The Perfect Glide

AUTHOR'S NOTE .......... & I : GLIDING SOLO

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

💫 “She chased perfection. He made her believe in passion.”

Hey beautiful souls 💎

Welcome to The Perfect Glide! ❄️

This story carries a piece of my heart — filled with passion, rivalry, and the fire to chase impossible dreams. If you’ve ever fallen, fought to rise, or dared to believe again, this story is yours too.

Thank you so much for adding The Perfect Glide to your library. Every read, vote, and comment means more than words can express. Your support turns my dreams into reality and keeps this world of ice and emotion alive.

So take a deep breath, step onto the rink with Lexi and Ryder… and feel the magic where passion meets perfection.

With love and endless gratitude,

— Rose 🌹

Happy reading.....🥰🥰

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I : GLIDING SOLO

Welcome.....🥰🥰

First chapter i hope you like it.....😊😊😊

Happy reading.....🥰🥰

"Sometimes, the cold is the only thing that reminds me I’m alive."

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The rink waits like a frozen heartbeat. The morning air is sharp, clear, and faintly sweet with the scent of metal and frost. I tighten the laces on my white boots until the pressure bites against my ankles, a familiar ache that tells me I’m ready.

I push open the gate, and the sound greets me—the soft, crisp hiss of blades slicing into smooth ice. My breath leaves a thin trail of fog in front of me as I glide forward, slow and deliberate, letting the cold seep into my skin.

Every push, every pivot, is a conversation between me and the ice. It listens when no one else does.

The arena lights hum above, some flickering like they’re half awake. It’s too early for the other skaters. That’s how I like it—quiet, empty, just me and my thoughts.

No whispers. No comparisons. No expectations. Just Alexandra Lexi Thompson, the girl chasing a dream too big for her small hometown and too fragile for anyone else to understand.

My blades scratch against the surface as I move faster, tracing invisible lines that only I can see. The sound fills the space, echoing back like applause I haven’t earned yet.

Spin. Land. Breathe. Repeat.

Every move feels right until my thoughts catch up—reminding me of the last competition, the stumble, the score, the pity in people’s eyes when I didn’t win.

I force the memory away, focus on my rhythm. If I keep moving, I can out skate my doubts.

Coach Briar’s voice floats in my mind, calm but firm: “Perfection isn’t talent, Lexi—it’s repetition. The thousandth fall that teaches you grace.”

I close my eyes for a second, arms out, spinning until the air pulls at my hair. The motion is dizzying, dangerous, beautiful. For a heartbeat, I feel like I’m flying.

Then the blade catches a rough patch—just a tiny imperfection—and I hit the ice hard enough for the sound to echo.

My palms burn. My knees sting. The shock ripples through me.

I stay down for a moment, staring at the ceiling lights above, their glow fracturing in the thin layer of tears in my eyes.

It’s not the pain that makes me pause. It’s the reminder that even when I fall, the ice still holds me.

When I finally rise, the cold has seeped through my gloves, but my heart feels steadier. I wipe a streak of frost from my leggings, press my lips together, and whisper into the empty arena—

“Again.”

The word bounces off the walls like a promise.

The locker room smells faintly of lavender spray and damp wool, a scent that clings to the air even after the skaters are gone. I sit on the bench, head bent, the world outside the rink muffled and distant. Drops of melting ice slide from my blades, tapping against the tiles like a ticking clock.

I peel off my gloves slowly. The skin beneath them is red and raw, small bruises blooming where my hands broke my fall. I trace one absently, feeling the sting—part pain, part proof. Proof that I tried. Proof that I’m still in this.

In front of me, a tall mirror catches my reflection. My hair, pulled into a messy bun, has escaped in strands that cling to my flushed face. My eyes—grey with flecks of blue—look back at me, steady but tired. There’s a girl in that reflection who wants to be something more than just “promising.” She wants to be unforgettable.

“Still here, Lexi?”

Coach Briar’s voice cuts through the quiet. I glance up to see her leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, her dark coat dusted with frost. Her gaze is sharp, but there’s a softness behind it—a kind that comes from knowing what it means to chase perfection and fall short.

“Just cooling down,” I say, forcing a small smile.

“Your cool-down looked a lot like a death spin gone rogue,” she replies, one brow arched.

I laugh lightly, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “I slipped. Ice fought back.”

