Page 27 of The Play Maker

I do, actually.

And now I’m blushing. Because what the hell do I even say to that?

Six:

So, what else don’t I know about you?

I pause. There’s a list. A long one. Too many things I’ve never said out loud, and way too many I wouldn’t say to a stranger—even one I like talking to more than most real people.

I settle on a small confession, not wanting to dull the mood.

Me:

I hate orange-flavored candy.

Six:

Damn. That’s rough. I was gonna propose with a bag of orange Skittles.

Me:

Glad I dodged that disaster. They taste like cleaning supplies.

Six:

Okay, that’s fair. Cherry reigns supreme anyway.

I pause, staring at his last message. It’s just a throwaway comment. But my stomach still flips, like it means more than it should.

I glance up, watching the other girls move around me like I’m not there. And weirdly, I don’t mind it as much right now. Not when I have someone to talk to who actually wants to hear what I have to say, even if I don’t know his name.

I swallow hard, and tighten my laces before heading out of the locker room. I’m used to being invisible. Especially with the girls here. I kinda thought it’d be different once I started college and was skating with a bunch of other girls. But nothing’s changed.

The only person I don’t feel invisible with is my little sister, Lottie. She’s sixteen, way cooler than I’ve ever been, and has more friends than I’ll probably have in my entire life. She’s also the only person I tell everything to. Which is… sad, I guess. But she never makes me feel like I’m too much. Or not enough. She listens whenever I want to rant about anything and everything, and I wouldn’t trade her for the world.

I just… I wish I had someone that wasn’t my sister to talk to. Someone that I could hang out with and go out with and just?—

I let out a sigh as I step onto the ice, and the rambling thoughts in my head quiets. I push forward, each stroke carving into the surface with a satisfying scratch.

The surface is smooth and fresh as I circle the rink, slowly at first, letting myself sink into the rhythm. My body knows this choreography like the back of my hand. This is the only place I ever feel fully like myself.

Strong. Graceful. Beautiful, even—though I’d never say that out loud.

I’ve spent enough time trying to fold myself smaller in every room I walk into to know that I’m not lean or long-limbed like the girls who land triples like it’s nothing. I jiggle when I jump. My thighs press together even when I’m standing straight. I am soft where they are sculpted, round where they are lean. And still, I am here. And I deserve to be here.

The other girls are spread across the ice, practicing their spirals and chatting between runs. I glance at them, swishing as they glide like they were born with skates on their feet.

One girl executes a flawless double toe loop, and I watch the way the others nod, impressed.

I rip my gaze away and do a few warm-up laps, shaking out the nerves. My body knows what to do. Muscle memory takes over, and I fall into the rhythm.

I transition into a catch-foot spin, keeping my arms extended, then slowly pulling one leg up behind me, grabbing the blade and holding tight. The stretch burns through my shoulder and thigh, but the spin feels centered. Controlled.

“Elbow up,” Coach calls from the boards. “Hold the line through the exit.”

I nod, dropping my foot back onto the ice. She’s right, the exit was sloppy. Still, not bad. Better than last week.

I push off again, coasting around to gain momentum for the jump I’ve been working on for months. The double axel—forward outside edge takeoff, two and a half rotations in the air, land on the opposite foot.