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THE FIRST TWENTY-FOUR HOURS ARE THE HARDEST

Sabrina

It’s an age-old question about figure skating—do you ever get used to the early mornings, or do the early mornings get used to you? While I can wake at four-thirty, I wouldn’t say I spring free from my bed.

But muscle memory drags me out. To the bureau, where I grab leggings, a sweater, and a sports bra.

To the bathroom, where I brush my teeth, loop my hair into a ponytail, and get dressed.

Then to the garage, where I hop into my car, spotting a small canvas bag on the floor of the backseat.

I must not have grabbed everything in the move yesterday so I make a note to snag that later, pulling out before the sun’s even thinking about rising.

I drive through the quiet pre-dawn city, cruising along with doctors, nurses, and other early risers, the scent of the car’s cinnamon apple air freshener tickling my nose.

Soon, I reach Sunnyside Rink where I rent ice for my lessons from the rink’s owners.

An older couple, Hank and Marla Dawson, were both college hockey players.

They met in school, fell in love, and opened this rink together.

With a key I’ve used countless times, I unlock the heavy double doors, then go inside and punch in a code on the alarm, silencing it before it goes off.

Inside, the familiar blast of chilly air hits my cheeks, and I sigh happily. It’s like coming home. It never fails to invigorate me. All at once, I’m wide awake without a drop of caffeine.

My student—Jasmine Morales—won’t arrive for another twenty minutes. It’s just me, the ice, and the start of the day. I set my bag on the bleachers, slide off my sneakers, and lace up my skates.

After grabbing my travel action camera that Leighton gave me as a “business-warming” gift, I attach it to a stick, adjust some settings, then step onto the ice, holding it.

I don’t move right away. I breathe in, inhaling the cool, crisp scent, the bite in the air, the solitude.

When I first laced up at age four, skating was fun. It stayed that way for many years. But at some point, I chased excellence as much as joy. Maybe more. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be tops at something. But it can obsess you. Addict you. Control you.

After I failed to make the Olympics in early college, I had to face some tough truths about myself.

I was obsessed with skating, but also with the prep for skating.

With the rules and guidelines about how to excel.

With the climb up the mountain, and whether I was doing enough—lifting enough weights with enough frequency, skating enough programs with enough electricity.

And smiling through it all. Smiling even when it hurt.

It was a harsh reality, but I learned over time that it’s okay to have fun on the ice. I don’t have to obsess over every second, every routine, every workout.

Most of all, I learned I can skate for me .

I’m off, holding the stick with the camera at the end of it, then hitting the ice and flying.

It’s always felt that way—like flying—even when it’s hard.

And figure skating is often hard. It’s supposed to be hard.

And terrifying. And beautiful. It’s all of those things.

But it’s also like meditation as the blades cut into the ice while I skate backward, picking up the pace, arms out, crossing over again and again as I glide around the rink.

Music plays in my earbuds—a fast pop song that makes my pulse speed and my heart soar.

I spin—a scratch spin, with my legs crossed and arms briefly tucked in but still holding the camera, something I’ve done many times.

I move out of it and glide forward, picking up speed again before shifting into a toe loop, landing cleanly, and circling the rink once more, the tiny camera capturing all my moves close up so the viewer feels like they’re moving with me.

In some ways, this impromptu routine feels like every morning of my life growing up, when I spent hours at the rink practicing, refining, and aiming for not only excellence, but perfection.

Sometimes reaching it. Always craving it.

Now, though, it feels like freedom. I barely think of the camera, but when I do, it doesn’t feel like a judge. It’s an outlet for me to express the joy I feel in sport and in movement.

A few more songs, and I’m breathless, exuberant, and ready to teach.

Good thing, because Jasmine and her mom have just arrived. I turn off the camera, then put it away in my bag. I’ll edit the video later and post it, and thanks to modern technology the stick won’t appear in the final clip. Yay software.

“Let’s do this,” I say enthusiastically to the twelve-year-old sporting braids, a beanie and a morning glow.

Then we work—but I try to make it feel like play .

“Yes! You got this,” I cheer every time she nails a move.

When she struggles, I help her break it down and find the joy in the sport too.

That’s what I tried to recapture in college—after taking a year off to see a therapist, work at a coffee shop, and get my mind right again.

It worked. I started skating for fun and, eventually, for performance.

Turns out I like the performance side better than competition.

