The Figure Skater
He ruined my ice every Tuesday and Thursday morning over the summer.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
I skated from seven to eight. He had the rink from eight to nine. That should have meant I left him a clean sheet and he did whatever hockey players did once I was safely off it.
Instead, he showed up early.
Always.
He leaned against the glass while I finished my program, already dressed in half his equipment, watching with the impatient expression of a man personally offended by choreography. Then, the second the clock hit eight, he stepped onto the ice before I had even removed my guards from the boards.
He carved deep, ugly trenches through the circles.
He stopped hard enough to spray snow halfway across the rink.
He fired pucks off the glass until the sound rattled my teeth.
Worst of all, he refused to admit that any of this made him a terrible person.
“You have an entire sheet,” he had said the first time I complained. “Why do you keep landing in the same six feet?”
“Because that’s where the jump is set.”
“Move it.”
“You move the faceoff circle.”
He had looked down at the red markings beneath his skates as though considering it.
“I’ll ask.”
I hated him immediately.
He played for a professional team in Canada and spent the summers back in our hometown, though I had not recognized him the first morning he appeared at the rink.
I knew hockey players by type more than by name. They came in carrying oversized bags and dragging sticks along the floor despite signs specifically telling them not to. They left tape everywhere.
He was tall, broad through the shoulders and almost offensively comfortable taking up space.
The fact that he was famous had not impressed me.
It had only explained the arrogance.
He learned who I was after our third argument, when one of the rink employees mentioned that I had represented the country internationally.
The next morning, he showed up wearing a team-issued jacket and asked whether I wanted his autograph.
I told him I would rather lick the Zamboni blade.
After that, war was inevitable.
He complained that my toe picks destroyed the ice.
I complained that his stopping drills left piles of snow in my landing paths.
He started placing his pucks directly in front of the door I used to leave the ice.
I moved them into the penalty box.
He called me princess.
On the first Thursday in July, the rink scheduled us at the same time.
I arrived at six forty-five and found him standing at the front desk in shorts and a fitted black training shirt, one hand braced against the counter while he argued with the teenage employee unfortunate enough to be working that morning.
“I booked eight,” he said.
The girl behind the counter looked close to tears.
“I know. But the system says seven.”
“The system is wrong.”
“I have the email.”
“So do I.”
I stopped several feet away, skate bag over my shoulder.
He turned.
His expression darkened.
“No.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“You’re not skating.”
“I am.”
“At eight.”
“At seven.”
He looked at the clock on the lobby wall as though it might settle the dispute.
It was six forty-eight.
I stepped beside him and placed my phone on the counter, opening my confirmation email.
Private ice: 7-8 a.m.
He pulled out his own phone.
His email said the same thing.
The employee stared between us.
“I’m really sorry,” she said. “It looks like someone changed one of the bookings and didn’t remove the other. Maybe you can share?”
“I need the full ice,” he said.
“You need less ice than I do.”
He stared at me.
“You skate in circles.”
“You chase a piece of rubber.”
“It’s a professional sport.”
“So is mine.”
“You wear rhinestones.”
“You’re wearing shorts with your own logo on them.”
He glanced down at the team crest on his thigh.
“That’s different.”
“It’s really not.”
He fumed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers.
“Fine,” he said. “Stay out of my end.”
“I don’t have an end.”
“You do today.”
“We’re not dividing the rink.”
“We absolutely are.”
“We’ll see.”
He was already on the ice when I finished tying my skates.
Of course he was.
He had changed faster than any human being should be capable of changing, emerging from the hockey locker room in full equipment except for shoulder pads and a jersey. He wore black hockey pants, shin pads and a close-fitting base layer that stretched across his chest and arms.
His helmet sat low over his eyes.
I stepped onto the ice.
He immediately fired a puck off the boards in my direction.
It slid to a stop two feet from my blade.
“Your side,” he called, pointing his stick toward the far end.
“There are no sides.”
“There are now.”
I skated past the puck.
The ice was freshly resurfaced, smooth and untouched except for the tracks he had already cut along the boards.
He had deliberately stayed out of the center.
I refused to acknowledge the courtesy.
I pushed into my warmup laps, building speed through the corners. The first several minutes of any session belonged to my body. Ankles loosening. Knees bending deeper. Edges settling into the ice.
