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“I wouldn’t if I were you,” I cautioned. “Not unless you want a repeat of the Gatorade incident.”

He dropped his head back with a groan. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?” He tipped his face forward to scan the space, nodding when he found the closest garbage can. He crossed the room and tossed the full cup of coffee in, then hauled his bag off over his head.

“Nope,” I said, sliding off the table and heading toward the locker room doors. “Get changed. I’ll meet you out there.”

It was time to get to work.

The push-off mechanics out of Porter’s right turn were inefficient. He was losing half a step of acceleration because his weight distribution was off, and that would add up over time. I asked him to run a few figure-eight patterns to better evaluate the problem, and on the third pass, I was able to point it out.

“There. That.”

He cut sharp into a stop, ice shavings spraying from his blades.

“You’re sitting back on your right heel coming out of the turn.” I skated over, putting one hand on his lower back, the other on his hip, and shifted him forward half an inch. “Your weight should be here, over the ball of your foot, not over the heel.” I slid my hands away.

He shifted his weight experimentally. “Fuck. Yeah, okay.”

“Run it again.”

When he did, it was better. Not perfect, but it shaved some time off.

“Again,” I said.

This time, I could see him consciously holding the new position, the acceleration out of the turn visibly cleaner, his weight distribution changing his power transfer.

“How does that feel?” I asked when he stopped in front of me several minutes later, bent over at the waist, his breath coming hard.

“Definitely faster,” he said, standing up straight and resting his hands on his hips.

“It’s force vectors—when you load your heel coming out of the turn, you’re dragging steel. You want your weight centered over the front half of the runner so the inside edge can actually bite into the ice. Then you can drive all that force through the ball of your foot at the push-off.”

Porter nodded along, his expression shifting between concentration and amusement until a low laugh slipped out.

I snapped my mouth shut. “What?”

He shook his head, visibly fighting a grin. “Nothing.”

“No, seriously. What’s so fucking funny?”

“Just, you know … that was the most animated I’ve seen you since camp started.”

“Well, yeah. You asked me to explain the mechanics.”

He smirked. “I really didn’t.”

“Yeah, you did,” I argued, running the conversation back through my head.

Shit. He actually hadn’t.

“Well, fuck.” Heat crept up the back of my neck, and my cheeks turned hot.

I’d always been like this—giving too much information with zero read on whether anyone actually wanted to hear it. In college, it was easier to manage. Going off on tangents was practically a requirement in my senior seminar.

Porter skated a slow circle around me, his eyes never leaving my face. “It’s fine,” he said. “You’re funny.”

“Whatever,” I huffed. “For this next drill …”

I sent him back out through the cones, and over the next fifteen minutes, it became clear he was a fast learner. Obviously, he was coachable, but that was a pretty low bar. If he hadn’t been, he never would have made it this far. But when I corrected his push-off out of the right turn, he didn’t just fix it—he mirrored the exact correction on his left turn on the next pass, without being told. And by the end of the rep, he was catching things on his own—adjusting his stride on the straightaway between turns, fixing something I hadn’t even pointed out yet.