Page 41 of Rinkmates

After the warm-up off the ice, Aiden and I glide hand in hand, using the whole rink. We begin with some basic duet spins, and it’s clear Aiden must have had exceptional training beforehand to pick up the steps so smoothly. Then we move into mirrored crossovers.

“Hey.” I grin and guide him to the right. “You’re doing great!”

“Thanks. I’m a bit nervous about the lift, though.”

“We’ll manage,” I say and slow him down. “Let’s try some small steps first.”

Private conversations are scarce between training sessions, always wary of the cameras that could flare to life at any moment. It’s hard to open up when you know your words could be edited into a neatly packaged clip for TV. So we stick to small talk, like reminiscing about my cat, Kittie—who isn’t actually a purebred but a scrappy stray I couldn’t resist taking in. Aiden shares about his golden retriever back home in LA, gushing with love for her and telling tales of their hiking adventures while I show him some moves on the ice.

I demonstrate an advanced crossover step, the movement fluid from years of practice. Aiden watches intently, absorbing every detail. He stands at the end of the rink, wearing black trousers and a shirt while I wear one of the two pair of training leggings I own and a fitted training jacket.

“You try.”

When he tries it himself, his first attempts are shaky, his balance wavering on the thin edge of the blade.

“Relax,” I encourage, skating over to him. “Let the edges do the work. It’s all about finding that balance.”

He tries again, and this time, he manages the step just well enough. It’s a start, but I see the frustration in his expression.

We spend the rest of the session refining his technique and transitions. Once he’s steady enough, I suggest we try the dance we practiced in the studio, this time on ice.

The song starts with Aiden alone on the ice, he sits in the middle of the rink and slowly stands up when the music starts. He then takes a turn and a little jump. He lands it nicely and I grin proudly. Yes! It looks great.

Then it’s my turn and I glide into the picture, spinning around him until we move into a spin together. We glide somerounds over the ice, and I make sure we’re perfectly in sync, even as we spin faster and faster.

Next up, we hit this footwork sequence. We’re weaving in and out and glide in big waves around the edges of the rink. As we transition into a synchronized twizzle, every muscle in my body tenses. It is a delicate balance of timing and precision.

He takes my hand and then comes the lift. Just a small one, but still, it’s a risk.

I position his hands on my hips. “Just like we did in the studio, Aiden.”

Nodding, he lifts me, and for a moment, I’m airborne, the world a blur of ice and lights and music. I tap his shoulders. We’re not gliding while he lifts me yet.

“You’re doing amazing.”

We try again and again and a couple of minutes later, the lift is solid. It shows that Aiden has spent a lot of his life in the gym. In the end, we’re both breathing hard, the music fading around us, but I’m convinced my choreography will work just like I imagined it. “I think we can win this shit, Aiden.”

“You think?” He smiles brightly.

“Absolutely. But now back to practice, golden boy,” I say and take his hand.

After training for two straight hours, we finally run the whole routine with music for the first time, and damn. It’s magical. We move gracefully to the music, every step in harmony now. When the music swells to its core, he twirls me around and pulls me close. And with one final, graceful movement, he lifts me up in the air, our eyes locking in a moment of pure joy. He twirls with me, I bend my back, and we soar together over the ice. We move into the final pose, with him wrapping his arms around me from behind. We hold the position until the music fades away.

I turn around, grinning like a Cheshire cat, but as soon as I glance up at Aiden my smile drops. His usually cheerfulexpression is replaced with one of deep sadness and he can barely look at me.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, his voice barely a whisper. He quickly turns and skates away, leaving me standing there.

I’m frozen in the middle of the rink, unsure of what to do. Did I do something wrong? I watch him skate to the end of the rink, stumbling out until he crashes against the wall and sinks onto the floor, crying.

My stomach drops and I skate after him.

“Hey,”I say softly, my hand closing around his in a reassuring grip as I kneel down in front of him. He’s curled himself into a ball, his hands trembling in his lap. I’m not sure what to say since we don’t really know each other, but I still care about him. I just hold his hand, trying to offer support even if it might not make a difference for him.

He nods through his tears but doesn’t meet my gaze.

I gently stroke his shoulder, unsure if it’s been seconds or minutes. The music must have triggered this. That’s the thing about art: when you pour your soul into something, you risk getting lost in it. Dancing, singing—it’s all about emotions. When you’re performing, the audience needs to connect with you, but it also means you risk connecting too deeply with your own feelings. I’ve been there. Several times. Whenever a song hit too close to home, I’d find myself crying on the ice. Alone.

“It’s okay. I’m here. You’re not alone.”

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