Page 45 of Goalies Don't Date Ice Princesses

I recalled those moments when doubt had taken hold during practice, when frustration and resentment had clouded my passion. No, this decision wasn’t an act of weakness. It was an act of self-preservation.

The relief washed over me like a gentle wave, soothing my fears. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I could breathe. The weight of expectations, the relentless pursuit of perfection, had lifted from my shoulders, and I reveled in the newfound freedom.

As the hours stretched on, my mind created scenarios of a life without figure skating. I could pursue other passions, discover new hobbies that had always piqued my interest. I could be free. My parents, however, remained unconvinced.

“It’s not that we don’t want you to be happy,” my mother said softly, her voice choked with emotion. “We just worry that you’ll regret giving up something you’re so talented at.”

I understood their perspective. They had seen the fire in my eyes when I performed on the ice, the way my body moved with grace and precision. To them, figure skating was more than just a dream; it was an embodiment of who I was, a part of my identity.

“You don’t see me everyday,” I said with a sniffle. “You don’t see the way it’s hurting me. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. All I can think about all day, every day is skating. I barely even have time for school.”

“Bri,” my father’s voice was gentle but laced with concern, “we’ve always admired your dedication and perseverance. But we also want you to be happy. If figure skating is no longer fulfilling for you, then perhaps it’s time to explore new paths.”

“But, I’m also worried about you, honey,” Mom said. “It sounds like maybe... Maybe Westwood isn’t a good fit for you.”

“What?” I choked out. Where had that come from?

“You never mentioned this before the school merger,” she said. “Maybe this is a sign that... Well, I hate to say it, but that boarding school isn’t working for you.”

“No!” I cried out, the vehement denial escaping my lips before I could even process the weight of her words. The notion that Westwood was no longer a good fit for me felt like a betrayal. It was as if the ground beneath me had suddenly shifted, threatening to swallow me whole.

“But honey,” my father interjected gently, his eyes filled with concern and sadness, “we’ve noticed how unhappy you’ve been since you started there. Maybe it’s time to consider transferring to a different school, somewhere that will nurture your passions and provide a healthier environment for you.”

The idea of leaving Westwood, the place that had become my second home, seemed unfathomable.

“Being here is the only thing that has kept me sane,” I said. I thought about Archer and Adelynn and all my other friends here. In what universe would leaving them behind do anything but make me miserable? “I can’t leave. I won’t.”

“Okay,” Mom said softly. “Okay.”

It wasn’t the end of that conversation, I was sure. But it was for now. And that was what I needed.

“I’ll call you again later, okay?” I asked rhetorically. I glanced out the window, where the sun was now setting. “There’s something I need to do right now.”

twenty-nine

As I leanedagainst the railing at the top of the bleachers and watched the Zamboni cross the ice, I couldn’t help but think that the rink looked different now.Happier.As if it too had shed the weight of its fears and impossible expectations, and was shining out brightly.

“I wondered if I would find you here.” I stood up in surprise and looked over my shoulder. Mr. Jamison was standing just inside the arena doors with a kind smile. I sighed and turned back to the ice. Even with all the bleachers between me and it, I still felt better being close to it.

“I guess you heard the news, then,” I said. The sound of shoes scraping behind me alerted me to the fact that he was coming to stand beside me. His hands gripped the railing, holding onto it like a lifeline.

“You know, I played hockey when I attended Westwood,” he said. I blinked in surprise. I’d forgotten that he did a year-long exchange here in high school. That wasn’t usually my first thought about someone when they had an Australian accent. “Not that I was any good at it. I only played because Ben convinced me.”

“Archer’s dad,” I murmured. Mr. Jamison nodded grimly.

“He loved the sport. Almost as much as he loved football. But hockey wasn’t about the competition to him, not the way football was. It was pure fun to him. He grew up playing it on frozen ponds and public rinks, not on any teams.”

That rung some bells for me. Wasn’t that what Archer said they did when he was a kid?

“Sometimes,” Mr. Jamison sighed, “it feels like the only point of sports is to be on a competitive team. To be the best. Win the championships... at any cost. But there’s something magical about just playing for the sheer joy of it. The way your heart races as you glide across the ice, the crisp sound of blades cutting through the frozen surface, the exhilaration of executing a perfect spin or a daring jump. It’s a feeling that can’t be replicated anywhere else.”

My heart ached at his words. I remembered a time when figure skating was about more than just the glittering medals and the roaring applause. It was about the sheer joy of gliding across the ice, of pushing my body to try something I previously thought was impossible. Every time I stepped onto the ice, it was like entering a different world, a world where I could escape all my worries and fears.

“I miss that feeling,” I admitted softly, my voice trembling with vulnerability. “I miss being able to skate just for the love of it.”

“Your love for figure skating reminds me of Ben’s love for hockey,” Mr. Jamison said, interrupting my reverie. “He found solace in the rink, just as you do now.”

A bittersweet smile tugged at the corners of my lips as I recalled Archer’s stories about his dad.

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