Glacial

The rink is mine at dawn because the world outside is still tangled in sleep, but as I stand here—under the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint echo of blades carving ice—I am awake, alive, and in control. The cold air bites at my cheeks, sharp enough to sting, but I welcome it. It feels like clarity, like discipline made tangible. Every inhale is a reminder that I am here before anyone else, pushing harder, chasing perfection in the silence where no one can see me falter.

I press the toe pick into the ice, push off, and let my body glide into the first warm-up lap. My reflection flickers across the plexiglass boards, a ghost of myself chasing me around the rink. Espresso-brown hair pulled into a messy bun, hazel eyes narrowed with focus, shoulders taut with determination. I look like a girl who belongs here. I look like someone who knows what she wants.

But wanting isn’t enough.

The competition is in two weeks. Nationals. The word alone makes my stomach twist, a knot of nerves and hunger. I’ve been skating since I was six, since my mother first laced my boots at a winter festival and I refused to leave the ice. Twelve years of bruises, blisters, and bleeding ankles have led me here. Twelve years of chasing the impossible—control, perfection, artistry. Twelve years of convincing myself that if I just push harder, if I just skate cleaner, if I just land every jump without a wobble, then maybe I’ll be enough.

Enough for the judges. Enough for my coach. Enough for my mom. Enough for me.

I cut across the rink, the sound of my blades slicing through the ice like a whisper. My breath fogs in the cold, rising and vanishing before I can catch it. I imagine the program in my head—the music swelling, the choreography unfolding, the jumps timed to crescendos. I see myself flawless, every line extended, every landing secure. I see the audience rising to their feet, the judges scribbling numbers that finally reflect the hours I’ve bled into this sport.

And then I see the other version. The one that haunts me.

The stumble. The fall. The silence after the music cuts. The pity in their eyes. The disappointment in my coach’s voice. The way my mom’s smile would tighten, polite but hollow.

I shake the thought away, forcing my body into drills. Crossovers, edges, spins. My muscles burn, but I welcome the ache. Pain is proof that I’m working. Pain is proof that I’m alive. Pain is proof that I haven’t quit.

“Again,” I whisper to myself, voice swallowed by the cavernous rink.

I launch into a double axel, the jump I’ve been obsessing over for weeks. Arms tight, rotation sharp, landing… almost. My blade scrapes, balance wavers, but I stay upright. Not perfect. Not enough.

“Again.”

I push harder, faster, demanding more from my body than it wants to give. Sweat prickles under my sleeves, despite the chill. My lungs burn, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. If I stop, the doubts creep in. If I stop, I remember that perfection is a mirage I’ll never reach.

The rink is empty, but I feel what it is like to have eyes on me anyway. Judges keeping score, coaches taking notes, rivals with their own opinions. Even my very own boyfriend, Ryan. Especially, my mother and coach. Everyone who has ever expected something from me. Everyone who has ever told me I was capable. Everyone who has ever reminded me that failure is not an option.

I skate harder.

The ice becomes a canvas, my blades the brush. Every stroke is a plea, every jump a confession. I am trying. I am desperate. I am terrified.

The music isn’t playing, but I hear it anyway. It lives in my bones, in the rhythm of my heartbeat. I choreograph in silence, arms sweeping, body bending, movements sharp and fluid. I imagine the spotlight, the crowd, the pressure. I imagine myself flawless.

And then I imagine myself breaking.

The thought slips in like a crack in the ice. What if I fall? What if I ruin everything? What if all these mornings, all these hours, all this pain—what if it’s not enough?

I grit my teeth, push harder, force the fear down. Fear is weakness. Fear is fragility. Fear is the thing that will destroy me if I let it.

I won’t let it.

I skate until my legs tremble, until my lungs scream, until my body begs for rest. But rest is weakness. Rest is quitting. Rest is the thing that separates champions from failures.

I don’t rest.

I push into another jump, another spin, another sequence. My body aches, but I ignore it. My mind spirals, but I silence it. My heart pounds, but I control it.

Control. That’s the word. That’s the obsession. That’s the illusion I chase every morning at dawn.

I tell myself if I can control my body, maybe I can control my life. If I can control my skating, maybe I can control the chaos. If I can control perfection, maybe I can control the fear that I’m not enough.

The rink hums with silence, broken only by the scrape of my blades. I am alone, but I am not lonely. This is my sanctuary. This is the place where I am both fragile and fierce, broken and whole, terrified and unstoppable.

I skate until the sun begins to rise, light spilling through the high windows, painting the ice in gold. My shadow stretches across the rink, long and thin, chasing me as I move. I imagine it’s the version of me I’m trying to outrun—the girl who doubts, the girl who fears, the girl who falls.

I skate faster.

But shadows always keep up.

By the time I finally stop, chest heaving, legs trembling, sweat dampening my collar, the world outside has woken. The rink hums with distant sounds—doors opening, voices echoing, the day beginning. My sanctuary is no longer mine alone.

I collapse onto the bench, pulling off my gloves, flexing my aching fingers. My phone buzzes in my bag, a sharp intrusion into the fragile silence.

Ryan.

I hesitate before answering, staring at his name on the screen. My boyfriend. My distraction. My mistake?

I swipe to answer, pressing the phone to my ear.

“Hey,” I say, voice soft, still breathless from skating.

