Where The Ice Gives Way Chapter 71

Charlotte

Music drifts through the rink from the speakers overhead as we step inside. It’s soft beneath the scrape of skates and the low murmur of voices, then fuller as the song swells. I stop just inside the entrance. A few boys are out there already, and a group of girls in fitted leggings and practice dresses. They move in loose formation across the middle of the ice, their bodies long and elegant, hair tied back, with rhinestones and crystals catching every shift of light. They’re beautiful—all of them. One girl spins into a camel spin, her free leg stretched long behind her, body held flat and strong, while another glides through a set of three turns and slips neatly into a salchow. I watch a boy at the far side land a clean toe loop, his blades biting down with a crisp scratch before he pushes straight back into speed. I stand there watching, the skate box clutched in both hands, and something small and nervous starts curling up inside me. How is a girl like me meant to step onto their ice?

Blake is already moving ahead of us toward the sideboards, and one of the girls breaks away from the group and skates toward him with an easy smile. She is stunning. Long blonde hair in a sleek ponytail. Long legs. Narrow waist. A bedazzled black practice dress that fits her like it was made on her body. She glides to the barrier and rests her forearms against the top of it. She sees Blake and lights up. “Hey.”

“Hey, Jess.” Blake smiles back. “We were wondering if it’d be cool if we split the ice for a bit.” Her eyes flick over the rest of us, then come back to him. “Of course,” she says, sweet as anything. “We don’t need the whole thing. We’re only practising today.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.” She laughs softly. “You probably do.” Then he turns and waves us over toward the benches. My grip tightens around the skate box. Theo drops his hockey bag first and starts pulling gear out with all the grace of a large overexcited dog. Charlie tosses his duffel down beside him and starts passing out sticks. Meanwhile, Blake takes the box gently from my hands and sets it on the bench before crouching in front of me. “You alright?” he asks. I nod too quickly, and his eyes stay on mine for a second longer than they need to. “Sit.”

He lifts one skate from the box and slips it onto my foot before threading the laces and tightening them with smooth pulls. I look past him toward the ice while he works, toward Jessica and the others gliding through the centre, and that nervous little feeling grows further. I don’t belong beside girls like that. I don’t belong on this clean, bright ice. Blake ties the last lace, then looks up at me. “What’s that face for?” I blink. “What face?”

“That one.” His mouth twitches as he points at my face. I look away quickly, and thankfully, he doesn’t call me on it. He reaches for the other skate and slides it on. When he’s done, he stands and offers me his hand. “Come on, Lotty.” The blades feel different beneath me straight away. They’re lighter and more responsive, even on the rubber flooring. By the time we reach the gate, my stomach is doing wild things inside me. Blake opens the gate and steps aside just as the music changes to something softer. He smiles at me. “Go.”

I take my first glide out onto the ice, and everything else drops away. The blade catches. Then settles. Then sings. The new skates respond to every shift of my weight so cleanly that it almost makes me laugh. I glide once, twice, testing the edge, and the ice holds me like it’s been waiting. There’s no rough snow over the top, no cracks hidden beneath white. Just a smooth, clean surface under lights bright enough to make the whole world feel polished. At one end of the rink, Theo is already dragging a goal into place while Charlie flicks pucks out across the ice. The boys spread out, sticks in hand, and the sharp knock of a puck starts cutting through the music in quick, clipped beats.

The song pulls me further. I push into a long outside edge, then draw into a three-turn, before I open out into a sweep of speed across the middle. My arms lift without thought, and my body follows the music. One clean mohawk turn, then a waltz jump, small but light, landing easier than I expected in the new skates. I laugh under my breath and push into motion again. I let the ice take me into a quick set of crossovers and a spiral stretching out behind me, free leg lifting, and chest opening. Then I go down into a sit spin, low and centred, the world blurring briefly around me before I rise from it and flow straight into a salchow. For a few beautiful minutes, I forget everything.

I can still hear the boys practising. Their pucks are snapping against the boards, but I just now notice the figure skaters have slowed, and several of them are looking at me now. Jessica skates toward me with her hands on her hips, and my stomach drops. There it is. I know this feeling. I have seen this exact walk before at too many schools and too many rinks, always right before someone makes it clear where I stand and where I don’t. I slow to a stop as Jessica reaches me and looks me up and down once. “What do you think you’re doing over here?” she asks. Everything in me wants to crawl under the ice and stay there forever. I stand there frozen.

I know exactly what’s coming next. Jessica rolls her eyes as she smiles. “You’re very clearly on the wrong side of the ice.” She points across the rink at her group, and my brain takes a second too long to catch up. “What?” She leans forward before I can react, grabs my arm, and starts towing me gently across the ice. “Come on.” I go with her mostly because I’m too stunned not to. “If you can skate like that,” she says over her shoulder, “you should at least do it with people who can complement your rhythm.”

“My what?” I manage. Jessica laughs, bright and easy. “Your rhythm.” She slows near the group and turns back to me properly. The other girls and boys have all drifted closer now, every single one of them watching with open curiosity instead of the sharp, mean edge I had braced myself for. Jessica gestures at me like she’s presenting evidence. “I haven’t seen anyone do a sit spin into a salchow that beautifully in ages,” she says. “Ever, maybe. Definitely not me.” I stare at her, and she grins. “Can you show us?” There is no sneer in any of it. No mockery. They look like they actually want me here. Me. *Show them!* Shanti urges.