Usually, the rink was quiet enough that I could hear the clean scrape of every blade.
Today, pucks slammed against the boards behind me.
He skated hard through the other end, crossing over with the easy power hockey players seemed to develop before they learned subtlety. His stride was longer than mine and far less precise, but there was something satisfying about the force of it.
I turned backward and watched him carry a puck through a sequence of cones.
He caught me looking.
His stick moved quickly, pulling the puck from one side of his body to the other.
Then he lost it off the toe of his blade.
I laughed.
He stopped.
“You distracted me.”
“You’re supposed to be a professional.”
“You skated through my lane.”
“I was fifty feet away.”
“Still.”
He retrieved the puck.
I began my jump preparation.
The first double Axel felt easy. The second was better. I moved into triples, landing two cleanly before stepping out of the third.
Behind me, I heard his stick tap the ice.
“Bit shaky.”
I turned.
He leaned on the top of his stick, watching.
“Do you comment on everyone’s performance without being asked?”
“Only when she’s in my practice.”
“This is not your practice.”
I reset for the jump.
He skated backward as I approached, staying directly in the path I needed.
I stopped several feet from him.
“Move.”
“You said there aren’t sides.”
“There aren’t.”
“So go around me.”
“I need the corner.”
“There are three others.”
“This one has the correct setup.”
“For spinning in the air.”
I skated past with a smile, to my corner.
“Princess,” he muttered.
“Caveman.”
I landed the jump cleanly.
When I looked back, he was watching.
Not with the mocking expression I expected.
His head had tilted slightly, his stick resting loose in one hand. He watched me ride the landing edge out across the ice, taking in the movement like he had forgotten he was supposed to dislike it.
I held his gaze longer than necessary.
Then I deliberately extended the edge, lifting my free leg behind me and arching my back before turning out of it.
His eyes followed.
A small, private thrill moved through me.
I hated that.
I hated him more for causing it.
“See something you like?” I called.
His posture changed immediately.
“Checking whether you were going to fall.”
“Disappointed?”
“Give it time.”
I pushed into my next sequence before he could see me smile.
Sharing the ice should not have worked.
It almost did.
We developed a hostile rhythm.
I learned the sound of his blades well enough to know when he was approaching from behind. He learned to recognize the opening of my jump setups and stayed out of the corners when I needed them.
Neither of us admitted it.
We argued instead.
He accused me of kicking a puck into the stands.
I accused him of leaving one in my spin circle.
He said my music sounded like the soundtrack to a funeral.
I told him his playlist sounded like a protein powder commercial.
When he began running one-on-one drills against an imaginary forward, I cut directly across his path in a deep spread eagle, forcing him to stop hard.
Snow sprayed over my boots.
“What the hell?”
“You were in my way.”
“You skated into me.”
“You had time to adjust.”
“I could’ve taken you out.”
He pushed his visor up.
Sweat had gathered at his temples, darkening the hair beneath his helmet. His breathing was heavy from the drill, chest rising beneath the thin black layer he wore under his equipment.
I became aware of the fact that we were standing very close.
Close enough that I could see a pale scar near his mouth.
Close enough that he could probably hear the change in my breathing.
His gaze moved down my body.
I wore black training leggings and a fitted long-sleeved top cropped just enough to leave a narrow line of skin visible when I lifted my arms.
His eyes stopped there.
“You done?” I asked.
“With what?”
“Staring.”
He looked back at my face.
“You did it first.”
I skated away.
A minute later, I caught him watching again.
I was practicing spins near center, moving from camel into layback. The position pulled through my spine, chest lifted and back arched as the rink blurred above me.
When I exited, he was standing at the boards with one glove tucked beneath his arm.
He had lifted his helmet to drink.
Water spilled from the corner of his mouth and ran along his jaw. Sweat slid down the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
His eyes were fixed on me.
Neither of us looked away.
He lowered the bottle slowly.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“So are you.”
My stomach tightened.
I turned away first.
That annoyed me.
It annoyed me even more that I could feel his attention following me as I skated.
I began my footwork sequence too aggressively.
The opening turns were sharp, but I rushed the transition. My left blade slipped out from beneath me.
I caught myself before I went down.
His laugh echoed across the rink.
I spun toward him.
“Say one word.”
“One?”
“Don’t.”
“Shaky.”
“You are the most irritating person I’ve ever met.”