12. Maisie
MAISIE
T here’s something sacred about the rink when it’s empty.
No teammates shouting, no squeaky whistle from Coach. Just the soft hum of overhead lights and the low whir of the cooling system.
It’s quiet here. Like the whole world slows down, and for a little while, the ice belongs only to me.
I glide out to center ice, my blades slicing clean lines into the surface beneath me.
There’s comfort in the quiet. In being alone out here, with no one here to watch me screw up.
My thighs burn as I push harder, building speed along the curve of the rink. I can feel every muscle in my legs screaming, my breath catching sharp in my throat, but I don’t ease up. I can’t.
The double loop is coming.
I prep the turn, wind up for the takeoff. My arms cross tight at my chest, everything in me coiled like a spring.
Then I launch.
And immediately I know it’s wrong.
I barely get the rotation before my blade hits the ice too early, and when I come down, my left blade clips the ice at the wrong angle.
And I go down.
Fast and hard.
Pain slices through my leg on impact as I slam into the ice, landing on my side. The cold seeps straight through my leggings, biting into skin.
“Shit,” I mutter, one hand pressing to my knee as I wince.
I stay there for a second, trying to catch my breath.
The fall wasn’t too bad, but it stings. My knee’s gonna bruise for sure.
I glance at the clock above the scoreboard. I’ve been here for almost an hour, and I still can’t land that jump cleanly.
I should’ve landed it. I have landed it.
Regionals are next month.
Four weeks until the lights go up and the music starts. Four weeks until I have exactly three minutes to land every jump, hit every spin, and prove I deserve to be out here at all.
I wipe the back of my hand across my face and let out a long, shaky breath.
Skating used to feel like magic when I was a kid. Back when Mom used to care. When she used to brush my hair into tight buns before competitions, pack my gear bag with homemade protein muffins and handwritten notes.
But after my dad died, things shifted.
She had two younger kids to take care of. A house to keep running. A full-time job.
I get it. I really do.
I was the oldest. The calm one. The easy one. So, I learned to take care of myself.
I braided my own hair, packed my own bags, took the bus to the rink.
Mom stopped coming to competitions, and eventually stopped asking about practices. Not because she didn’t care, I don’t think. She just didn’t have anything left to give.
And yeah, I understand. But it still hurt. Because I never stopped caring.
I never stopped trying to be better and better, hoping that one day she could come to one of my competitions, watch me skate, and I’d make her proud.
Sometimes I think… if I’d fallen apart a little more, she might’ve noticed. But I didn’t. I held it together, because that’s what everyone needed.
And maybe that’s why I can’t celebrate my achievements, because, in my mind, it’s my obligation to achieve them.
I blow out a breath and shake out my arms, pushing the thoughts aside.
I roll back into motion, building speed as I loop around the far end of the rink. I bend my knees, square my shoulders, and zone out everything else.
Loop. Step. Takeoff. Rotate.
I go for the double toe loop.
The takeoff’s solid. Rotation clean. My blade connects with the ice in a sharp snap and I hold it.
I glide out of it, heart racing. My breath clouds in the air, and for a second, I let myself feel the relief pounding in my chest. Maybe I’m not as hopeless as I felt five minutes ago.
And that’s when I hear someone clapping.
I slam to a stop, my blades kicking up a rough spray of ice shavings.
What the hell?—
I spin around, my breath catching in my throat, and of course… it’s him.
Austin Rhodes. Standing just beyond the boards with his skates slung over his shoulder and that stupidly pretty smirk on his face.
“Jesus,” I mutter, my hand flying to my chest. “You scared me.”
He steps out from the tunnel in sweatpants and a backwards cap, a grin spreading across his face. “Sorry. Didn’t want to interrupt you.”
I blink at him, still trying to catch up. “How long have you been here?”
He shrugs. “Since the wipeout.”
A flush climbs up my neck. Of course. Because the universe really loves to humiliate me “Great. Hope you enjoyed the show.”
“You made up for it,” he says, nodding toward the ice. “That landing was… damn.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you being sincere right now or sarcastic?”
Austin lifts a hand, placing it over his heart. “Swear. It was hot,” he says with a smirk. “And also very impressive, but mostly hot.”
My stomach drops and flutters at the same time, which should not be physically possible. I glare, my face instantly going hot. “What are you doing here?”
He starts walking toward the gate. “I could ask you the same thing,” he says, tilting his head.
His hoodie sleeves are shoved up to his elbows, his forearms flexing as he shifts his stick into his other hand. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, like he just rolled out of bed looking annoyingly perfect.
