“Ten days,” I said against his mouth.
“You can do ten days.”
“I did seven last time. Barely.”
“This time is different.”
“How?”
“Because you’re not coming back to a guest room. You’re coming home.” He pulled back to look at me. “To our home. That’s worth ten days.”
He was right. It was worth it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Marco
Skating felt like coming home.
I pushed off from the boards, gliding into the empty practice rink, and everything in me settled. The scrape of blades on ice—that familiar sound that had been absent for eight weeks—filled the empty arena. Cold air bit at my face, sharp and clean and perfect. The resistance and give of proper skating after weeks of hobbling around on crutches and a walking boot felt like rediscovering a language I’d thought I’d forgotten.
This was what I’d been missing.
“Easy,” Chuck called from the bench. “Start slow. Let’s see how the foot handles it.”
I nodded, keeping my movements controlled even though every instinct screamed to open up, to fly, to push my body the way I used to. The yellow NO CONTACT jersey on my back felt ridiculous—I was the only one on the ice—but it was protocol. A visible marker that I was still recovering, still not cleared for full practice.
But I was skating. Finally skating.
I took my first full lap slowly, testing the foot with each stride. The blade bit into the ice. The angle felt right, the push-off engaged muscles that remembered this movement even after weeks of disuse and then physical therapy. My right foot—the injured one—felt different. Not wrong, just… aware. Like it was concentrating harder than the left, working to keep up.
No pain, though. Some stiffness, some tightness in the arch, but no pain.
Another lap, slightly faster. I pressed harder on the push-off, testing the limits. The foot held. My balance was good. The edges felt clean.
Third lap. Faster still. Now I was really skating, not just gliding. The wind against my face, the rhythmic scrape of blades, the effortless speed that came from proper technique.
By the fourth lap, I was grinning like an idiot.
“How’s it feel?” Chuck shouted.
“Good. Great!”
“Keep going. Give me some crossovers. Inside edges, test that lateral movement.”
I transitioned into crossovers around the corners, lifting the outside leg over the inside, weighting the inside edge of my blade. This was where the foot would tell me if something was wrong—the angle, the pressure, the torque on the metatarsals.
Right foot over left. The movement felt foreign after so long, but possible. Again. Smoother. Again. The muscle memory kicked in.
“Good!” Chuck called. “Now the other direction. Outside edges this time.”
I switched directions, asking the injured foot to bear more weight on the crossover. The first one was tentative—would it hold? Could I trust it?
Left foot over right. This side was easier—the injured foot on the inside, less pressure. Even so, it worked. It held.
Second one, more confident. Third one, actually smooth.
“Backward!” Chuck shouted.
