“Eriksson. Yes.” His expression doesn’t change. “She’s joining the program.”
“To do what, exactly? Coach the men’s hockey team?” I laugh. “What’s she doing here? What does a figure skater have to say to us?”
Calloway looks at me with the patience of a man who coaches college hockey and has heard every version of every stupid thing young guys have ever said on a rink.
“She’s here primarily to help get the new women’s team up and running,” he says. “Technical work, getting them competition-ready. But I’ve also asked her to work with you. Some skating clinics, technique work. Things we’ve let get sloppy.”
I want to argue, but something in his tone stops me. I drift a little closer. “Why waste our training time on the figure skating stuff? We’re not figure skaters, Coach, we’re-”
“Hockey players. Yes, Russo, I’m aware.” He sets down the thermos. “And right now your hockey players are losing games they shouldn’t be losing because when it comes down to speed and efficiency, we fall short.”
I say nothing.
“Skating is skating,” he says. “And she’s one of the best in the world at it.”
“If she’s so amazing, then why is she here?” I mutter.
He ignores that. “She’s taking a break from pro skating. And Russo, I’m especially asking her to work with you.”
“Why me?”
He meets my eyes then, and there’s no softening in it. “Because you’re the captain, Russo. The guys look to you. How you move on this ice, how you carry yourself, how you respond to being coached - all of it sets the tone. And this team’s technique…” He pauses, deliberate. “We need to work on it.”
The words land the way he intends them to. Final but also honest.
I look away, jaw tight, out at the empty seats.
“She’s not your enemy,” he says, quieter now.
I reach down and grab my gloves off the boards.
“Yeah.” I don’t turn around. “We’ll see.”
I push off before anyone can see whatever’s on my face right now. Another lap. Harder. The ice gives back exactly what I put in and nothing more.
By the time I stop, the lights are fully up and the rink looks less forgiving - every mark on the ice visible, every imperfection catching the light. I pull my helmet off and drag a hand through damp hair.
Down the corridor, a door slams. Voices carry - half-awake and familiar. The team’s arriving.
ELIDA
The coffee is bad.
Bad in the way American coffee is generally awful, which is to say it tastes like it was brewed days ago. Despite this, the machine in the kitchen produces it in alarming quantities, and I’m most of the way through my second mug.
It’s possible I’m avoiding leaving the apartment.
The apartment itself is fine. Small, but clean, and furnished to be inoffensive. Beige sofa. Beige walls. A print above the desk of a lighthouse that could be anywhere.
The college arranged it, which means it sits in that particular category of adequate - close enough to campus to be convenient; generic enough that no one had to think too hard about it. It reflects the budget, which in turn reflects the team. The women’s program has only just been reinstated, and it’s still stretching every resource.
On one hand, it’s progress that the budget reaches this far at all. On the other, it displays exactly how far it doesn’t. If I had been hired for the men’s team, would the accommodation feel this… temporary?
I push the thought aside before it settles. I am lucky to be here. To still be on the ice, even if it is not the way I once imagined.
Even so, I haven’t fully unpacked because unpacking feels like a decision I’m not ready to make permanent.
The flight from Stockholm was eleven hours. I slept for maybe two of them, badly. I spent the rest of it with my forehead against the cold plastic of the window, watching the dark,thinking about things I’ve promised myself I’m putting out of my head for good.
