Page 38 of Loving Ladybug: Part One
Are you going to JP’s wedding? I’m being forced to do a goalie dance.
Okay, I was excited about the goalie dance.
Clark
I am. Do you want me to ask Dimitri if there’s room for you? He got a villa or something, we’re sharing.
Again, did I take the offer? But I couldn’t go without a place to stay.
Me
If there’s room for me, I’d like that, thanks. But I don’t think I can afford wherever they’re staying.
I hadn’t really paid attention to where it was.
Clark
It's fine. Are you doing okay? I’m here if you need me.
I hesitated. Was this where I asked him about his guest room? No. I think he was talking about emotional needs.
Me
Thanks for checking in. I’m doing okay.
I listened to my favorite accounting podcast. Still, I couldn’t sleep. So I snuck down to the main floor and got my stuff out of my locker, then went to the small rink.
Which I’d been doing a lot this week.
Back to basics. I ran through everything that my nonna’s neighbors had taught me, trying to harness the sauce. You were good once.
And I’d be good again.
Make them look. Make them regret.
Oh, I would. Because I was going to thrive. Soar.
When I finished, I was tired, but not sleepy. A song I liked came on over the sad girl playlist.
Taking off my pads, I skated, letting the music wash over me. It had been a while since I’d done this. The moves came back easily. It wasn’t like I never figure skated after I stopped competing.
I just did everything in hockey skates.
At some point, I picked up my stick, making it part of my routine. It was a bit of silliness I’d done with my host sister back in junior hockey. Her drill team performed on the ice with pom-poms, flags, and hockey sticks before hockey games and during intermission. She now skated with a traveling show.
I skated to song after song, letting go of everything–my sadness, my stress. Everything floated away until there was nothing but me, the ice, and the music.
Finally, I was home.
Chapter Eleven
Tenzin
“Tens, where are we?” Gwen looked around the honky-tonk I’d brought her to. The dim place smelled of sweat, wood, and beer, making me homesick for all the places like this I’d gone to in high school, and during breaks when I was at university to support my older sister.
“It’s a bar, Firecracker.” The endearment just slipped out. That’s what she was. A little pink spitfire.
Every day she smiled a little more, glowed a little brighter, ducked her head a little less. The real her was starting to shine through. We’d gone to dinner at a place on our list–a hole in the wall with amazing food recommended to me by my friend that lived here.
