Ice and Longing
POV: Izzy
The Zamboni rumbled off the ice, its job done for the night. Now the rink was a mirror of perfect ice, reflecting the bright, buzzing lights above. Everyone else was packing up, the sound of skate blades scraping one last time before giving way to voices and the clatter of hockey gear. But for me, Isabelle Laurent, it was time for my real practice to begin.
“Coach’s daughter,” some people whispered when they thought I couldn’t hear. “Ice Princess,” others muttered, sometimes not so quietly. But mostly, I was just Izzy. Izzy, alone on the ice.
I watched the hockey team troop off, their energy loud and bouncing as they headed for the locker room. Even Liam Riley, Jaxon’s best friend – the human tornado of rink noise and good cheer – finally disappeared. Peace at last. Or so you’d think. It wasn’t that I disliked Liam. He was… well, Liam. Just a lot of everything. Especially sweat.
Pushing away from the boards, I glided onto the freshly resurfaced ice. Ah. That was better. The smooth glide, the quiet chill of the rink – it was a familiar comfort. Most nights. Tonight, though, even the cold felt… restless, like it was waiting for something to happen. Maybe that was just my own restless feeling getting mixed up with the ice.
Lately, restless had become my normal. The Regionals. Just the word made my stomach clench. It was huge, looming over me like a giant, sparkly, but still very scary, monster truck rally of ice skating pressure. My whole season, my whole year, felt like it was all leading up to that one competition.
And my dad? Coach Laurent? He was dialled up to eleven on the Intensity Meter. Every practice was like a test, every move a thing to be picked apart. He’d watch, his eyes like ice lasers, pointing out every tiny flaw. It wasn’t meanness, not really. It was just… Dad-Coach mode. He saw “Isabelle Laurent, Champion Figure Skater, Project In Progress.” Not “Isabelle, human girl who likes laughing and sometimes just wants to eat popcorn and watch bad TV.”
The music for my program, dramatic and sweeping, filled the rink. Time to work. Time to try and forget the knot in my stomach and just… skate. The music swelled, trying to pull feelings out of me, feelings of drama and passion. “Artistry, Isabelle!” my dad always yelled from the boards. “Feel the music!” Artistry. Sometimes I felt more like a wind-up doll, just moving my arms and legs to someone else’s tune.
Double lutz. Landed it. Clean. Thwack of the blades, a small sound of victory in the big empty rink. Triple salchow next. Went for it. Landed… but wobbled. Ugh. Not clean. Not good enough. I pushed harder, skating faster, trying to push the frustration down, make my body do what my brain was telling it. But the ice… it was like it was fighting me tonight. Slippery in my head, not just under my blades. Like I was losing my grip on… everything.
As I spun, the world turned into a blur of white ice and blue rink walls. And then, that thought again. Like a little unwelcome ice, sneaking into my brain. Him. The hockey player. Jaxon Riley. Dark eyes. That almost-smile.
No. Izzy, stop. Focus. Regionals. Win. That’s the only thing that matters. Dad matters. Winning matters.
But the thought of him wouldn’t go away. His eyes, the sound of his voice, that moment when we bumped… it flashed in my mind, again and again. Distracting. Annoying. And… and something else. Something… ticklish in my stomach. No, definitely annoying.
I came out of my spin wrong, off balance, and had to skate fast to stop myself from falling flat on my face. Double ugh. Mad now. Really mad. I skated straight for the boards and slammed into them. Whump. My shoulder banged, but honestly? It felt a tiny bit better than the mess in my head. The music ended, leaving me panting, messed up, and still completely unfocused.
I leaned against the boards, cold wood pressing into my back, and closed my eyes again. Okay, deep breaths. Calm down. Forget the hockey player. Forget the almost-fall. Just… skate. Be the ice princess. Be perfect. But even as I told myself that, a tiny, disobedient voice whispered inside: Maybe being a little imperfect wouldn’t be so bad. And that, I knew, was a very dangerous thought indeed. Especially when hockey players with dark eyes and almost-smiles kept popping into your brain on perfectly polished ice.
