Page 24 of Love on the Edge
She hates failing.
I know that feeling. Because I was the same way.
I glance at the other kids, their laughter filling the rink, their movements easy and unbothered. They skate because it’s fun. Because it’s new. Because they have nothing to prove.
I should be helping the others. I should be making sure Nina isn’t overwhelmed, but my focus narrows. I don’t mean to ignore the rest of the class, don’t mean to leave Nina handling a dozen kids on her own, but luckily, some of the older skaters step in, guiding the others through the basics.
It gives me a moment. Just one.
And I take it.
I push off, gliding toward her, watching the way she leans forward, arms stiff, every muscle in her body focused on getting it right. She doesn’t notice me at first, too locked into the challenge in front of her.
I match her pace, skating beside her, waiting for her to react.
Her green eyes flick toward me for a second before snapping back ahead. Determined. Focused. But I catch the flicker of excitement, the way she straightens slightly, like the presence of someone else makes this more than just practice.
It makes it a challenge.
She speeds up.
So I do too.
Her breath quickens as she digs into her crossovers, edges cutting harder, movements sharper. I let her take the lead, let her feel it for a few seconds—until I push off harder, overtaking her in smooth, effortless strokes.
She exhales sharply, frustration flashing across her face.
I smirk. “You almost had me.”
She huffs, cheeks flushed, but she’s grinning. “I wasn’t done yet.”
I slow, extending a hand. “Then let’s do it again.”
She takes in a firm, confident grip.
“Alright,” I say, “but this time, keep your knees softer when you push off.”
She nods quickly, already eager, already in motion. She’s light on her feet, but her technique is raw—too much power in the wrong places, not enough control in others. She gets ahead of herself, chasing speed instead of precision.
I let her go for a few strides, watching the way her ponytail bounces with each push, the way she throws herself into her crossovers too soon, edges slicing deeper than they should.
She stumbles, a misstep that throws her balance for half a second.
I catch up instantly, my stride steady, my presence beside her enough to make her refocus. “Relax,” I say, voice even, just loud enough for her to hear over the scrape of skates.
She exhales, but this time, her shoulders drop slightly, her arms loosen.
“Again,” I say. “Don’t force it. Feel it.”
She doesn’t argue, just pushes forward. This time, her movements smooth out, the rough edges of her technique sharpening, refining, as she matches my rhythm.
The others are still doing their drills in the background, but here, it feels like just the two of us.
She watches me carefully, mirroring my weight shifts, pushing off—not just with speed, but with control.
She isn’t just skating; she’s studying every movement, every shift of weight, every mistake and correction. She watches the ice the way I used to, not just for where she’s going but for what she can learn. She wants to be better, to push herself.
The realization settles deep in my chest, something unspoken rising to the surface, something I haven’t felt in years. I remember chasing after my coaches on the ice, desperate to prove I could keep up, that I belonged.
