Chapter 7: Shared Ice Rink
The ice was a blank, white page, and Angel was writing a story on it with his blades.
The Shared Rink was quiet, a hollow, echoing cathedral to his solitude. The only sounds were the rhythmic shhh-shhh of his edges biting the ice, the occasional soft thump of his landing foot, and the rush of his own breath, clouding in the frigid air. Faded posters of grim-faced boxers and hockey legends from decades past watched him from the concrete walls, indifferent spectators to his private ballet.
He wore practice clothes that felt like armor and wings all at once. Black, loose-fitting pants that billowed around his legs with each jump, tapering at the ankles. A sleeveless top in a gradient of sky blue to white, the fabric clinging to his torso but flowing from his waist like a frozen waterfall. His hair, a cascade of white curls, was pulled half-up, the rest tumbling down his back, escaping strands sticking to the sweat on his neck.
He was running through his short program for the upcoming regional qualifiers, the music a phantom orchestra in his head. He counted the beats under his breath.
“Five, six, seven, eight…”
A powerful crossover sequence built speed, the sound shifting from a slice to a roar. He transitioned into a series of twizzles, his body becoming a spinning top, the world a blur of concrete and bleachers. He stopped the spin abruptly, arms outstretched, perfectly centered. Not a wobble.
He took a deep breath, the cold air burning his lungs. This was the tricky bit. The combination jump.
He launched himself forward, left toe-pick slamming down for the take-off. He kicked, pulled in tight, and rotated once, twice, three times in the air—a triple toe loop—before landing on a deep outside edge, the impact jolting up through his knee. Without breaking the momentum, he immediately went into a double axel, the half-revolution extra making his stomach flip even after a thousand repetitions. He landed, a bit shaky, but on his feet.
He flowed out of it, arms sweeping into a languid spiral, one leg extended high behind him, his body nearly parallel to the ice. He held it, the burn in his hamstring a familiar, welcome ache. This was where the character of the piece lived, in this stretch of aching beauty after the explosive effort.
He didn’t see the doors at the far end of the rink swing open. He didn’t hear the sudden influx of noise—the clatter of gear bags hitting concrete, the deep, rumbling voices, the sharp bark of a coach. He was inside the music, inside the story of the program, a lonely figure reaching for something just beyond the arena lights.
It was only as he came out of a layback spin, head tilted back to stare at the rust-stained ceiling, that movement caught the periphery of his vision. A wall of color at the entrance. Red and black. Bodies.
He stumbled out of the spin, his blade skidding. He put a hand down on the ice to steady himself, his heart hammering suddenly against his ribs. The hockey team. They were early. Or he’d lost track of time. Their practice slot started in… he had no idea.
Heat flooded his face. He’d been so exposed, so wrapped up in himself. He pushed himself upright, trying to summon a calm he didn’t feel, and began a slow, casual glide towards the boards where his water bottle and skate guards sat. The team was a noisy, shuffling mass, about fifteen guys in matching jackets, some already sitting to put on their skates. Their coach, a grizzled man with a clipboard, was pointing towards the locker rooms.
And one of them was staring.
Not just glancing. Staring. A guy taller than the others, even in just socks. He had messy, light brown hair that looked like he’d just run his hands through it, and he was standing perfectly still, his gear bag dangling forgotten from his hand. His eyes were fixed on Angel, tracking his movement across the ice. He wore a red team hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
Angel’s politeness instincts kicked in, a automatic buffer against social anxiety. He couldn’t just ignore them. He skated closer, stopping a few feet from the boards with a neat hockey stop, sending a spray of fine ice towards the gate. He offered a small, tentative smile to the group at large.
“Hi. Sorry, am I in your way? I lost track of time.” His voice sounded too soft in the vast space, but it carried.
The coach waved a dismissive hand. “You’re fine, kid. We’re early. Finish up.”
But the tall guy, the one staring, took a step forward. His friends seemed to coalesce around him, grins spreading. Angel recognized the dynamic instantly; it was like Alex and her hockey friends, a pack animal energy. This was the alpha, or at least the loudest one.
Angel’s eyes flickered to him, then away. “Could someone please tell me the time?”
It was a simple question. Practical. He needed to know if he had two minutes or ten.
