Page 23 of Love on the Edge
"I can do it," I say, cutting her off.
Joanne blinks. "Really?"
"Yeah," I shrug. "You’re in a lurch. I can do it."
A beat of silence. Then— "Thank you so much, Valeria," Joanne says, relief flooding her voice.
Nina exhales like the weight of the world has been lifted off her shoulders. "Seriously, Val, you’re a lifesaver."
I nod, already moving. Helping. Staying busy. Doing what I always do.
Because it’s easier than stopping.
Easier than thinking.
Easier than feeling.
Easier than facing the fact that Nationals are creeping closer, and for the first time in my life, I don’t know if I’m good enough.
I never took my skates off, so I head straight to the ice, sliding off my guards before stepping on. The familiar bite of the blade against the surface sends a small shiver up my spine, but I push it away.
Nina looks overwhelmed. I can see it in the way she waves her arms, trying to corral the group. The kids aren’t listening, they’re skating everywhere, weaving in and out, giggling, and bumping into each other. One almost topples over, and Nina lunges to grab them just in time.
I skate up to her, and as soon as I do, a hush settles over the class.
It’s not me. It’s my presence. My demeanor. I have that effect on people, I always have. I don’t have to raise my voice. I don’t have to tell them to pay attention.
They just do.
“Thanks, Val,” Nina says, a little breathless.
“No problem. Let’s just get class going.” I fold my arms, scanning the group as Nina starts running through the warm-up drills.
I’m here, but I’m not.
My body feels light, disconnected, like I’m floating somewhere between exhaustion and habit. The rink sounds blur—Nina’s voice, the scrape of skates, the occasional burst of laughter from the younger kids. My fingers twitch at my sides, a phantom ache settling in my limbs, but I ignore it.
Then I see her.
A little girl.
She’s small, practically buzzing with energy, moving with a kind of quiet determination that sets her apart. Her blonde ponytail bounces with every stride, stray waves slipping free and catching the rink lights. Her dress is bright, covered in glitter and color, bold in a way that makes her impossible to ignore.
But it’s not her appearance that holds my attention.
It’s the way she skates.
While the others follow the drills in loose, wobbly strides, she’s doing something else. Each time she falters she adjusts, focuses, and pushes herself.
Her edges cut into the ice, some turns too deep, others too shallow. She isn’t afraid of speed, isn’t afraid to push past what’s comfortable, but there’s no hesitation in her movements. She lifts into a one-foot glide, holding it longer than she should be able to before shifting into a shaky crossover. It’s too advanced for this class, too much for what Nina’s teaching.
But she doesn’t stop.
She isn’t showing off. She isn’t playing.
She’s skating like it’s the only thing that matters.
She miscalculates slightly. Her balance wavers, her edges slip, but she recovers before she falls. Her brows furrow, lips pressing together, frustration flickering across her face.