I fold my arms, lifting my shoulders into a shrug. “I prefer practicing at night.”
He raises a brow as he drops down onto the bench and starts untying his sneakers. “Because you’re secretly a vampire or…?”
I wipe my forehead with the sleeve of my hoodie, avoiding his eyes. “Because I don’t like being in anyone’s way.”
He stills mid-lace, his head lifting slowly, and when his eyes find mine, his whole expression hardens. “Has anyone said anything to you to make you feel like you’re in the way?”
“What? No,” I murmur, too quickly. It’s technically true. No one ever had to say it out loud. I’ve always just… known.
He watches me for a beat, like he’s reading between every line I didn’t say. Then his jaw tightens, his eyes darkening just slightly. “If anyone ever makes you feel that way,” he says, voice rough, “you come to me. I don’t care who it is. I’ll make sure they never do it again.”
I stare at him, caught completely off guard, my chest going tight.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him.
He finishes lacing his skates up, then stands, taps the gate open with his stick, and hops over the boards.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, skating a slow lap around me, tipping his head back to look at the rafters.
“And I miss the ice like crazy. I figured I’d come sneak a few laps before Coach drags us into another 6 a.m. hell practice where I have to set up fucking cones again. ”
I track him as he glides on the ice. He’s not even trying, and he still moves like the ice was made for him.
I let out a breath. “Well. Sorry. You’ll have to share.”
He grins, turning back toward me. “Oh, I don’t mind sharing,” he says, with a smile that makes me feel warm, even though I’m on the ice. “Especially not with you.”
Austin flirts like it’s his native language. It’s so baked into his personality that I don’t think he even knows when he’s doing it. And normally, I’d dismiss guys like him. Cocky athletes with pretty faces and permanent smirks don’t usually earn space in my brain.
But then he had to go and be my tutoring assignment. And now he’s not just an annoying jock, he’s thoughtful and has dimples and a way of looking at me like I’m not invisible.
And it’s messing with me.
He circles around again, then slows to a stop in front of me, his toe picks digging into the ice.
“Alright,” he says, tapping the end of his stick against my skate. “Teach me some moves.”
I raise a brow. “You’ll break your tailbone.”
He shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”
He’s watching me too closely now, and his attention on me makes my skin buzz and my brain glitch.
I glance toward the other end of the rink. I was planning to try the jump again. Just one more go before I called it for the night.
“Fine. But don’t sue me when you dislocate something.”
He skates closer. Close enough that I have to look up to keep my eyes on his.
“I’d never sue you,” he says, voice dipping low. “Might make you kiss it better, though.”
I groan, pushing at his shoulder. “Gross.”
He chuckles, but waits for me to show him some moves. And maybe I should tell him to stop looking at me like that, to go skate his laps and leave me be.
But instead, I roll my eyes and skate backward into position. My blades bite into the ice, and I keep my arms tight to my sides as I launch into a simple waltz, landing clean and smooth, coming to a soft glide.
When I straighten and blow out a breath, I sneak a glance toward Austin, who’s watching me carefully.
He skates a slow, thoughtful circle, his brow furrowed.
“Okay,” he says, lips pursed as he drops his stick onto the ice. “I got this.”
He skates in a circle to gain momentum, and then pushes off the ice, his arms spreading out as he attempts a spin. His knees lock at the wrong time, his arms flail in opposite directions, and by the time he finishes his sad little turn, I’m doubled over, clutching my ribs.
“Okay, no, stop.” I can barely breathe. “You look like a baby giraffe learning to walk.”
“I’m insulted,” he says, placing his hand on his chest.
“You should be,” I say, unable to stop the smile from creeping onto my face.
His eyes narrow. “Alright. Round two.”
“Austin—”
Too late. He tries again, this time aiming for the jump. Or a version of it. There’s a moment where I think he might pull it off since he gets a surprising amount of lift, but then he over-rotates, loses control, and lands flat on his ass with a loud, echoing thud.
“Jesus—” he groans.
I skate over, still laughing, and crouch beside him, the ice biting into my knees.
“You’re terrible,” I say, poking his shoulder.
He groans, placing his hand on his chest. “You wound me, Maisie.” He sits up, brushing ice shavings off his hoodie. “I should’ve warmed up first,” he mutters, rubbing his back.
“Or not attempted a jump with zero figure skating experience,” I say.
He grins. “Fair. Wanna trade? Want me to teach you how to handle a puck.”