10. Brayden
brAYDEN
The blades of my skates crashed onto the ice as I joined my teammates in the barn. Cold air hit the back of my throat, sharp enough to sting, and for the first time all week, the world narrowed to lines and edges and the clean white sheet waiting to punish me into focus.
“Well, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence,” Gavin snickered, skating by with that lazy glide that made everything he did look effortless.
“Cox!” Coach Hayes barked from the bench.
I cut a hard stop, ice dusting my shins, and skated over. “Yeah, Coach?”
He slammed his clipboard so hard on the boards, the pen flew. “I thought we were past this ‘show up whenever you feel like it’ bullshit. This isn’t the minor leagues, rookie. I’ve got half a mind to let you collect dust all damn season.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “Myla is getting discharged this week. I promise this is the last time.”
“I mean it, Cox. This is it.” He jabbed a finger into my chest. The disappointment in his eyes was worse than the yelling. I hated being late. I hated being the problem. Mostly, I hated picturing Myla’s face every time I tried to lace my skates faster.
It was off-season; otherwise I’d already be staring at splinters from the end of the bench. I pushed off and rejoined the line as a scrawny middle-aged guy in all purple—right down to the skates—glided toward center ice like he owned the place.
“Gentlemen!” he boomed, hands flared. “Are you ready to change it up a bit today?”
A couple sticks thunked against the ice. Everyone went quiet. We slid into a loose circle, oxygen getting thinner as curiosity and dread mixed in the cold.
“Oh, my prayers have finally been answered,” he declared, clasping his hands. “A full pack of big, strong, brawny men who have to do exactly as I say.”
Gavin cast a look at his dad that could’ve cut plexiglass. “This is bullshit,” he muttered.
Coach didn’t blink. “Hayes, don’t think I won’t bench your ass. Boys, this is Simon. Do what he says. You master some fancy footwork, we might still win a Cup before I’ve got one foot in the grave.”
“Aye, Coach,” a chorus echoed—part sarcasm, part respect, part survival.
The man dipped a little bow. “I’m Simon Abramson, and we’re starting with basics. Anyone ever figure skated?”
Pavoc’s glove went up half an inch. “I have,” he said, like he was confessing a felony.
“Fag,” Henderson coughed under his breath.
I elbowed him hard. “Shut the fuck up, dude.” And then louder, I raised my hand. “I have, sir.”
The truth. Myla dragged me to the community rink on Saturday mornings for years. If I’m fast now, if my first three strides can eat a zone, it’s because a twelve-year-old tyrant made me learn outside edge loops until my calves screamed.
Simon’s grin widened. “Nice. A few brave souls. Trust me—your edges are about to thank me.”
He clapped once. “Edge ladders. Inside forward. Hold it to the blue line, switch to outside. Big arcs. Feel the blade.”
We took off in a loop, a dozen pros reduced to rookies again.
The first pass felt ridiculous—hands out for balance, knees dipping deep, hips open, close, open.
But somewhere between the first and second circle, the ice started speaking a language I remembered.
Weight over the ball of the foot. Chest proud.
Hips steering, not shoulders. Edge bites, edge releases. Music without music.
“Bend, bend,” Simon sang out as he floated backward, hands behind his back. “You’re not ironing a shirt, you’re carving.”
Henderson flailed through a turn and nearly ate it. I grabbed his elbow, steadied him. “Sit into it. Trust the edge.”
He grunted a thanks and tried again.
“Three-turns,” Simon called. “Left foot, forward inside to back outside. Shoulders quiet. Draw the comma.”
“Draw the what?” Gavin muttered.
I smiled despite myself. “Your entry’s too fast. Hit the sweet spot or you’ll skid.”
“Didn’t realize you were Abramson’s teacher’s pet,” Gavin shot back, but his eyes tracked my pivot, measuring. He nailed the next one like he’d been born doing them.
We ran a progression like we were in some twisted ballet boot camp—forward crossovers into backward crossovers, open Mohawks, C-cuts, gliding lunges that burned quads we thought were already carved out of granite.
The rink turned into a geometry problem—loops and lines and arcs that didn’t care how many goals you’d scored last season.
“Spirals,” Simon shouted. “Yes, you heard me. Show me your brunch posture.”
Groans spread. I kicked my left leg back, chest out, arms long. Balance held. Behind me, a cascade of wobbles, curses, and one glorious crash. Laughter cracked the tension; even Coach’s mouth twitched.
“Sprints with edges,” Simon said, clapping again. “Goal line to blue—inside edge only. Blue to red—outside edge. Red to blue—switch. Blue to goal line—crossovers only. No cheating. I see everything.”
We went, and it hurt like honesty. Thighs lit.
Ankles sang. By the third rep, sweat glazed the back of my neck and my breath fogged the visor.
