Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The scent of a hockey rink was a sensory time machine. It didn’t matter if I was in a community arena in Wellesley, Massachusetts or a professional stadium in the heart of Boston; the combination of ice, buttery popcorn, and rubber always hit me with the same visceral force.
Outside, the sharp February air had been unforgiving, but the practice arena offered a different kind of chill—a controlled, refrigerated stillness that felt like a second home. I hovered near the entrance, my notebook tucked firmly under my arm like a shield.
When I’d been getting ready that morning, an open skate had sounded innocent enough. But I could already picture Dani zipping around the ice, grinning like she’d been born with blades on her feet, and probably trying to goad me into lacing up a pair of skates myself.
I should have said no.
The rink was a sea of mismatched gear and wobbling ankles.
Kids in too-large helmets clung to the scuffed Plexiglas like lifeboats, while parents in puffy winter jackets shuffled along beside them, trying to maintain their dignity and their balance.
Volunteers in green and blue team jerseys moved through the crowd, helping the smaller skaters navigate the slippery expanse.
I spotted Dani instantly. She was in her element, crouched on the ice, helping a kid adjust their helmet. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, and the sight of her wide, easy smile made my pulse do a quick, traitorous stutter.
She looked up as if sensing me, her eyes lighting up when she saw me. She said something to the kid, gave them a playful pat on the shoulder, and skated over. She didn’t stop until she was inches from the boards where I stood, her blades making a sharp, clean sound as they bit into the ice.
“Reese,” she said, her voice warm and slightly breathless. “You made it.”
My eyes swept up her body from her hockey skates to her jeans, the team sweatshirt, and knit cap. It was the same winter hat the kids at the grocery store had been wearing. Her straight brunette hair poked out from the bottom and fell just below her shoulders.
“I figured it would make a good story,” I replied, trying to anchor myself in professionalism.
It could have been the lighting in the rink, but some of her earlier excitement from spotting me seemed to dull. “Right,” she said with a crisp nod. “You’re just here for a story.”
Before I could respond, she brightened again. “Grab some skates and get out here.”
I shook my head. “Hard pass.”
“Why not? Afraid you’ll embarrass yourself?”
“Absolutely.”
Her laugh was loud and genuine. “Come on, I’ll hold your hand.”
I took a small but noticeable step away from the boards. “I think I’ll stay on solid ground, thanks.”
Dani gave me an exaggerated pout before skating backwards, still watching me. “Suit yourself, Ms. No Fun.”
I watched her go, my heart hitting a rhythm I couldn’t quite control.
I stayed by the boards, chatting with a few parents and jotting down notes about the event. Every so often, my gaze would drift to Dani. She was magnetic on the ice, especially when she was helping a kid up after a fall or coaxing a nervous skater to venture from the comfort of the boards.
“Which one is yours?”
I turned toward the voice. A woman stood beside me, leaning casually against the boards like she’d been there for a while.
She looked about my age—mid-thirties, maybe—with soft brown hair tucked into a knit headband.
It was an effortless prettiness that came from not trying too hard.
Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and she held a paper cup of concession stand coffee between both hands.
For half a second I thought she might have been referring to Dani.
“Oh, I don’t have kids,” I quickly clarified. “I’m just a journalist.”
“You’re writing a story about this?” she asked.
I hummed noncommittally.
I hadn’t fully thought about my angle. My job was different from the team’s internal marketing and communications people.
A community skate made for great digital copy—a short story for the team website or a few images and video for the team’s social media accounts.
I didn’t work for the team, but experience told me it was in my best interest to start off with fluffy heart-warming stuff until I was more established within Boston’s sports newscasters and could push the boundaries a little more.
“Is one of them yours?” I asked, turning the question on her.
The woman nodded toward one corner of the rink. “Black snowpants and the pink tutu.”
I followed her gaze.
A small pack of girls skated in uneven circles near the boards.
One of them wore bulky black snowpants with a bright pink tutu layered over the top.
She moved with the fearless chaos of a kid who had just enough balance to be dangerous—arms windmilling, skates carving jagged paths through the ice as she chased after her friends.
Every few seconds she dissolved into giggles so loud I could hear them through the glass.
“Wow,” I said, a laugh slipping out. “Your daughter really knows who she is.”
“You have no idea.” The woman’s smile softened. “She’s transgender.”
“Oh.”
It wasn’t the most eloquent response, but it was the honest one.
I turned slightly toward her, sensing she had more to say. She didn’t look at me. Her eyes stayed on the ice.
