Page 13 of Love on the Edge
Because there isn’t. Because this is exactly what I wanted.
And yet, for some reason, I don’t look at him. And he doesn’t look at me.
I can’t just lay here all day. I need to get up. I need to get ready.
Practice starts at 5 AM. It’s already 4:30.
I go straight to the bathroom and brush out my hair. When I look in the mirror, something feels off. I look… happy? Maybe. Lighter. Looser.
I tie my hair into a bun and splash cold water on my face. I need to focus. It was just one night. It doesn’t change anything. It can’t.
Today is a technique clinic. Jumps and spins. Something about them feels wrong lately, and I don’t have time for anything to be anything but perfect. I need to fix it. I need to get to work.
I arrive at therink just before we’re supposed to step on the ice.
The cold air wraps around me the second I push through the doors, crisp and sharp, laced with the familiar scent of ice, rubber mats, and the faint metallic bite of skate blades waitingto be used. The overhead lights buzz softly, casting bright reflections across the untouched surface of the rink.
Harry Benson, one of the owners, is on the Zamboni, guiding it in slow, steady laps across the ice. He’s been doing this for decades—late sixties now, but still as steady as ever. I wave as I pass. Joanne, his wife, is in the office, unlocking doors, switching on lights, bringing the rink to life the way she has every morning for the last thirty years. They’ve owned this place forever, and it shows in the way they move, like the rink is as much a part of them as they are of it.
"Good morning, honey," she calls, her voice is warm and familiar.
"Good morning, Jo," I reply.
"Ready for practice?"
"Ready as I'll ever be."
She laughs as I head to the locker room, her voice trailing behind me as I push through the door.
The room is stark. Metal lockers line the walls, paint slightly worn from years of use, a few dented from careless kicks or slammed doors. The overhead lights are bright but harsh, casting sharp reflections off the smooth tile floor.
A row of benches sits in the center, scratched and scuffed from skates being tossed down carelessly. Along the far wall, there’s a bathroom with a couple of stalls and a row of sinks beneath a long mirror, its edges slightly fogged from years of humidity. The faint scent of disinfectant lingers in the air, mixed with something colder—rubber, ice, the familiar bite of the rink settling into every surface.
Nothing much to it. Just a space to change, lace up, and get to work.
I drop my bag onto the bench. The sound echoes in the empty room.
I grab my skates from my locker and take a seat. The repetitive motion of lacing up my skates is comforting. It’s the kind of thing I can do without thinking, the monotony of it giving me a brief break from everything else. Muscle memory. Habit. Routine.
I hear someone plop down next to me, the bench jolting slightly from the impact. I don’t need to look up—I already know who it is. No one else moves like that, all energy and ease, like the world is hers to take up space in. Like she belongs everywhere, including right here, right now, beside me.
Nina. “Hey, Val!” she says, grinning. She’s quick with her skates, hands moving efficiently like she’s already eager to get on the ice.
"Hey. Ready to skate?" I finish the last lace, tightening it just right before giving her a smile of my own. Despite the late night, I’m feeling more energized than I have in a while, it’s… refreshing.
"Always am!" She leans back slightly, stretching her arms. "So, I volunteered to help coach the beginner classes. Harry and Jo have so many sign-ups they had to add more classes. Think you can help?"
I pause, fingers tightening around my skate lace. Coaching? Kids? Not exactly my thing. I know I can help, but do I want to? Not really. I don’t have the patience. I don’t have the interest. I don’t even know if I have the ability. Some skaters love coaching, they love passing on what they know, love seeing the next generation improve under their guidance. That’s not me.
"I don’t think so, Nina. I’m not the coaching type."
She just shrugs. "Well, if you change your mind, I can always use the help."
That’s one of the things I love about Nina. She doesn’t push. She just lets me be. No judgment, no disappointment, just anopen door if I ever decide to walk through it. Except of course, convincing me to go to that party last night.
Nina tilts her head slightly, her voice shifting, softening. "I didn’t see you last night. Did you come?"
I freeze for half a second—just half a second—but it’s enough. Heat creeps into my cheeks before I can stop it. I don’t look at her. I look at my skates instead, pretending I’m focused on adjusting them, like I need to buy myself a few extra seconds to answer.
