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“I don’t think my brother ever said that to me.”

I pause. “You ever say it to yourself?”

He shakes his head slowly.

“Well, say it now. Go on. Just once.”

He glances around like he’s afraid someone will hear. Then, under his breath, he mumbles, “I’m brave.”

“Didn’t hear you.”

“I’m brave,” he says again, louder.

“There it is.” I give him a light nudge. “Say that every morning, even if you don’t believe it yet. Eventually, you will.”

He nods, and something shifts in his eyes. I see it. That little flicker of belief starting to take root.

“You coming back next week?” he asks.

I smile. “If you are.”

He grins and skates off to rejoin the other kids.

Parker glides over beside me, brow raised. “You give him a Ted Talk while I wasn’t looking?”

“Just reminded him of something important.”

Parker claps me on the back. “You’ve got a thing with these kids, man. They listen to you.”

“Yeah, well. Someone’s gotta tell them they’re worth something. Might as well be me.”

A few minutes later, Parker and I wrangle a group of six kids to one end of the rink for an impromptu "turnaround clinic."

"Alright, troops," Parker announces dramatically. "Today’s mission: the art of not wiping out when the ice curves."

One kid raises his hand. "You mean like, turning without landing on our butts?"

"Exactly," I say, grinning. "We’re gonna show you how to cross one skate over the other and keep going around the curve without face-planting like a cartoon banana peel scene."

Parker demonstrates first, gliding smoothly through a tight circle and hamming it up by throwing in a twirl at the end.

"That twirl’s optional," I deadpan. "Unless you want to get roasted in the locker room."

The kids laugh as I take my turn, carving around the cones with a little more speed. "Key is to lean into it, not fight it. Bend your knees, cross that outside foot over, and trust the edge."

One girl falls immediately and throws her hands up. "I leaned into it, and it betrayed me!"

Parker skates over, mock solemn. "The curve is a fickle beast. But we shall conquer it."

They try again. And again. And by the third round, they’re starting to get it, and laughing the whole time.

We spend ten minutes doing nothing but loops and exaggerated turns, coaching through fits of giggles. It’s completely ridiculous, but it’s working.

When it’s time to wrap up, a few kids wave at me like we’re old friends. One even asks if they could give me a hug.

But inside, I’m hit with something heavier than I expected. The kind of ache that sits just below the surface.

When I was their age, I wasn’t skating for fun. I was skating to survive. Every city we moved to, every team I joined, it was always with one thing in mind...skate well to be accepted.