The tall guy opened his mouth. Nothing came out for a second. He blinked, as if shaking himself out of a trance. He looked at his wrist, but he wasn’t wearing a watch. He fumbled for his phone in his pocket, his movements oddly clumsy.
His coach, an older man with a weathered face, sighed and started to lift his own arm to check his watch. “It’s about ten ’til four…”
But the tall guy, phone now in hand, blurted it out, his voice louder than necessary, cutting his coach off. “Can I get your number?”
The words hung in the cold air.
Silence.
Then a snort from one of his teammates. A choked cough from another. The coach lowered his arm slowly, turning his head to stare at the kid with an expression of pure, unadulterated disbelief.
The guy—Chris, his mind supplied from the earlier introduction—seemed to realize what he’d said. What he’d done. He looked from Angel’s stunned face to his coach’s, then back to his phone screen, as if the correct words were written there. His cheeks, already flushed from the rink’s cold, deepened to a spectacular crimson. He fumbled the phone, almost dropping it.
“I mean—!” he stammered, his voice cracking. “Four! It’s four. I mean, it’s 3:50. Fifty. It’s 3:50. The time. It’s 3:50 PM.”
The final word was practically a shout. He shoved the phone back into his pocket as if it were on fire.
A wave of laughter erupted from the team, sharp and braying. “Smooth, Miller!” someone crowed. “Real smooth!” “Asked for the time and got a marriage proposal!”
Chris didn’t even turn to shush them. He was locked on Angel, his expression a hilarious, agonized mix of horror and hope.
Angel felt his own embarrassment receding, replaced by a fluttery, warm amusement. This wasn’t a mean laugh; it was the sound of a pack teasing its own. And the guy, Chris, was so genuinely flustered. It was… endearing. He’d seen Alex get flustered exactly once, when a cute barista remembered her coffee order, and it had looked similar.
A small, real smile touched Angel’s lips. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the top of the boards. “Thank you,” he said, his voice gentle, cutting through the noise of the team. “3:50. I have ten minutes then.” He paused, his head tilting. “And… my number?”
Chris looked like he wanted the ice to open up and swallow him. “You don’t have to—I just—it came out wrong. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Angel said. He’d given his number out before. Sometimes it led to nice texts. Sometimes it led to nothing. It was just a number. “Do you have a pen?”
Chris stared, blank. One of his teammates, a guy with a buzz cut, slapped a marker into Chris’s chest. “Here, loverboy. Use this.”
Chris fumbled with the cap. It was a thick, black permanent marker. He held it out towards Angel, looking utterly lost.
Angel glanced at it, then back at Chris’s face. He smiled, a little wider this time, a spark of playful challenge in his blue eyes. He nodded towards Chris’s own arm, where the sleeve of his hoodie was pushed up. “Well? You’ll have to bring your arm over here. I’m not climbing out.”
Another wave of “ooooh”s and whistles from the team. The coach rubbed his temples, muttering, “For God’s sake.”
Chris, moving like a robot, shuffled the two steps to the boards and thrust his forearm through the gap and onto the dasher. His skin was warm against the cold air of the rink. Angel took the marker. His fingers, in thin gloves, brushed Chris’s wrist.
He wrote neatly, the numbers clear and rounded, on the inside of Chris’s forearm. 555-738-0214. He put a little star next to it.
“There,” Angel said softly, capping the marker and handing it back. “Now you have the time and the number.”
Chris pulled his arm back as if shocked, staring at the digits as if they were hieroglyphics. “Thanks,” he mumbled. Then, finding a shred of his earlier confidence, he met Angel’s eyes. “I’m Chris. Miller.”
“I heard,” Angel said, his smile turning a touch sly. “I’m Angel.”
“Yeah.” Chris breathed the word. “I saw.”
The coach had had enough. “Alright, Miller! Stop proposing to the competition and get your skates on! Everyone, locker room, NOW! Clear the ice, son, we’ve got work to do.”
The spell broke. The team began shuffling away, still ribbing Chris, who walked backwards for a few steps, his eyes still on Angel, before stumbling over a gear bag and getting shoved forward by a teammate.
Angel pushed off from the boards, his smile lingering. He skated to the center of the ice for one final spin, a private little celebration. He went into a fast scratch spin, pulling his arms in tight, becoming a blur of blue and white and flying white hair. When he stopped, the world settling around him, the team was gone, the heavy door to the locker rooms swinging shut.
