I keep waiting for her to get to me.
She doesn’t. She works around the whole group and then steps back to center again and I’m still waiting but she just - doesn’t.
“Again,” she says. “Other direction.”
We go again.
I push into it harder than I need to, which I know is a response to something, and I’m not particularly interested in examining what. The crossovers feel the same as they always feel, which is fine, which is perfectly functional, and I dig in on the turns and keep my speed up and by the end of the second lap I’ve almost convinced myself I’ve made my point, whatever my point was.
She’s watching me now. I can feel it.
“Let me demonstrate,” she says.
She doesn’t wait for an answer, which I respect against my will. She skates out to the blue line, finds her position, and then she does the sequence - same crossover pattern, same rink, nothing fancy - except that watching it is a different experience from watching any of us do it.
The technique is obviously faultless, edges so clean they barely seem to disturb the ice. But I can see theefficiencyof it - nothing wasted, not a single fraction of energy going anywhere except exactly where she needs it to go. She makes it look effortless – it’s almost irritating, because you can see it isn’teffortless, you can see the precision underneath and the years of practice.
The team has gone quiet.
She completes the sequence and comes to a stop in the way that figure skaters stop, which is completely different from the way hockey players stop - no spray or aggression. Instead, it’s a precise and infuriating deceleration.
“That’s what we’re working toward,” she says simply.
Nobody says anything.
“Show-off,” I mutter to Mercer, which I genuinely did not intend to be audible. I regret it the second I’ve said it. Stupid. I’m the captain, I should be setting the tone.
Her eyes come to me immediately.
So does everyone else’s.
“Sorry, that was nothing,” I say, already wishing I could stuff the words back into my mouth.
“No.” She tilts her head slightly. “You said something. You’re the captain, aren’t you?”
She knows exactly who I am.
“Yes,” I say, which is not a great comeback, and I know it.
“Perfect,” she says. “Come and show the group how it’s done.”
ELIDA
I don’t catch the word. But I catch everything around it - the angle of his head toward the player beside him, the timing of it, right on the heels of my demonstration, the muted laughs it draws - and I don’t need the word. I’ve been in enough rinks, stood in front of enough panels of men with their armsfolded and their minds already made up, to know what dismissal sounds like even when I can’t hear it clearly.
It riles me.
I don’t let it show, except in the most controlled way possible, which is to say - I use it.
“You’re the captain, aren’t you?”
He confirms it, and I say, “Perfect. Come and show the group how it’s done,” and I say it pleasantly, the way I say most things. I skate back to give him room.
He doesn’t hesitate or make a production of reluctance, I’ll give him that. He pushes off and runs the sequence, and I watch it, and I let him finish before I say anything.
“Good,” I say, which is true, and I watch his shoulders relax. “Can I show you one thing?”
I don’t wait for the yes. I skate to him and position myself behind his left side, close enough to demonstrate what I mean.
