The Perfect Glide

XI : SIDELINED BY EMOTIONS

Welcome back my darlings..... Happy reading....🥰

"When the body pauses, the heart starts to speak — and sometimes, it says everything you’ve been trying not to hear."

* * * * * * * * * *

The sound of the crowd had always been her music.

Even when she wasn’t competing, Lexi had loved standing just beyond the rink’s boards, feeling the pulse of every cheer vibrate through the ice. But now, that familiar rhythm only made her stomach twist.

From the bench, she watched the others glide — smooth, effortless, alive. The faint scent of the rink’s polish, the chill of the air, even the echo of skates slicing the ice — it all reminded her of what she couldn’t do.

Her ankle throbbed beneath the brace, a dull ache that pulsed in sync with her heartbeat.

“Still pretending you’re just ‘resting’?” a voice asked behind her.

Lexi didn’t need to look up. “I’m observing, not pretending.”

Coach Rivers sighed, stepping beside her. His tone softened, though only slightly. “Observation doesn’t heal tendons, Thompson.”

“I know.”

“You say that,” he muttered, crossing his arms, “but I’ve seen the way you look at that ice — like it’s oxygen. You can’t rush recovery.”

Lexi tightened her jaw. “And if I wait too long, someone else takes my place.”

The coach didn’t reply right away. The unspoken truth hung between them like fog.

Finally, he said quietly, “You’re not competing against them right now. You’re competing against yourself.”

She hated that he was right.

When he walked off, Lexi sank deeper into her seat. The roar of the arena blurred into a low hum, and she focused on one skater in particular — Mia Kellan. Graceful, confident, and newly assigned Lexi’s solo slot for the showcase.

The same showcase Lexi had trained six months for.

The program she’d choreographed herself.

Lexi’s chest constricted as Mia twirled effortlessly across the ice, every movement echoing a memory Lexi knew by heart.

When the music faded, the crowd erupted in applause. Lexi clapped too — because that’s what she was supposed to do. Because it was easier than admitting how much it hurt.

“Hey.”

She turned and found Ryder leaning against the barrier, hair damp from his own practice. “You look like you’re plotting someone’s downfall.”

Lexi exhaled, half a laugh. “Not yet.”

“Good, because I’m kind of partial to my own survival.”

She smiled despite herself. “What are you doing here? Hockey practice should’ve ended an hour ago.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, shrugging. “Figured I’d skate a bit, clear my head.”

“On figure ice?”

He grinned. “Ice is ice, Thompson.”

Lexi shook her head. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?”

“Funny, coming from you.”

Their eyes met — just for a second — but it was enough. The world around them dimmed, and all she could see was him: that same reckless calm, that same maddening ease with chaos.

Ryder nodded toward the ice. “You miss it.”

“Every second,” she admitted softly.

“Then stop sitting.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Sure it is,” he said. “You lace up, you stand, you fall, you heal. You get up again.”

Lexi laughed without humour. “You make it sound poetic.”

He smirked. “I’m good at that.”

“Annoying, you mean.”

“That too.”

But his grin faded as he watched her shift her ankle, pain flickering across her face. “Hey, seriously. Take care of that. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone right now.”

Lexi looked away. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

She opened her mouth, then stopped. What could she say? That skating wasn’t just her dream, it was her identity? That without it, she didn’t know who Lexi Thompson even was?

So she said nothing.

Ryder studied her for a moment, then quietly reached into his duffel and pulled something out — a single hockey puck, worn smooth from use.

He placed it on the bench beside her.

“For luck,” he said. “Or target practice, in case you ever want to throw it at me.”

She blinked. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he said, turning away, “but I’m right.”

As he walked off, Lexi stared at the puck resting in her palm — small, dark, solid. It wasn’t much, but somehow, it felt like the first thing anchoring her since the fall.

She tightened her fingers around it, the chill biting into her skin.

Maybe she wasn’t done yet.

Days bled into one another, each one colder than the last.

Lexi had learned that recovery wasn’t just about physical pain — it was the stillness that destroyed her. The hours between practices, the empty dorm when her teammates were training, the sound of the rink echoing down the hallways while she sat behind glass.

Watching. Waiting.

Every morning, she followed the same routine: wake, stretch, ice her ankle, pretend the swelling was less than it was, and flip through the training notes she couldn’t use yet. It was discipline without direction — the kind that felt hollow.

She had always been good at control. But now? Control didn’t heal, didn’t fill the silence, didn’t stop her from feeling like she was slipping further behind.

Coach Rivers had insisted she attend practice sessions “for morale.” What he didn’t understand was that morale was the first casualty.

On the third day of her forced rest, Lexi sat at the edge of the rink, arms folded, trying to focus on the drills. Mia glided across the ice with flawless rhythm — not perfect, but close enough to sting.

“Wow,” came a voice beside her. “You’re glaring so hard, I think the ice might melt.”

Lexi turned. Ryder stood leaning on his hockey stick, hair damp, grin unapologetic.

“Do you ever go home?” she asked.

“Do you?”

Her lips twitched. “Touché.”

He dropped down onto the bench beside her, stretching his long legs out. “So… day three of sitting and sulking?”

“Observing,” she corrected.

“Sure,” he said, “and I’m a ballet dancer.”

Lexi exhaled, dragging her hands down her face. “You wouldn’t get it.”

Ryder was quiet for a beat. Then, “Try me.”

“It’s not just about skating,” she said finally. “It’s everything. My whole schedule, my focus, my… control. It’s all gone. I can’t even plan how to feel anymore.”

He leaned back, voice softer now. “You know, sometimes the plan isn’t supposed to work. Sometimes it’s supposed to break so you can see what else you’re made of.”

