Page 42 of Goalies Don't Date Ice Princesses

I opened my eyes and looked into Archer’s. They held a mixture of pride and uncertainty, as if he was worried he hadn’t done a good job.

A soft smile played on my lips as I looked at him. Archer’s hand lingered near mine for a brief second before he slowly withdrew it, his cheeks tinged with a faint blush.

“Hey Archer?” I said.

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

His eyes widened in surprise for the briefest second before a grin broke out on his face.

“I love you too, Ice Princess.” He leaned toward me then paused, inches from my face and a look on concern on his face. “Will it ruin the mask if I kiss you right now?”

I giggled. “Probably, but do it anyway.”

He didn’t hesitate to press his lips to mine, tangling his hand in my hair. No kiss we’d shared before had ever been so sweet.

twenty-six

“Again, Bri!”Coach Irina yelled, her voice echoing through the frosty air of the ice rink. I groaned inwardly, my muscles aching with exhaustion. I pushed myself up off the unforgiving ice, feeling its cold embrace seep into my weary bones. I was having another off day, messing up every move that I could normally do in my sleep.

Every fiber of my being screamed in protest as I took my first tentative step forward, the blades of my skates slicing through the pristine surface. My body felt heavy, burdened by the weight of expectation and the disappointment that lingered from every mistake. It was as if the very essence of grace had fled from me, leaving behind a hollow shell of uncertainty.

Coach Irina’s unwavering gaze bore down upon me, her piercing blue eyes reflecting both frustration and belief in my ability. She was a force to be reckoned with, possessing an unyielding determination that ignited a fire within those who dared to step onto her icy stage.

I skated towards her, my blades gliding over the ice with a grace that felt foreign to me in that moment. The air was filled with anticipation, each breath tingling with the electricity of possibility. Coach Irina had a way of pushing me beyond my limits, of coaxing out every ounce of talent buried deep within my soul.

As I reached the center of the rink, I took a deep breath, the cold air filling my lungs and invigorating my spirit. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was here at night instead, with Archer instead of my coaches. Tried to pretend I was actually having fun skating, instead of feeling like I was dying inside.

But it was no use. As I went through my routine again and again, I couldn’t nail it a single time. I felt like my legs were getting bruised from falling on the ice. The weight of frustration settled heavily upon my shoulders, my mind clouded with doubt. It seemed that today was to be yet another encounter with my own limitations. What was once second nature now felt foreign and unattainable, each move executed with a clumsy and uncertain grace. I had spent countless hours perfecting these routines, honing my skills to a fine edge. Yet, here I was, struggling to maintain even the simplest of maneuvers.

Each stumble, each crash to the ice sent shockwaves through my body, amplifying the mounting pressure that threatened to consume me. The once-familiar glide across the frozen surface now felt foreign, as if gravity itself had conspired against me. It was as if the weight of the world had settled upon my blades, pushing them deeper into the ice with each failed attempt.

The next time I fell, landing hard on my butt, Coach Irina called for a break. I gave myself five seconds to lay there before I forced myself to muster the strength to get up and skate over to the bench on trembling legs.

I collapsed onto the bench, my body trembling with exhaustion. Sweat trickled down my forehead, mixing with the tears of frustration that threatened to spill from my eyes. The rink was filled with the sounds of other skaters gracefully gliding across the ice, their movements as effortless as breathing. It was a stark contrast to my own struggles, which felt like an uphill battle against my own limitations.

I could see Coach Irina observing me from across the rink, her brow furrowed in concern. Her unwavering belief in my abilities had always fueled me, pushing me to new heights even when I doubted myself. But today, as my tired muscles screamed in protest and doubt gnawed at the edges of my mind, I couldn’t help but question whether I was cut out for this relentless pursuit of perfection.

After a few moments of catching my breath, Coach Irina approached me, her face etched with a mix of concern and determination. She sat down next to me on the bench, her gloved hand gripping mine tightly.

“Bri,” she said, her voice soft but filled with conviction. “I know you’re tired. I know it feels like everything is falling apart right now. But I want you to remember why you’re here, why you started skating in the first place.”

I glanced up at her, my eyes brimming with fatigue and frustration. I took a moment to reflect on my journey as a figure skater. I remembered the sheer joy that consumed me when I first stepped on the ice, the thrill of gliding effortlessly across the rink. Skating had been my escape from reality, my sanctuary where nothing else mattered but the music and the movement. And even more, I remembered what Archer had said to me a few days before—how I never looked happier than when I was skating alone.

“I didn’t start skating to be perfect,” I finally replied. “I did it because it made me feel alive. Because it was the only time I felt like myself.”

Back in the day, the ice rink had been my sanctuary. But then at some point… it couldn’t be any more. Because instead of being my escape from work, it became work itself. The pressure to win had become an all-consuming force, overshadowing the joy I once found gliding across the ice. It wasn’t just about pushing myself beyond my limits anymore; it felt like an obligation to prove something, not only to myself but to the world. The image of victory over Bredstone Academy had taken precedence over the true essence of skating. Every time my blades touched the ice, it felt as if the pressure of the competition was seeping into my very bones, weighing me down with each passing moment. I could hear the whispers of doubt in my mind, growing louder with every stumble and crash. The pressure to succeed, to prove myself, was crushing me.

When was the last time I had a full night’s sleep? When was the last time I made it though a full practice without having breaking down, without wanting to quit? I’d gotten so used to that feeling, to the idea that skating was supposed to be hard, that wanting to quit was part of the process, that I forgot there was a time where I didn’t feel it at all.

Was this really how my favourite sport was supposed to feel? Was this what passion felt like? Freedom? Dreading practice everyday, resenting my coaches who were only trying to help, wishing my teammates would fall so I wouldn’t be the only one? If I continued on like I was… how long would it take before I started to resent figure skating too?

“I can’t do it, Irina,” I said. Her head pulled back in shock.

“What?” She asked.

“I can’t do it,” I repeated. I looked around at my teammates, who were laughing and joking around while on their breaks. When was the last time I felt like that while at practice? I rubbed a hand over my eyes and said the words I’d been wanting to all year. The words that had been stuck at the back of my throat, held back by the fear of the unknown. “I quit.”

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