The rink is too quiet without the hockey team, no pucks slamming against boards. No whistles. No shouting. No Evan. Just the hum of the lights and the scrape of my blades. I’ve been skating since seven this morning. It’s almost noon now. Five hours. Five hours of everything except the one thing I’m supposed to do.
Every time I reach the part of the routine where the jump should be, I skip it. I glide past it like it’s a hole in the ice. Like if I get too close, I’ll fall through.
Coach Daniels stands at the boards, arms crossed, watching me with that expression he gets when he’s trying to be patient but also wants to shake me. I finish another run‑through, minus the jump, and skate over to him. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at me. I look away.
“Lena,” he finally says, “yo
