's for today: teaching a girl he loves the finer points of the game they both live for.
I step through the gate and onto the rubber matting. My ankle doesn't argue, and I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. Silas spots me at the boards and his mouth tips in that way he keeps just for me, the one that says there you are without making a big deal of it.
"Katibug," he says when they skate over, grinning. "Permission to tire this athlete out before homework."
"Permission granted," I say, leaning over the rail. "Terms: hot chocolate with extra marshmallows after."
Aubrey lights up like I offered her a golden ticket. "And whipped cream?"
"Obviously."
She looks at Silas, smug. "See? Kate is nicer than you."
"Kate's a softie," he stage-whispers. "But she also makes you finish your water bottle before dessert."
Aubrey groans like I've sentenced her to a decade of hydration prison and pushes off again, this time practicing the move he just showed her. Silas skates backward in front of her, hands ready but not hovering.
"You okay?" he asks me under his breath, eyes still on Aubrey because he's learned he can watch both of us at once without making it feel like monitoring.
"I taped three ankles that will survive practice today because of me," I say, letting the pride stand naked instead of dressing it in apology. "And Coach Alvarez told me to register for spring semester."
His eyes flick to me, sharp and bright. "Did you?"
"I will. Tomorrow." A little shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold. "I've been tossing the idea around, and I think I'm ready to go for it."
He doesn't grab me and he doesn't make a show. He just leans in and bumps his shoulder into mine, small and sure. "That's my girl."
The words curl under my ribs and settle. "I know."
Aubrey nails the fake this time, cuts hard to the inside, and grins so wide I can see it from here. She pumps her fist like she just scored in overtime.
"Did you see?"
He pretends to squint. "Eh, I saw…decent edge work and questionable celebration form."
She squeals, indignant, and chases him toward center ice, where Rooks is running a small pack of kids through passing drills. Thorn pretends not to watch me watch them and fails, his mouth quirking when he catches me catching him.
"Alvarez is a good one," he says as I come back to the boards. "And it's what you always said you wanted to do."
"I think in people," I answer, and he nods like that was the right answer on a test he didn't tell me we were taking.
Hannah hip-checks Thorn's wallet hand when he tries to pay for ice time for a kid whose parent forgot their checkbook. "Your money's no good here," she tells him, which is hilarious because it's actually her money and he knows it.
On the ice, Silas runs Aubrey through the drill one more time, faster now, making her think. She executes it with the fierce concentration of someone who hates losing more than she loves winning.
