Page 4 of Revolve
Today is my first official day back on the ice since the accident. After six weeks at Hartford General last year, it feels like a lifetime ago, and it is in the skating world. Crash mats, the gym, Pilates, ballet, swimming—you name it, I’ve been doing it. A part of me knows that all the preparation for returning to the ice is a distraction, but I can’t run anymore. Before the rink became cruel and unforgiving, it was home, and I’ve been away for too long.
“Probably just my body preparing me to get yelled at by Lidia for two hours,” I say.
“If anyone can do it, it’s you, Si. But I’d hate for you to put that much pressure on your body after everything. You should have some fun too. This can’t be good for your recovery.”
“It’s been over a year. I’m recovered.”
Scarlett raises her brows, and I fall back onto my bed. My knitting needles, which I stuck into a ball of yellow yarn earlier, roll by my feet.
“Seriously, I feel great. I just want to go back to how things were.” When I could do what I wanted without my brain stopping me. When I wasn’t scared.
“Good, because the girls across the hall asked if we wanted to carpool to the party.”
I almost groan. There’s the notorious welcome week party at Beta Phi sorority. Scarlett’s ex-sorority. My best friend is the last person you’d expect to join the Dalton Panhellenic community with her tattoos and bright-colored hair, but she made a damn good sister. I know that because when she withdrew, her sisters sent me messages begging me to get her to rejoin.
Scarlett took some online classes that semester, sitting with me while I mindlessly watched The Weather Channel in the hospital room. Some days, I’d beg her to leave, to stop letting me drag her down, but she never listened. Not even when I said things to her out of anger that I regret to this day. Scarlett never left me. She was there, parked outside each therapy session. It was on those drives home that we talked about returning to campus and living in a dorm together for our senior year. So far, that means water-stained ceilings and contracting athlete’s foot in the communal showers.
“It’s a neon party and they always have great drinks,” she says, really selling it now.
“Only if I get to borrow your white skirt,” I concede.
She lights up instantly, and it’s contagious. It’s the first time she’s looked at me with real excitement since the gloomy overcoat that blanketed last year. I have to do this for her.
“Of course, but for the record, you could wear that sweats and old T-shirt combo and still look hot.” She clicks off the lamp but pauses at the door to wink.
I laugh, but it does nothing to temper the sliver of anxiety that crawls up my throat.
“THIS RINK ISyour bitch,” I tell myself, staring into my car’s rearview mirror.
My breathing exercise doesn’t loosen my white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. I’ve been in my car for thirty minutes, watching the hockey team exit the arena like a creep. The music playing in my car fuels my momentum, and before I can change my mind, I sling my gym bag over my shoulder and hop out.
In and out, Sierra.Dark nostalgia coats me like tar at the sight of the arena. I swallow around the thick lump in my throat, taking a hesitant step forward, then retreating two steps back. If someone were watching, they’d think I’ve lost my mind. Sometimes it feels like I have.
My feet stay rooted as I try to fight the flood of memories pulling me back to last year. But the effort is useless; they always claw their way back.
Then the doors screech open. The guy who steps out is so large he crowds the whole entrance. He seems like he’s lost in his own world, but when he spots me, he holds the door open. He’s big, broad-shouldered, probably a hockey player, judging from his massive gear bag. His brown wavy hair is disheveled like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times. He’s the type of NCAA hockey player you’d see all over social media, with countless fan accounts and a shiny NHL contract cushioning him.
Nerves aside, I waited in my car to avoid this exact interaction, but it’s a blessing because now I have to go inside. After a few whispered affirmations, I realize he’s still watching me, brown eyes tracing my lips. He looks at me like I’m casting spells.
“Are you going inside?” he asks in a deep, rumbly voice. He holds the door wider as if I’m having issues hearing. The sight of the blue hallway makes my heart pound like a ticking time bomb, threatening to curl me into the fetal position. God, that would be embarrassing.
“If I let go, the door’s going to lock,” he says, softer now.
I blink.
“I don’t bite, if that’s what you’re worried about.” His lips slant into a lazy smirk. “Promise.”
He says it like he wants me to find out whether that’s true. The old Sierra would’ve had a snarky retort for the cocky hockey player, but I haven’t been her for a long time. I slide past him and step inside the rink.
“Have fun,” he remarks casually, leaving his words to linger like an echo.
I head to the locker room, lace up my skates, and lean against the locker, murmuring affirmations. It’s not long before I start drifting.
The blood-soaked memories hold me hostage again. My mom’s tear-streaked face and her desperate calls for me over and over—
“Devushka.”
I jolt awake, and my head bangs against the locker. The rush of cold air and the smell of chlorine surround me all at once, and I look up to find Coach Lidia Orlov. Dark brown hair, arched brows, and lips pressed into a thin line of worry.
