Page 56 of The Play Maker

12

MAISIE

There’s something sacred about the rink when it’s empty.

No teammates shouting, no squeaky whistle from Coach. Just the soft hum of overhead lights and the low whir of the cooling system.

It’s quiet here. Like the whole world slows down, and for a little while, the ice belongs only to me.

I glide out to center ice, my blades slicing clean lines into the surface beneath me.

There’s comfort in the quiet. In being alone out here, with no one here to watch me screw up.

My thighs burn as I push harder, building speed along the curve of the rink. I can feel every muscle in my legs screaming, my breath catching sharp in my throat, but I don’t ease up. I can’t.

The double loop is coming.

I prep the turn, wind up for the takeoff. My arms cross tight at my chest, everything in me coiled like a spring.

Then I launch.

And immediately I know it’s wrong.

I barely get the rotation before my blade hits the ice too early, and when I come down, my left blade clips the ice at the wrong angle.

And I go down.

Fast and hard.

Pain slices through my leg on impact as I slam into the ice, landing on my side. The cold seeps straight through my leggings, biting into skin.

“Shit,” I mutter, one hand pressing to my knee as I wince.

I stay there for a second, trying to catch my breath.

The fall wasn’t too bad, but it stings. My knee’s gonna bruise for sure.

I glance at the clock above the scoreboard. I’ve been here for almost an hour, and I still can’t land that jump cleanly.

Ishould’velanded it. Ihavelanded it.

Regionals are next month.

Four weeks until the lights go up and the music starts. Four weeks until I have exactly three minutes to land every jump, hit every spin, and prove I deserve to be out here at all.

I wipe the back of my hand across my face and let out a long, shaky breath.

Skating used to feel like magic when I was a kid. Back when Mom used to care. When she used to brush my hair into tight buns before competitions, pack my gear bag with homemade protein muffins and handwritten notes.

But after my dad died, things shifted.

She had two younger kids to take care of. A house to keep running. A full-time job.

I get it. I really do.

I was the oldest. The calm one. The easy one. So, I learned to take care of myself.

I braided my own hair, packed my own bags, took the bus to the rink.