We head to the rental window, where a bored teenager leans against the counter, barely lifting his eyes from his phone. I ask where we need to go for the ice hockey league.
“West Rink,” he says, “but it’s rented for another fifteen minutes for private use. You can go inside, just stay on the chairs outside the rink until the lady is done.”
I glance at Adam. “One lady rented the entire rink for herself?”
He shrugs. “New York, man. Some people have too much damn money.”
We push through the door, the chill hitting me harder than I expected. Inside, a handful of what I assume are players from the league are already gathered in the bleachers. Some are chatting, some are lacing skates, and a few are quietly watching the ice. I start toward a guy holding a clipboard, figuring he is the one we need to talk to about the actual hockey equipment.
“Holy shit,” Adam says, leaning on the railing. “Is that the viper?”
The distraction pulls me off course. I turn to follow his gaze, my stomach dropping and my heart stuttering.
Sure enough, cutting across the ice is Ava. Her hair is slicked back and pulled into a tight bun. She’s wearing some kind of skintight black unitard. She looks completely at ease on the ice, the lines of her body graceful as she moves, which I suppose makes sense. I know she used to do ballet a lot as a kid; I’d gotten that much out of her in the past. Ice skating seems like a natural sort of progression.
“Certainly appears that way,” I say quietly, moving closer to the edge of the rink, unable to tear my eyes away from her.
The song over the loudspeakers switches, and it is popular enough that even an ’80s rock guy like me recognizes it. It blew up on social media after the blonde pop princess who sings it dropped her latest album. The track is slow and emotional, built around lyrics about wanting to rewrite fate, wishing for a different outcome, and asking the universe for a chance to be loved.
Adam whistles low. “Guess she’s got more hobbies than making people cry on the witness stand.”
I ignore him, watching as she starts to gather speed. I can feel his eyes on my face, and I know I’m probably giving far too much away, but I can’t seem to break the spell. How many times have I wished for a chance to crack her shell open and see what she’s feeling? And now it’s laid out in front of me, her heart laid bare on the ice.
She spins once, twice, her body held so tightly that it’s like she’s flying. When she stops, her chest heaves almost like she’s holding back a scream. She skates backwards, and even from a distance,I can see that her eyes are closed. I understand why she wanted the rink to herself now. A chance to work out her emotions through the music without risking running into anyone.
She launches into the air again, twisting once before she lands, her knees bending to catch herself. I don’t know what it’s called, but the image it brings to my mind is of someone throwing their whole body into trying to break free.
The music builds, and so does she. Her strides are longer, cutting across the rink in bold, sweeping arcs. She skids to a stop in the middle, dropping to her knees, head bowed. She twists and moves her body, the ballet background clearly on display. Her back arches and her fingers extend, every motion graceful and controlled.
Yet, it alsoisn’tcontrolled. Not really. I get the feeling she’s fighting herself. The movements are sharp one moment, melting in the next. She rises and skates backward again, fast enough that I’m sure she’s going to crash into the boards, but she skids to a stop only an inch away from them. She throws her head back, hands clutched to her chest.
As the music builds to its crescendo, she pushes off again, faster this time, carving sharp lines across the ice before catching the blade of one skate, leg lifting high as her body spins like a tornado. When she finally releases, the spin spits her forward, and she lands hard, the slap of steel on ice echoing through the empty arena. She staggers a half step before finding herself again.
The fight inside her is so obvious. Maybe not to everyone else. But I know this woman’s body like the back of my hand. The way her jaw clenches and her fingers curl and uncurl into fists. What is she fighting exactly? Herself? Me?
My mouth is dry and my knuckles are white as I grip the handrail along the wall of the rink. This feels important, like she’s coming to terms with something that will affect us, whateverusthere is.
By the time the last note fades, she’s in the center of the rink again, bent forward with one hand pressed to the ice and the other curled tight against her chest. Her shoulders tremble as she stays like that, motionless, long after the song has ended.
And then, slowly, she straightens. Her eyes sweep the rink as though she’s pulling herself back together, but she’s more relaxed than she usually looks in public. Until they land on me.
It feels like getting caught with my hand in the damn cookie jar. Like I’ve intruded on something sacred, something not meant for my eyes.
Her lips part slightly, surprise flickering across her face, but the corners of her mouth tip upward in the beginnings of a soft smile. For one dizzy second, I think she’s going to let me in.
And then Adam laughs. “Damn, I thought vipers were supposed to be cold-blooded. Since when does New York’s scariest defense attorney spin around like a wannabe ballerina?”
The dismissive way he saysballerinalands wrong. Ava’s expression shutters instantly, the softness vanishing like it never existed. Bythe time she skates toward us, her face is carved from marble.
“Enjoy the show, boys?” she asks, her voice edged with disdain.
Adam smirks, oblivious to the shift he caused. Or maybe he isn’t. Is he doing this on purpose? “Definitely unexpected. Never would have pictured you in sequins. Guess the viper’s got layers.”
Her gaze slides to me, and it feels like staring at a stranger. Not the woman who sat across from me just a few hours ago in my old college sweatshirt.
“Enjoy hockey, counselor,” she says lightly. “Try not to injure yourself. I would hate to win on a technicality if you cannot make it to court.” Her smile is colder than the ice she stands on. And just like that, I know she’s gone. Whatever fragile progress I made this morning shattered the second Adam opened his mouth.
She turns and walks away, and without sparing Adam a glance, I follow her.
