Still upright. Barely.
A miracle.
I take another step. Slower this time. I keep my knees bent the way the instructional video I watched twelve years ago suggested. My brain is screaming, but my feet are cooperating just enough to keep me vertical.
Progress.
I push off again.
That’s when gravity remembers I exist.
My blade catches on something I will never understand, and my center of balance shifts. It shifts just enough to send my body pitching forward in a way that feels both slow-motion and immediate.
There is no elegant way to fall on ice. Only the inevitability of it.
This is it. This is how I die.
I don’t die.
But I do go down.
Hard.
My knee hits first, followed by my hip, then the rest of me in a graceless heap that echoes louder than I’d like against the ice. The impact rattles through my bones and knocks the air from my lungs in a sharp oof that I’m fairly certain gets picked up by a microphone somewhere.
There’s a beat.
Then the crowd reacts, this time a sympathetic murmur, mixed with a few concerned gasps.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I cannot look at the crowd.
Ok.
This is happening.
Do not cry.
Do not cry.
Absolutely do not cry.
I press my palms against the ice, trying to push myself up, but my hands slide uselessly. My skates slip out from under me as if they’re actively working against my recovery. Almost like they’re making fun of me.
Cool. Great. Love this for me.
I try again to get up when I hear skates approaching.
“Hey.”
The voice is close. Calm. Male.
Not the announcer.
I crack one eye open.
He’s crouched in front of me, balanced easily on his skates like the ice is a suggestion rather than a threat. He’s wearing a Grizzlies jersey with dark, bold lettering across his chest, and he looks… relaxed.
Which feels unfair.