“She woke up one day when she was five and told us her name was Charlotte,” the woman said. “Just like that. No buildup. No warning.” She gave a small, incredulous laugh. “My husband and I thought it was a phase at first. Kids do that, right? They pretend to be dinosaurs or superheroes.”
“Sure,” I said.
“But she never wavered.” The woman’s grip tightened around her coffee cup. “Every morning it was the same thing. ‘My name is Charlotte.’ Eventually we realized she wasn’t pretending.”
On the ice, the girl in the tutu stumbled, dropping to her knees. Before I could react, one of the other girls reached down and pulled her back up. They dissolved into laughter again and took off together.
The woman watched them, something complicated passing over her face.
“When Charlotte was a baby, I worried all the time,” she said. “First-time parent syndrome.”
She shifted her coffee cup between her hands, smiling faintly at the memory.
“I worried about everything. Was she eating enough? Sleeping too much? Not sleeping enough? Every little cough felt like the beginning of some catastrophic illness. I spent half my nights Googling things like how many ounces is normal for a six-month-old.”
Her eyes stayed on the ice.
“And when she started walking I was convinced she’d crack her head open on every sharp corner in the house.” She gave a quiet laugh. “It was the usual stuff. The kind of worries every parent has.”
Charlotte skated past us, pink tutu fluttering and arms outstretched, as she chased after two other girls. One of them nearly clipped the boards and the three of them dissolved into wild, unencumbered giggles.
The woman’s expression softened.
“Now I worry about different things,” she said. “Bathrooms. School forms. Whether another parent is going to make a scene at a birthday party.” She paused, almost like she was deciding how much more to say. “The kinds of things you never imagine when you’re rocking a baby at three in the morning.”
Charlotte stumbled near the boards but popped back up before anyone could reach her, laughing as one of her friends tugged her sleeve.
The woman gestured toward the ice.
“But things like this help. She’s out there with her friends, falling down and getting back up like everybody else.” She exhaled slowly. “That’s all I want for her.”
I nodded, words unnecessary. The sound of Charlotte’s laughter was enough.
I retreated to the stands, jotting down notes about the event and letting my gaze wander back to the ice every so often. I scribbled a few lines in my notebook, trying to capture the energy, the chaos, and the joy.
As the event wound down and the Zamboni began its slow, mechanical crawl around the rink, Dani found me again. She had swapped her skates for sneakers and carried two steaming cups of hot chocolate.
“Thought you could use this,” she said, handing me one.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the cup. The warmth radiating through the cardboard was immediate. The cold typically didn’t bother me, but maybe I’d become too accustomed to Arizona’s desert heat.
I took a careful sip. The cocoa was cheap, watery, and a little lumpy from the mix—but the gesture made it sweet.
My mind drifted to college, to Dani doing these little things then, too.
She had always been thoughtful—noticeably so—without ever needing to be prompted.
She’d remember small details, anticipate what might make me smile, as if it were second nature.
I realized I still remembered that about her.
We sat side by side in the metal bleachers. The distance between us felt smaller, tentative, like two people re-familiarizing themselves with a map they hadn’t looked at in fifteen years.
“So, what’d you think?” she asked.
“About the event?” I prompted.
She nodded.
“It was great,” I said honestly. “The kids seemed to love it.”
She smiled. “It’s one of my favorite things we do.”
I glanced at her, feeling a pang of something I couldn’t quite name. Nostalgia? Admiration? Maybe both.
My thoughts traveled to the snowy parking lot where she’d sought me out after her game. I remembered her posture—careful, almost tentative—as she’d asked in that low, earnest tone: Was that okay?
I took another sip of my hot chocolate, slow and deliberate.
I remembered how she’d watched me, looking for a reaction, scanning for any hint of discomfort, and the relief I’d felt realizing that she wasn’t testing me or trying to cross a line—she was trying not to.
But her indifferent attitude during the post-game interview had rattled me nearly as much as our first on-air interview.
“Are you sure you don’t want to skate?” she pressed. “If I remember correctly, you could hold your own out there.”
I shook my head. “I haven’t skated in years. Plus,” I said, gesturing toward the rink, “the Zamboni’s already out.”
“It’d be okay,” she assured me. Her voice assumed a teasing lilt. “Rumor has it, I’ve got a little pull around here.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass. Really.”
She didn’t push. She just tilted her head and gave me that small, understanding look.
“Guess I should help clean up,” she said, straightening. “Thanks for coming out, Reese. It meant a lot.”
“Of course,” I said softly.
I watched Dani bound down the bleachers, my gaze lingering a little too long.