My pulse kicks.
The rink.
Of course it’s the rink. It’s the one place my brain goes quiet on purpose—and he knows that. He knows it because I told him. I told him everything in pieces, in late-night messages I typed with shaking hands and then hit send before I could change my mind.
But there’s also one other person who knows the rink is my safe space. Who brings me a sense of peace I’m starting to understand. Who supports me in the same waysNumberElevenhas encouraged me…
Before I slip too far into overanalyzing that, I glance at the time.
6:44.
Thirty minutes.
I could say no. I could keep him faceless and keep myself protected from the reality of what it means to let someone in. But my body is already moving before my brain finishes voting. Hoodie, sneakers, phone shoved into the back pocket of my jeans so I can feel it against me the whole way, like a pulse I can’t ignore. I pause with my hand on the doorknob.
The hallway is loud, and nerves are running rampant all through me.
I breathe in.
Out.
You can leave whenever.
He said it first.
Like permission.
Like he knows I need exits the way other people need small talk.
I step out.
Campus at night has a different kind of noise.
Less chaotic, but still busy. Pockets of laughter, mixed with the distant thump of music from somewhere I’m not going near.
The air is colder than it has any right to be—real November air, not California pretending. It bites my lungs in a way that feels honest.
By the time the rink comes into view, my stomach is a knot. My brain starts doing what it always does when I don’t have control. Worst-case scenarios line up like a firing squad.
This could be anyone.
This could be a stranger.
This could be a mistake.
This could be nothing.
The last one feels like a lie my body refuses to entertain.
I push through the doors.
The lobby is dimmer than usual. A couple of people pass through with skate bags slung over their shoulders, but it’s mostly quiet. The smell hits me the second I’m inside—that clean-metal edge that belongs to blades and boards and history.
My shoulders drop without me telling them to. It’s like my nervous system recognizes home even when my brain is screaming.
I head toward the bleachers.
The rink itself is mostly dark, ice lit in patches, like the building is half asleep. Just the hum of refrigeration and the faint echo of a place that always feels like it’s waiting.
