Beyond the Whistleport Ice Arena lobby, blades carved familiar patterns into the ice while voices bounced off high ceilings. Coaches barked corrections in clipped syllables while kids shrieked with laughter as they windmilled their arms before spectacular tumbles.
Nervous excitement made my stomach flutter. Wes stood beside me on the concrete walkway, hands buried so deep in his jacket pockets that his shoulders hunched forward. He studied the bronze dedication plaque mounted beside the entrance.
In memory of those who taught us that ice cradles dreams.
He turned toward me. "Well, that's not heavy-handed at all."
Wes transferred his weight from one foot to the other. That meant his knee was bothering him, or he was working up the courage to face something that scared him senseless.
"You know, I'm not even sure my ankles remember how to skate."
The comment was lighthearted enough, but his voice trembled. It was impossible to know whether his skate abilities were still intact.
I wanted to say something profound to bridge the gap between his fear and the ice. Eloquence was nowhere to be found, so I simply said, "Then let's remind them."
He glanced at me and then reached for the door handle. I followed him into the arena's embrace.
The rental counter clerk barely glanced up when Wes requested size eleven skates, her fingers already moving toward the appropriate cubby with the efficiency of someone who'd fitted thousands of feet. Wes smiled when she handed them over. They were worn black leather and soft with age.
"These are decent."
He sat heavily on a bench near the locker rooms. He pulled off his work boots, revealing wool socks that had seen better decades, and flexed his toes against the rubber mat.
I laced up my pair—serviceable rentals that smelled faintly of industrial disinfectant. Wes lifted his right skate and examined the blade before ensuring the laces weren't frayed.
He slipped his foot into the boot. "Last time I wore these, I was still a kid who thought hockey was forever."
I leaned forward to help with the left skate when I noticed him favoring his knee. "Tighter?" I asked.
"Yeah, ankles need the support."
I drew the laces snug. When I tied them off, Wes's breathing changed—slower and deeper, like he was grounding himself in the moment.
He stood and tested his balance on the rubber matting. The skates transformed his posture, adding height and changing how his weight distributed. He looked like someone who belonged in the arena.
"Ready?"
Wes nodded toward the tunnel. "Let's see if I remember how to stay upright."
The rink opened before us in a sweep of pristine white, marked only by the lazy patterns of a dozen other skaters carving their paths into the surface. A group of teenagers clustered near center ice, attempting tricks that their coordination couldn't quite support.
Along the far boards, a middle-aged couple held hands while they navigated figure-eights. The sound was pure winter music—steel singing as it cut through the ice.
Wes paused at the gate, one hand gripping the boards while he stared out at the rink. The tendons in his neck stood out sharp against his collar.
He reached one foot forward. "This was a terrible idea."
I wanted to say something encouraging to ease his tension, but all the words I found were inadequate. I joined him when he placed the other foot on the ice and let my presence speak for itself.
He wobbled with the first step. Right foot forward, weight transfer, left foot pushing. Wes looked like he was learning to walk on a foreign planet. His ankles wobbled, overcorrecting for balance that used to be automatic. The years had buried the grace I'd glimpsed in old newspaper photos beneath layers of caution and rust.
I held out an arm. "Easy."
Then, something kicked in. Maybe it was the third stride or the fourth. His shoulders dropped half an inch. His arms found their natural counterbalance. The rigid line of his spine began to curve into something more fluid.
I drifted toward the rink's edge, giving him space while staying close enough to bear witness. He completed one cautious lap, staying close to the boards. For the next one, he executed longer strides. By the third lap, he'd lifted his head high enough to take in the other skaters.
Watching him find his rhythm was like watching someone remember how to breathe. The transformation was magnetic—his shoulders settled, and his stride lengthened with each lap.