But I love teaching most of all. When we finish, Jasmine asks, “Do you think I can go to the Olympics? Or maybe the national championships? It would be so cool to be the first Black girl since Debi Thomas to win a medal.”

My chest swells with hope. But tightens, too, since I don’t want to say the wrong thing, especially since I love her dreams, and her pride in what they might mean. “I think anything is possible. But the most important thing is to keep showing up—if you love the sport.”

“I do love it,” she says, resolute and hopeful all at once.

“Then I’ll see you at our next lesson,” I say, naming the time and date. Tyler is heading out of town in two days, but Jasmine does afternoon lessons too, so I can make those before I pick up the kids.

She smiles, then takes off. Soon, I close the rink, send a thank you message to the owners—Hank and Marla—and head outside as my phone pings with a reply from Marla, a long row of smiley faces and snowflakes.

The sun is up now, shining brightly above the horizon as I drive home, energized by the lesson.

Home.

The word drifts through my mind again. I haven’t really felt like I’ve had a home recently, not after bouncing from Isla’s couch to Starla’s micro-studio over the summer, and before that…well, Fuck Chad’s place doesn’t count.

What a weird thought—to think of Tyler’s house as my home. Well, it’s my home for now, and I suppose that’s all I can ask for.

I pull into the garage next to his sleek electric car. He’s probably inside, getting the kids ready for school.

Since I don’t need to “clock in” just yet, I head to my apartment, tug off my skating clothes, and grab a navy blue towel as I turn on the shower. Is this my towel? It’s fluffier than I remember, and it smells fresh and new. Must be one of Tyler’s guest towels.

The steam begins filling the stall as the water heats up. I’m about to step in when I glance at the shower shelf.

“Seriously?” I groan.

I forgot to bring my shampoo and conditioner inside yesterday. Bet that’s what’s in the canvas bag on the floor of my car.

After turning off the water, I wrap the towel tightly around myself, grab my car keys, and peer into the hallway. It’s quiet, and the garage door is only a few feet away.

I dart across the hall, open the door, and head to my car, pressing the key fob to unlock it.

“Gotcha,” I mutter, snatching the bag and shutting the door loudly. But when I spin around, I freeze.

I’m not alone.

The hot dad I work for is standing in the garage, dressed in a gray college T-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts, staring at me with eyes as wide as Moon Pies.

In no time, I grab at the top of my towel, tugging it higher above my breasts. Decorum and all. “I was getting shampoo. And conditioner,” I offer hastily, as if that explains everything.

Even though I could have put on clothes. But I took a chance.

Tyler’s silent for a beat, his jaw slack. Then he clears his throat and, several seconds later, blurts, “I was…getting some sa usage from…” He points vaguely at the white freezer on the far side of the garage.

“The freezer?” I supply, since speech seems to be failing him.

“Um. Yeah. The freezer,” he says thickly, his voice rough, sending a rush of heat down my spine.

With my free hand, I smooth the bottom of the towel, making sure it’s securely in place. Except…a very naughty devil on my shoulder has half a mind to say, “So…want to throw me down on the bed and devour me?”

At least, those look like eyes that want to devour a woman. Pupils dilated. Intense eye contact. Heat.

I think?

What do I know?

I only know Fuck Chad.

But I want to know what it’s like to be wanted. To be adored. To be devoured. To be…

He exhales sharply, like he’s trying to regain control. “I should?—”

“Get the sausage?” I suggest, and…oh, does that sound dirty.

“It’s veggie sausage,” he adds quickly. “For…Luna.”

“Sounds good,” I say, my voice a little too breathy.

“I can make you some.”

That sounds good, too, so I nod. “Yes.” I point toward the door, which he’s still blocking. “I need to…shower.”

He shuffles aside, awkwardly, which is unexpected from a man who moves his body for a living. He winces. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to walk in on you.”

“You didn’t really walk in on me. I’m the one standing here in a towel,” I say with a laugh, though my pulse is pounding. “I guess I should probably put clothes on next time. ”

“It was my fault,” he says, though he still hasn’t moved completely out of the way.

“I’ll make sure I’m dressed next time,” I add, but my breath is coming faster now. And his eyes…his eyes look like those of a man who wants to devour.

A devourer.

Is that a thing?

It should be a thing.

“I’m just going to…go,” I say, backing toward the door.