Arriving just before 6:30, I'm surprised to find it unlocked and a handful of lights on—the hockey season hasn't started yet, so it can't be them.I leave my bag of gear for the lessons later in the ladies' locker room, lace up my skates, and head for the ice.
I'm annoyed to find someone else already here.Only half the lights over the rink are on, leaving pools of shadows in spots.One of the nets has been placed at one end, and a broad-shouldered figure is practicing a stick-handling drill—he's placed pucks every few feet along the blue line and he's figure-eighting around them with a stick and a puck, skidding around the last one in line and making his way to the other end.
He's good—very good.A little slow on the takeoff, but once he gets going, he has excellent speed and razor-sharp stops and turns.
He's dressed in firefighter's blues with a radio on a handmade leather harness at his left shoulder, and a blue FD ballcap forward on his head.I'm at the far other end of the rink, and it's dim, so I can't make out who it is.He’s in shirtsleeves despite the cool of the arena, a blue crewneck sweatshirt draped on the back of the net, along with a water bottle and a cell phone.
I watch the man practice for a moment or two, but he seems content to stay down on that end and practice his drills, so I figure I can keep my own practice on this end, and we won’t have to bug each other.
I skate in lazy circles at first, just warming up my legs.I do a few mobility drills of my own— forward-to-backward swings, crossovers, inside turns and outside turns, backward cross-pulls.Basically, I put myself through the same warm-ups and drills I use for my kiddos of all ages just to get bodies ready to work and in the skating mindset.
Once I'm warmed up, I take a beat to catch my breath—this old bitch is out of shape, I'm discovering.Yeesh.Winded from warmups—not good, Morgan.You've gotten soft.
I know better than to go right into fancy stuff since it's been so long since I've tried them—when teaching, I focus on watching my student and pinpointing cues.I used to demonstrate—meaning show off—when I was a brand-new instructor, but I stopped doing that a long time ago.
Instead, I focus this first session on spotting better during turns, sharpening my edgework, and making my transitions from forward to backward smoother.
Time dissolves as I get into the old groove of solo practice—I used to spend hours on the ice alone perfecting my skills, and as I work myself into a sweat, I find myself wondering why I stopped.I've almost forgotten my love for the sport—I teach because it's my job now, my career, and I'm pretty damn good at it.I love skating.I love seeing my girls go from wobbly little deer on the ice to graceful, powerful skaters.I love seeing my girls podium at comps, beaming with pride.
But I've somehow forgotten how much I love justskating.
I get lost in it, as I once did so easily.
I forget that I'm not alone on the ice, and my carving path takes me away from my end and toward center ice.I flip around to coast backward, relishing the rush of the wind past my face and the burn in my thighs as I put on speed and the sound of my skates knifing over the ice.
I'm home.
God, I'mhome.Why did I stop skating?
My body knows what to do, now that I've woken it up.My brain goes into autopilot, and I find myself running through an old short program—a mostly-floorwork routine ending in a double toe loop to a single.There's no thought, just pure instinct and muscle memory.
I crouch, prepare myself mentally for a beat, and then launch myself into the air.For a split second, I'm flying again, arms crossed over my chest, and I'm spotting perfectly, lining up my landing; my left skate smacks ice with a jarring crack, and I take a single pace and launch into the single.I nail that with decent height and distance, coasting backward with my arms out, leg extended.
Setting my skate down and coasting backward, I'm grinning ear to ear as I let out a triumphant whoop…
Only to crash into something solid.
I'm at the center of the opposite end of the ice, so it's not the boards.
The something—someone—I crashed into tangles up with me, and we both hit the ice in a painful jumble of limbs and skates, skidding across the ice.
“Fuck me running," a deep, gravelly, smoke-rough voice growls."That hurt."Another pause.“Two minutes for unnecessary roughness.”
The breath has been knocked out of me, so I can't even curse, much less laugh at his joke, whichiskinda funny, under the circumstances and all.Ice is cold under my back as the hockey player I crashed into works himself out from beneath me and to a knee.Big blue eyes fix on mine—dark blue, royal blue, almost purple.He's lost his hat and his dark blond hair is sprinkled and streaked with silver.His jaw is trimmed with a short, neat beard, more silver than blonde.
Noah Austin.
I knowofhim, of course, but he's older than me by a few years, and even though our social circles overlap, we've never met, even in passing.I mean, I see him around town, and I know he’s seen me, so we know each other, but we don'tknoweach other.
His lip is bleeding, a trickle of blood from a swelling bulge at the corner—I must have caught him with an elbow in the crash.
"Hey, breathe.Breathe, darlin'."His rough, hoarse voice is low and calm, and I realize I'm still trying and failing to gasp for air."Take a sip of air.You're alright."
The idea of a sip of air works, and I manage to catch a sliver of oxygen, and then more and more until I'm panting, eyes streaming from the pain and lack of oxygen.
When I can finally speak, I glance at him."I'm so,sosorry, Captain Austin.That was totally my fault."I'm mortified, blushing scarlet and seconds from bolting out of here and moving to the Florida Keys—as far from Tomlin Falls as you can get and still be in the USA."I…I haven't skated like that in awhile, and I got carried away, wasn't looking where I was going.Did I hurt you?"
He smirks at me."Not a bit, ma'am."He peers at me."Wait, I know you.I mean, I know who you are.Morgan Wheeler, right?"