The barn echoed with the scrape of blades and the hiss of speed.
Somewhere under the burn, I felt a flicker of relief—this—this I could control.
The body obeyed truth that the heart couldn’t.
“Pairs,” Simon called. “You, you—” he pointed at me and Gavin “—demonstrate a back to back counter. You’re mirrors.”
Gavin snorted. “We’re not cirque du whatever.”
“You’re athletes,” Simon said simply. “You can skate backward. You can turn. Congratulations, you can do a counter.”
We squared up, opposite feet, hands barely touching for alignment. “Count of four,” I said. “Ready?”
“Go.”
Knees bent, back straight, we rolled the entry edge, snapped shoulders, hips followed. The turn clicked. Our arcs matched so cleanly the ice peeled a perfect figure eight beneath us. The boys whooped. Gavin flashed a grin he couldn’t hide.
Simon’s clap echoed. “See? Fancy footwork doesn’t kill you. It makes you deadly.”
He waved us into stations—quick-feet ladder at one circle, edge control relay at the other, a line for transitions in the neutral zone—forward to back, back to forward, heads up, stick handling through cones.
It was hockey again, but tighter, meaner, cleaner.
Every drill built on the last until our feet knew what our mouths wanted to argue with.
“Simon says!” he hollered, and a whistle pierced the chill. “Shoot-the-duck.”
A chorus of “oh hell no” rolled around the rink, but we dropped low anyway. I sank into the crouch, one leg extended straight, gliding. Quads screaming, balance needle-point thin, but the glide held. Henderson tried, wobbled, spun out, then popped back up laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
Somewhere in there, the chirps turned friendly. Pavoc taught Henderson a cleaner Mohawk. Our rookie D-pair started challenging each other on deeper edges. Even Coach got off the boards and took a slow lap like an old bull remembering the pasture.
I found the rhythm I hadn’t felt in weeks—left-right, cut-cross, feel the carve.
With every clean turn, Myla’s face tilted out of focus a little.
Not gone. Never gone. But the sound of her pain dulled, replaced by the sting in my lungs, the roar of the compressor, the low bass of sticks slapping boards in approval.
“Last block,” Simon said, and ran us through a flow drill that looked like chaos and skated like poetry.
Two lines, opposite corners. Puck on my stick, lateral crossovers, head up, dish to the dot, pivot, receive at the far half-wall, shoulder check, curl to the slot, quick release.
Pivot again, backward crossovers, angle to the far blue for the give-and-go.
If you missed one pivot, the whole thing died.
We didn’t miss. The boys started humming, passes tape-to-tape, releases popping twine, our edges digging exact tracks that made the assistant coach nod like a proud dad.
I felt my legs again—mine, not the jittery, sleepless strangers I’d been skating on.
The ice gave back what I gave it. Faith for effort. Control for respect.
Simon finished us with glides and breath. “In through your nose, out through your mouth,” he called, skating backward in front of us, unimpressed by our collective wheeze. “You don’t just skate fast; you skate smart.”
The whistle blew. “Hit the showers. Great work today, guys!”
Sticks clacked. Four or five gloves bumped mine. Henderson clapped my shoulder. “Didn’t know you had ballerina legs, Cox.”
“Shut up,” I said, grinning anyway.
I peeled toward center ice where Simon waited, rocking on his blades like he could stand there all day.
“Sir?”
He pivoted, popped a hip, planted a hand on it like he was about to critique an art gallery. “Yes? Cox, right?”
“That’s me.” I tugged my glove off, offered a hand. “Thanks for today. My little sister used to figure skate. I took a few lessons with her when we were kids. I forgot how fun it was.”
His shake was firm, warm even through the chill. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened like sunbursts. “I’m glad I could help. Tell your sister she trained you well.” He tipped his chin. “Get her back on the ice. You two could learn a thing or two from each other.”
My throat tightened. “Hopefully, someday, Myla will get back onto the ice.” I had to look away. Saying used to about her felt like swallowing a nail. Myla is a skater. Even now. Even in a hospital bed. Skaters don’t stop being skaters when life breaks something. They just learn new edges.
Simon didn’t flinch at the crack in my voice. “Skaters are stubborn,” he said softly. “They fall better than anyone. That’s the whole trick—learning how to get back up without fear.”
I nodded, blinking hard, then lifted my stick in a small salute and pushed off toward the tunnel. The boys were already clattering down to the room, the smell of rubber mats and old gear rising warm as a memory. Coach watched me from the bench, unreadable for once, then gave one sharp nod.
Maybe I couldn’t fix everything. Not today. Not yet. But I could own this ice, sharpen my edges, and carry what Myla couldn’t—until she could again.
And when she did, I’d be waiting at the gate to hold the door.