“Evie! Babe!” His voice is loud, cheerful, distracted. Music thumps in the background, laughter spilling through. “Listen, I can’t talk long. I want you to meet my parents one night this week. Also, We’re planning the party for Friday. It’s gonna be insane. You’ll come, right?”

I blink, staring at the ice, the sweat still cooling on my skin. “Friday? I have practice. And the competition—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But you can take a break, right? It’s just one night. Everyone’s gonna be there. I need you there. You’ll look amazing. People love when you show up.”

His words tumble out, fast and careless, like he’s already half-listening to someone else. I hear laughter, voices, the clink of bottles. He’s not here. He’s never here.

“I should probably—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“Anyway, I’ll text you the details. Gotta go. Don’t stress too much, okay? You’re perfect. Love you.”

The line clicks dead before I can respond.

I stare at the phone, the silence pressing in. Perfect. He says it like it’s easy. Like it’s true. Like he knows what it means.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t see the bruises, the blisters, the hours at dawn. He doesn’t hear the doubts, the fears, the whispers in my head. He doesn’t understand that perfection isn’t love—it’s survival.

I set the phone down, staring at the ice. My sanctuary. My battlefield. My prison.

The competition is coming. The pressure is rising. The cracks are spreading.

And I am skating on the edge.

I sit there for another moment, phone heavy in my palm, the echo of Ryan’s voice still ringing in my ears. The rink feels different now—louder somehow, even before the next skater steps onto the ice. Like it’s judging me for pausing.

I force myself up, legs stiff, muscles screaming their protest as I step onto the rubber mat. The blades thud dully beneath my feet, the sound final, grounding. I bend to unlace my skates, fingers clumsy with fatigue, each tug sending a sharp reminder up my calves.

“Evie.”

The voice stops me mid-knot.

I straighten slowly, already knowing who it is. Coach Reyes stands a few feet away at the boards, arms crossed over her chest, stopwatch dangling from one hand. She’s dressed the same way she always is at this hour—dark track jacket, worn sneakers, dark wavy hair still damp from her own early workout. Her expression is unreadable, which somehow makes my stomach tighten more.

“How long have you been here?” She asks.

I hesitate. “Just… a bit.”

One eyebrow lifts. “Define ‘a bit.’”

I exhale. “Since five.”

Her jaw tightens—not angry, but not pleased either. She steps closer, eyes scanning me in that way she always has, like she’s reading my body as much as my face. “And you stayed after your scheduled session.”

“I felt good,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “I wanted to run the program again.”

“Evie,” she says, softer now. “Your ‘again’ looks a lot like punishment lately.”

That lands harder than I expect.

I swallow. “I need it.”

She shakes her head slightly. “You need control. That’s not the same thing.”

Silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. Around us, the rink continues waking—skates clattering, voices echoing, the Zamboni whining somewhere behind the scenes. But all I hear is my own heartbeat.

“Your edges are cleaner,” she continues. “Your transitions are stronger. The double axel is still tight in the air, but your landing is rushed. You’re muscling it instead of trusting it.”

“I don’t trust it,” I admit before I can stop myself.

Her gaze sharpens, not unkind. “I know.”

I look away, fixing my attention on my hands. They’re shaking, just slightly. “Nationals are two weeks away. Everyone else is peaking. I can’t afford to—”

“To break,” she finishes calmly. “Which is exactly what you’re flirting with.”

That word—break—sends a cold ripple through me.

“I’m fine,” I say, automatically.

Coach Reyes studies me for a long moment. “You’re talented,” she says finally. “You’re disciplined. But you’re skating like the ice owes you something.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re angry,” she says. “And fear is driving it.”

My throat tightens. “Fear keeps me sharp.”

“Fear makes you rigid,” she counters. “And rigid skaters snap.”

She steps back, giving me space. “Go shower. Go to class. Eat something with protein. We’ll revisit the axel this afternoon—once your body has had a chance to breathe.”

I nod, even though every instinct in me wants to argue. To stay, and do it again. As I have something to prove.

“Evie,” she adds as I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Progress isn’t about how much pain you can endure. It’s about how well you listen.”

I manage a small nod. “Yes, Coach.”

The locker room is warmer, louder, and alive in a way the rink never is. Lockers slam shut. Someone laughs too loudly. A playlist hums faintly from a speaker near the sinks. I move through it all on autopilot, peeling off layers, my body finally registering just how exhausted it is.

The shower steam fogs the mirrors almost instantly. I step under the spray and let the hot water crash over me, shoulders sagging as the tension finally loosens its grip. My muscles throb in protest, a deep ache settling into my bones.

I rest my forehead against the tile and close my eyes.

Fear makes you rigid.

I scrub the vanilla scented shampoo into my hair, harder than necessary, like I can scour the words away. But they linger, curling around my thoughts just like Ryan’s voice did earlier. Perfect. Break. Control.

I rinse, grab my towel, and dry off slowly, every movement deliberate. When I pull on my clothes—leggings, oversized sweater, sneakers—it feels like slipping into a different version of myself. Not Evelyn-the-skater. Just Evie. The one who has lectures to attend, notes to take, a life that exists off the ice whether I like it or not.

I braid my damp hair, sling my backpack over one shoulder, and take one last look at my reflection. My eyes look tired. Older. Still determined.

I square my shoulders.

School waits. Nationals loom. Expectations press in from every side.

And tomorrow morning, before dawn, the rink will be mine again.

Whether I’m ready for it—or not.l