I had brought my skate bag—force of habit more than intention—and Sabrina borrowed a pair of skates from their storage room. They were scuffed and slightly too big for her but she laced them up without complaint. She had borrowed a Stormhoodie from Derek’s closet (she didn’t share my philosophy on not snooping) and wore it over her cropped tee and shorts but she had to be a little bit cold still.
“Just like old times,” she said, stepping onto the ice with the easy grace of someone who’d spent most of her life in skates. “Remember when we used to sneak into the rink after hours?”
“We were lucky we didn’t get caught. Coach Renaud probably would have whipped us for our insolence.”
“It was the threat of it that made it so thrilling.” She grinned, skating backward in a lazy arc. “That’s what matters.”
I followed her onto the ice, my blades finding their familiar bite. The rink was empty except for us—Coach Miller had given us the space, no expectations, no audience. Just ice and silence and the distant hum of the refrigeration system.
For a few minutes, we just skated. No jumps, no choreography. Just movement. Sabrina looped around me, occasionally bumping my shoulder or grabbing my hand to spin us both in lazy circles. It was the kind of skating we used to do as kids, before competitions and rankings and the crushing weight of expectation.
“You’re smiling,” she observed.
“No, I’m not.”
“You are. It’s small but it’s there.” She squeezed my hand. “When’s the last time you skated just for fun?”
I couldn’t remember.
We stayed on the ice for almost an hour. Sabrina attempted a triple axel and fell on her ass, laughing so hard she couldn’t get up. She was lucky she didn’t break her ankle in the ill fitting skates. I pulled her to her feet and she immediately challenged me to a spin-off, which I won, because that I could still control.
By the time we finally stepped off the ice, my legs were tired in a good way. Not the bone deep exhaustion of punishing myselfthrough a training session but the pleasant ache of muscles actually enjoying their purpose.
“So?” Sabrina asked as we unlaced our skates. “What do you think of Coach Miller?”
I considered the question. Thought about Renaud’s sharp eyes and sharper words. The way every session felt like a trial I was failing. The way I’d started to dread the thing I’d once loved more than anything.
“I think,” I said slowly, “that I might come back.”
Sabrina smiled and said nothing. She didn’t need to.
???
The bakery, aptly named Get Stuffed, was aggressively pink and had all sorts of puns in neon lights on the walls.I Like Big Buns. Glazed and Confused.And my personal favorite:Looks like a Cinnamon Roll, Could Kill You.The aesthetic was chaotic and unapologetic and I kind of loved it despite myself.
I ordered a large iced coffee, black. Sabrina ordered a vanilla latte with almond milk. We shared a cinnamon roll that was fluffy and dripping with cream cheese frosting, the icing pooling at the edge of the plate like it was trying to escape.
She took a picture of us with the cinnamon roll—her grinning, me mid-eye roll—and sent it to Avery. Then she posted it to her Instagram, tagging me.
“Ugh, don’t post that. My hair looks like shit.”
“Your hair looks fucking hot. Don’t cut it. I love the little mullet action happening.”
“I look disheveled,” I grumbled.
“You look like a brooding Wasian heartthrob. Trust me.”
She picked off a piece of cinnamon roll and I did the same. I chewed slowly, mentally counting to 20 before I swallowed. Old habits.
“So.” Sabrina licked frosting off her finger. “Step one in Operation GUST is done.”
“What the fuck is Operation GUST?”
“Get Ur Shit Together.” She ticked off on her fingers. “Step one: obtain a coach. Done.”
“I haven’t committed to anything.”
“You said you’d go back. That counts.” She waved away my protest. “What’s step two, you ask? Find a therapist. I have a list in my email of therapists we can interview this week.”
