I tap his name and the messages open like muscle memory. Even though I’ve read them all a hundred times, I scroll anyway. My eyes trace every word, every reply. And then, I start typing.
Me:
I don’t know how to say this, but I think I need to stop texting you. You’ve meant more to me than you’ll probably ever know. You made me feel seen when I didn’t think anyone could. But I’ve fallen for someone. And it doesn’t feel fair to keep holding on to this. Thank you for everything. Truly. You helped me more than you know. But this has to be goodbye.
I don’t let myself reread it. I just hit send, and then turn off my phone and stare straight ahead, letting out a deep breath.
I tug my hoodie off and fold it beside me on the bench, then start my usual off-ice warm-up before lacing my skates. Normally, I’d do this back at my dorm or the gym before coming to the rink, but coming straight from Austin’s place this morning, I didn’t have much time.
I warm up for a while, jogging down the hallway, high knees, butt kicks—which feel ridiculous but are very effective. I grab the wall and swing my legs, trying to loosen my hips without looking too awkward. Arm circles, hip rolls, and a few rotations.
I move onto a couple of off-ice jumps, double loop and axel, careful not to twist anything the wrong way. Then heel raises, toe walks, ankle circles, and rolling my foot over a golf ball to ease the tight spots I always seem to get.
By the time I finish stretching, my muscles are humming, ready to get on the ice.
I tug my hoodie over my head, fold it beside me on the bench, and finish lacing my skates. I roll my ankles a few times, stretch out my legs, then push to my feet and make my way toward the rink.
A few of the girls are already scattered across the rink—two running programs at the far end, one looping through footwork drills near the center.
I step onto the ice and skate toward my usual spot in the corner. I start easy with some edges and figure eights, giving my body a chance to settle into the movement. My legs ache and stretch, slowly loosening, settling into the rhythm.
I move onto crossovers next. Forward, then backward, leaning hard into each turn, letting my weight shift, my muscles waking up and humming with heat.
Coach watches from the boards, clipboard in hand. “Keep your hips over your foot on those crossovers. Don’t let yourself fall forward.”
I nod and bite back a sigh because, honestly, that’s easier said than done when my legs are already starting to scream.
“Spin sequence,” she calls out next. “Camel, sit, then combination.”
Spins are always a little tricky for me. I kick up into the camel spin, feeling my free leg extend behind me, making sure my free leg extends straight behind me, toe pointed out—not down—and I dip my left arm before sweeping it back up, slicing through the air.
But I end up too far forward on my toe pick, and lose balance, wobbling just enough to fall out.
“Reset and try again,” Coach says. “Your chest rises a lot when you come up. Keep your right hip back and when you stand on your spinning leg, make sure it’s open.”
I nod, taking a deep breath, and try again, focusing on keeping my chest low and hips back. The entry feels smoother this time. I spin, round and round, counting each rotation in my head. Ten clean, solid turns before I finally wobble.
“Better,” Coach nods, a rare smile breaking through. “You’re finding your edge again. Sit spin next. Focus on getting low, keep that free leg parallel to the ice. Don’t let your hips dip.”
I bend into it, trying to sink low enough without shaking. My muscles burn, but I keep my gaze fixed on a spot in the rink, anchoring myself. The spin builds, solid enough to keep going for fifteen rotations before I slow down.
Coach nods. “Good. You’re getting stronger.”
I kick up into the camel, smooth the transition into the sit, and then pull my free leg in for the final upright spin. It’s tricky, switching positions without losing momentum, but I push through, and nail a solid twenty rotations before stopping.
My chest heaves and a grin spreads across my face. “That felt… pretty good.”
She arches a brow, nodding. “That’s what I want to hear. Keep it up.”
She moves farther down the rink, eyes locked on Brianna as she runs through her drills, and I shift my focus on practicing my jump combinations next. Triple toe loop into a double salchow—the bane of my existence. Every time I try them, they leave me with a bruised hip and a bruised ego, but skipping practice isn’t an option if I want to avoid embarrassing myself at Nationals.
I crouch low, coil, and launch into the triple toe. The air rushes past my face as I spin, and I stick the landing. Relief washes over me for half a second before I push into the double salchow. My landing wobbles hard and my chest tightens, frustration prickling up my spine. But no time to sulk. I shake it off, reset, and line up again.
When I’m finally done with practice, I slip into the locker room, and sink onto the bench, a smile curling up despite the ache as I peel off my skates, rubbing the tightness from my calves. I roll my ankles in slow circles, reach for my toes, feeling the familiar, deep stretch tug through my hamstrings and hips.
A few of the girls gather in a circle, whispering about the latest music choices for Nationals, and I can’t help but listen.
“Seriously?Swan Lakeagain?” one of them groans. “It’s such a cliché.”
