Get it together, Joel.
I pushed into my triple axel entry at full speed. The takeoff was clean, rotation tight, and I landed with my free leg extended in a line my father would have approved of. I held the landing an extra beat and let the edge carry me in a slow arc, arms open, chin lifted.
When I came out of it, he was standing at the far boards with his mouth slightly open.
Then he blinked, shook his head, and turned back to his edges.
But I'd seen his face. He'd looked at me like I'd shown him something real. Not the appreciation I got from sponsors, or the careful assessments from judges, or my father's endless notes. Just honest, unguarded awe.
My stomach fluttered.
No. I was not doing this.
I ran the entry twice more and missed the edge both times.
My phone buzzed at seven. I skated to the boards and started unlacing while he was still running edges on the far end. I didn't say goodbye. I didn't owe him a goodbye.
He called out anyway. "Same time tomorrow?"
My jaw tightened. "I'll be here at five."
"See you then." A pause. Then: "That was a sick spin... axel, I mean. You're really good."
It was too simple. Too genuine. Nobody talked to me like that. Nobody just said things like they were true without wanting something back.
I shoved my skates into my bag and left without answering.
The parking lot was empty except for my car and a beaten-up truck that had to be his. I didn't let myself limp until I was sure he couldn't see me through the glass doors. Then I let my weight shift off my ankle, just for a second, and the relief was sharp enough to make my eyes sting.
My car was where I'd left it, black and polished and exactly parallel to the lines. I'd detailed it myself last Sunday because the service I used had left a smudge on the passenger window. Inside, the leather was cool, and the air smelled like nothing at all.
I sat behind the wheel and didn't start the engine.
My phone showed three notifications: one from Natalia confirming breakfast, one from the meal prep company confirming tomorrow's delivery, and one from my father. His text had come in at 5:47 this morning, which meant he'd been watching the practice footage Natalia posted last week.
I didn't open it. I could write his critiques myself at this point. He'd find fault with my arm position on the landing, or he'd ask why I was wasting time on triples when we both knew the program needed quads. The specific words didn't matter. Whatever he'd written would sit in my chest like a stone for the rest of the day.
I'd answer him later, once I'd had time to compose something that sounded like compliance without actually conceding anything.
His truck had a Ristras sticker on the back window, peeling at one corner. The whole vehicle looked like it was held together by rust and stubbornness.
You're really good.
I turned the key and pulled out of the lot.
The drive to the café took twelve minutes. I knew because I'd timed it once, early on, when I was still building the schedule that ran my life. Twelve minutes from rink to café, eight from café to apartment, three from apartment to the trail where I ran. I had the whole city mapped in intervals, every transition accounted for, no gaps where something unexpected could slip through.
My ankle throbbed in time with my pulse. I adjusted my grip on the wheel and watched the mountains turn pink in my rearview mirror.
The hockey player's face kept surfacing. His stupid grin lingered, and so did the way his whole body had loosened when he stepped onto the ice. He'd watched me land that axel like I'd shown him something impossible.
I turned the radio on, then off again. The silence was better. At least it was something I could control.
Natalia was already at the café when I arrived, her dark hair pulled back, her posture perfect even in a vinyl booth. She'd been pairs champion twice before her shoulder ended her competitive career. Now she carried mine instead, managing sponsorships and social media and the interview requests I kept turning down.
She'd followed me to New Mexico when I left Minnesota. I'd told her not to. She'd come anyway.
"You're late," she said. She studied me over her coffee. "What happened?"