Lexi glanced at him. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Maybe not,” he said with a shrug. “But you’ve been staring at the ice like it’s the enemy. It’s not. It’s just waiting.”

Something about that stayed with her. Waiting. The word rolled around her mind like an echo that refused to fade.

“Besides,” Ryder continued, tapping his stick against the floor, “I think you needed a break. You’ve been chasing perfect so hard, you forgot what fun looks like.”

She arched a brow. “And you’re the expert on fun, I suppose?”

“Absolutely. Fun, bad decisions, late-night snacks — I’m a professional.”

Lexi laughed, a quiet sound she hadn’t heard from herself in days.

“There it is,” Ryder said. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten how.”

She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But you’re smiling, so I win.”

Her laughter faded, replaced by something more complicated. Ryder had a way of sneaking past her guard — not through force, but through presence. He didn’t ask her to talk, didn’t demand she be anything but there. And somehow, that was harder to resist than anything else.

When practice ended, the others filed out, chatting and laughing, throwing glances toward Lexi — pitying, maybe even relieved it wasn’t them.

Lexi stood, adjusting the brace around her ankle. “You should probably get back before your coach starts yelling again.”

Ryder didn’t move. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be ‘sidelined,’ you’re doing a lot of coaching from the bench.”

She smiled faintly. “Old habits.”

He watched her a moment longer. “You’ll get back out there. Probably sooner than you think.”

She frowned. “You sound awfully confident.”

“I am.”

“And if I don’t?”

Ryder’s eyes softened. “Then you’ll find another way to shine. That’s what people like you do.”

For a heartbeat, Lexi didn’t breathe. There was no teasing in his voice this time — only certainty.

“Goodnight, Ryder,” she said quietly, turning before he could see the heat rising in her cheeks.

He didn’t stop her. But when she reached her dorm later, she found something taped to her door — a small slip of paper, folded neatly in half.

She opened it.

“Even the best skaters fall. The magic’s in the getting up. —R.”

Lexi stared at it for a long time, her heart doing that stupid fluttering thing again.

And for the first time since her injury, she smiled — not because she was okay, but because maybe, just maybe, she would be.

The next morning dawned gray and misty, the kind of quiet that seeps under your skin. The rink was empty when Lexi limped in, the echo of her crutches bouncing off the walls.

She hadn’t told anyone she was coming early — not even Coach Rivers. But the silence felt safer than the noise of pity, and she needed to see it again — the ice, the stage that had both lifted and broken her.

She stood by the boards, watching the pale surface stretch out before her. It looked like glass — flawless, untouchable.

Lexi pressed a palm to the barrier. “I’m not done with you,” she whispered.

Her reflection stared back — tired, messy, hair tied in a loose bun. A far cry from the poised figure everyone expected. But maybe that was okay. Maybe this version was the one who needed to start over.

She set her bag down, pulled out her skates, and sat slowly on the bench. Her ankle still protested when she loosened the brace, but she ignored it. She wasn’t going to skate, not yet — just feel the weight of them again. The familiar texture of the leather beneath her fingers steadied her pulse.

As she traced the blade with her thumb, she remembered what Ryder had said: It’s just waiting.

It hit her then — the truth she’d been avoiding. The ice wasn’t punishing her. It wasn’t keeping her out. She was. Her own fear, her own obsession with being perfect, had built the wall she couldn’t climb.

Her chest tightened, but it wasn’t just sadness. It was relief.

“Early start?”

Lexi turned sharply. Ryder stood in the doorway, hoodie half-zipped, a crooked grin lighting his face.

“Do you ever knock?” she asked.

“Didn’t think I needed to. You basically live here.”

She sighed, but there was no bite in her tone. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said, skating toward her with slow, confident strides, “you keep talking to me.”

Lexi couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

“Part of my charm.”

He stopped in front of her, eyes flicking to the skates in her lap. “You planning on breaking doctor’s orders again?”

“Not today,” she said. “Just… remembering.”

Ryder nodded, quiet for a moment. “You know, you don’t have to prove you can get up on your own.”

Lexi looked up. “What does that mean?”

“Means everyone needs a push sometimes.”

He offered his hand, palm open — not demanding, not saving, just there.

She hesitated, then slipped her hand into his. His grip was warm, steady, grounding.

“I’m not fragile,” she murmured.

“Didn’t say you were,” Ryder said softly. “But even ice cracks under pressure. Doesn’t mean it’s weak.”

Lexi blinked, caught off guard by the gentleness in his voice.

“Where do you come up with this stuff?” she asked, smiling faintly.

He grinned. “Secret talent.”

They stood like that for a moment — two figures against the vast, quiet rink. For once, neither of them needed to fill the silence.

When he finally pulled away, Ryder reached for his skates. “I’ll do a few laps — remind the ice who’s boss.”

“Good luck with that,” Lexi teased.

As he glided away, Lexi leaned back, watching him move — not with the precision of a figure skater, but with a freedom she envied. Every turn, every motion, was imperfect and alive.

She realized then that perfection had never been the goal — connection was. To the ice, to herself, to the people who reminded her she wasn’t alone.

And maybe that was what she’d lost sight of all along.

The tension in her chest eased. For the first time in weeks, she felt like she could breathe.

Lexi reached into her jacket pocket and unfolded Ryder’s note again. The words, scribbled in uneven ink, had smudged slightly.

Even the best skaters fall. The magic’s in the getting up.

A soft smile curved her lips.

“Guess it’s time to get back up,” she whispered..........

* * * * * * * * * *

"Sometimes the heart heals before the body does — reminding you that recovery isn’t about standing again, but daring to rise."

Hmm, should i speed up the plot a little or keep going slow and steady? How do you like it so far. I know you are still wondering where coach Briar is, just keep wondering...😉

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