Coach steps in, setting her thermos on the bench beside me. “The ice never fights back, Lexi. It reflects what you bring to it. You fight yourself.”

Her words hang there, heavy but true. She’s not wrong. Every time I’m out there, I’m not battling the rink or the judges or even the other skaters—I’m battling the version of myself that’s never satisfied.

Coach crouches, tying the laces on her boots tighter. “You’ve got a clean glide, strong edges, and better control than most skaters your age. But your mind’s too loud. You need to quiet it.”

“How?” I whisper.

“By trusting the silence.” She stands, eyes on the rink beyond the glass. “You’ll never hear your rhythm if you’re always doubting the music.”

Her advice always sounds like poetry dipped in warning. I nod, even though I don’t completely understand. I’m still learning how to listen to silence, how to find peace in motion.

Coach pats my shoulder before heading out. “Go home. Rest. Big day tomorrow.”

When she’s gone, I turn back to the mirror. The girl staring back doesn’t look convinced. But beneath the fatigue, there’s fire—a spark that refuses to dim no matter how many times she falls.

I grab my duffel bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the exit. As I pass the edge of the rink, I can’t resist glancing once more at the empty ice under the lights.

It glows faintly blue, like it’s waiting for me to come back.

And I will.

The streets outside the rink are still half-asleep. Morning mist clings to the air like ghosted breath, and the sun barely peeks over the skyline, painting the world in pale gold. I pull my jacket tighter around me, boots clicking against the pavement as I walk home. The weight of my skate bag tugs at my shoulder, but I welcome it—it’s a reminder that the dream is still real, still mine to carry.

Havenwood isn’t a big town. Its charm lies in its simplicity—rows of snow-dusted shops, lampposts draped in silver garlands, and a coffee shop that opens too early for anyone sane. Mrs. Dalton, the owner, waves from inside as I pass. She knows me. Everyone here does. The girl who skates before dawn, who’s always chasing something more.

When I finally reach home, the Thompson residence looks exactly as it always does: a neat two-story with blue shutters, a garden buried under snow, and a porch swing that creaks whenever the wind remembers it. I pause on the steps, staring at the faint reflection of the sunrise in the frost-covered window.

It’s beautiful in a quiet way—like the kind of beauty that doesn’t ask to be noticed.

Inside, the warmth hits instantly. The smell of cinnamon and coffee wraps around me as Mom’s voice drifts from the kitchen. “You’re up early again, Lexi.”

I smile faintly, dropping my bag by the stairs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She turns, flour dusted across her apron, her hair tied in a messy bun that mirrors mine. “You never do before a competition.”

I grab a mug from the counter as she slides a plate of waffles toward me. “Guess my brain’s just doing laps of its own.”

Mom chuckles, but her eyes linger on me longer than they should—soft, concerned, loving. “Just remember, sweetheart, skating doesn’t define you.”

“Maybe not,” I murmur, staring at the syrup gliding down the waffle’s edge, “but it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

She doesn’t argue. She never does. She just reaches out, brushes a lock of hair from my face, and says, “Then make it count.”

Later, upstairs in my room, I pull out my journal—a battered leather notebook filled with choreography notes, competition scores, and pages of scribbled thoughts I’d never say out loud.

Across one page, I’d written: The Perfect Glide isn’t a move. It’s a feeling.

I trace the words slowly, thinking of Coach Briar’s advice about silence. Maybe that’s what perfection is—not a flawless routine, but a moment where the noise finally fades, and everything inside you feels weightless.

I open my window slightly, letting in a stream of cold air. The rink feels far away, but the ice is still in my bones, humming quietly. Tomorrow will bring the regional qualifiers, the chance to prove myself again. The thought sends a flutter through my chest—half fear, half fire.

Downstairs, Mom hums an old song while washing dishes. The sound blends with the winter breeze, the scent of cinnamon, the faint ache in my arms.

For a fleeting second, it all feels perfect.

I set my alarm for five a.m. and whisper to myself before turning off the light:

“Tomorrow, I fly.”

The room fades to darkness, but the dream—my dream—stays wide awake..........

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"Every fall teaches me how to rise a little stronger."

What a start. Wonderful motivation lexi. You'll probably win. Maybe?🤔😊

Thoughts??? Drop them in the comment section.

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