The ice felt different. It wasn’t just his page anymore. Someone had dropped a footnote. A messy, funny, permanent marker footnote.
He collected his things, swapped his skates for worn-out sneakers, and slung his bag over his shoulder. As he pushed out into the late afternoon light, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
It was a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: This is Chris. From the rink. The guy who can’t tell time.
A second followed.
Unknown: You’re an incredible skater.
Angel’s smile felt like it would crack his face. He leaned against the sun-warmed brick exterior of the rink, the cold of the arena still clinging to his skin. He typed back.
Angel: Thank you. And thank you for the time. Both times.
He sent it, then added another.
Angel: Don’t let your team be too mean to you.
The reply was almost instant.
Chris: Too late. They’re never letting this go. Worth it though.
Angel bit his lip, a flutter in his stomach that had nothing to do with jumping. He thought of the previous night, of his daddy catching him, of his mommy taking his boots off, of Alex laughing. He thought of the feeling of not being anxious at the party. This felt like that. A little scary, but mostly warm.
He was about to text back when his phone rang. The screen showed a picture of Alex making a ridiculous face.
He answered. “Hey.”
“Hey, sparkles. You alive? Or did you evaporate in the rink fridge?” Alex’s voice was full of static; she was probably driving.
“I’m alive. Just finished.”
“Good. Mom’s making that stupid spicy sausage pasta you love, and Dad is actually attempting garlic bread from scratch. It’s a whole thing. They’re being disgustingly domestic. Get your cute butt home.”
“I’m on my way.” Angel started walking towards the bus stop, the duffel bag bumping against his hip.
“You sound… perky. Did you land the triple-triple?”
“No. I mean, yes, but that’s not it.” He hesitated, then the words tumbled out. “A hockey player asked for my number.”
The silence on the other end was profound. Then, a low whistle. “Shut up. Which one? Wait, don’t tell me. Was it that giant linebacker-looking guy? Please tell me it was the giant. I want a giant for a brother-in-law.”
Angel laughed. “No. His name is Chris. I asked what time it was, and then he asked for my number instead of answering.”
Alex’s cackle was so loud Angel had to hold the phone away from his ear. “NO. That is the most beautiful, pathetic thing I have ever heard. I love him already. Is he an idiot, or just a himbo? Please say himbo.”
“He was just flustered,” Angel said, feeling defensive in a way that surprised him.
“Oh, you like him,” Alex sang. “You like him. You gave the flustered hockey himbo your digits. Did you write it on his helmet? Please tell me you used lipstick.”
“Permanent marker. On his arm.”
“Even better. Physical evidence. I approve.” She paused. “Does he know about the wolf mural? Because that’s a second date revelation at the earliest.”
“Alex!”
“Okay, okay. Get home. I need to torture you in person. And Mom and Dad need to hear this. Dad’s gonna do that thing where he tries to look stern and just ends up looking constipated.”
“Don’t you dare tell them!”
“Too late! Love you, bye!” The line went dead.
Angel stared at his phone, exasperated. He opened his texts again. Chris had sent another.
Chris: So you compete? Like, for real?
He boarded the bus, finding a seat near the back. He typed as the city lumbered past the window.
Angel: Yes. Regionals are in three weeks.
Chris: That’s insane. I just try to hit pucks and not get my teeth knocked out.
Angel: That sounds scary.
Chris: Nah. Less scary than what you do. All those spins. I’d puke.
Angel: You get used to it.
A pause. Three dots appearing, then disappearing, then appearing again.
Chris: Would it be weird if I said I’d like to see you skate for real? With the music and everything?
Angel’s heart did a little leap, a perfect axel take-off in his chest. He thought of the empty stands, the indifferent posters. Then he thought of a single pair of eyes, focused just on him, not lost in a crowd.
Angel: It wouldn’t be weird.
Chris: Cool. Coolcoolcool.
Angel rested his head against the bus window, the glass cool on his temple. He didn’t write back. He just watched the city blur, a smile playing on his lips, the ghost of the ice still humming in his veins, and the new, warm buzz of his phone in his hand, a connection as tenuous and promising as the first, shaky edge on a fresh sheet of ice.