10. #IceTime, December 2017

Mike was stumbling around, Mike was bugging her about her skates, Mike was getting under her skin even in her own bloody head. Mike, Mike, Mike...

She twisted around, fighting the sweaty sheet. Mike, who had probably never even laced a pair of skates on. She'd have to ask... no, if she'd asked, he'd turn it into another one of those take me skating, because it is the best for you' things.

Daya tossed the pillow out of the fold-out bed—Mike's fold-out bed, aargh!—and pressed her cheek to the still reasonably cool sheet. The numbers on the clock face blinked relentlessly. Each flash—a cruel reminder that she had squandered away her seven hours of sleep.

At 4:31 am Mike's shower started up.

She hopped out of bed and walked over the discarded sleepy tee-shirt to open the closet's door. Sleeping naked felt weird. Maybe that's why she couldn't fall asleep, but Mike—damn it!—Mike kept his place sweltering. She stared inside the closet, blinking away the sleepless night.

The suitcase glittered in the corner, taking up almost half the space, the stupid thing...

If she stepped on the ice again, would she look as unsure of her footing as Mike had been in the med-center? For the second time, she had to see him falling.

The first time, it surprised her. Yesterday, she caught him, although he could have born her down with his bulk. And she didn't want to let go when the only danger remaining was him falling out of the chair. The tears welling in his eyes knocked breath out of her like a hit to her solar plexus—and she had seen more people crushing down than most.

For goodness' sake, Mike, Mike, Mike... forget Mike.

Her hand reached out to the suitcase. Would I fall if I jump?

She'd never taken a break this long before. Her flexibility was there, and she'd never stopped with cardio and strength training, but could she still jump? She did it on dry land, but dry land was different.

As if in a dream, she pulled the suitcase's handle. It resisted, the wheels stuck on a wrinkle in the carpet. She jerked it free, lifted it on her unmade bed and clicked the locks open. Nestled inside, the skates gleamed at her, white and silver, untarnished.

The blades of glory, my ass.

The edges, the groove through the middle, the pick at the end, the heel, the demanding curve of the white boot, and the mesh cut-outs that hinted at wings.

Her skates, so special, so orphaned.

She ran her finger along the metal of one blade. It felt sharp. They were like a bridal dress from a cancelled wedding. No point of keeping it, no heart to throw it away, nobody to pass it on to. Unless Rajni or Veer could skate, they were almost of an age when you could see—nah, after all Shanti had done for her, she'd never bring her own kids to the skating rink.

At least if she were in Shanti's shoes, she wouldn't, not after watching Mike fall.

Forget Mike! she ordered herself for the hundredth time. Could her little niece and nephew skate?

Could I? Curse Mike for teasing skating out of its grave in the farthest corner of her soul. She dropped her face into the palms of her hands. How she wanted it... the skating that is. Not Mike falling in love with her for Christmas. Skating, she'd think about the skating.

Heartache... Dancing on My Own... white light, and the expanse of whiter ice. Opening pose from kneeling to project being beat to the spectators, rise, rise, rise and rush away.

Pick up speed, and straight into a combo jump... cover the rink as if there is no escape... next would be her biggest jump...

And, of course, you would land it flawlessly, perfect edges, no under-rotation, no fall?

Inconceivable!

Inconceivable... She snapped the lid closed and threw something on her body at random, panties, bra, shirt, pants, socks... whatever.

Her clothes all went together well. This was not a costume to agonize over. And she'd grab a shower when she had soaked it through with her sweat, after every inch of her body is aching. Thinking of sweating, she picked out the second set of clothes to change into and packed it into her gym bag.

This was another one of those days she needed to work herself hard. To music that was not gut wrenching. She needed something upbeat, something fun... She swiped through Spotify playlists until a mix caught her eye. Sorokin's? That should be something.

Pavel Sorokin, her former club-mate drifted through life with a lopsided grin, but she'd never seen him keep anything in the tank after he'd left the ice. She could bet donuts to dollars on his mix being exactly what she needed.

Let's see what they were dancing to in Toronto.

She put the earbuds in, and shouted through the door, "Mike! I'll give you a ride!"

The first beats of Feel the Same coated her ear.

She ladled broth into a thermos, and tossed ice, celery, cucumbers, kale and green apples into the blender, gave a lime a firm squeeze.

All the while, Pavel's music distracted her from the mundane things she was looking at, replacing them in her imagination with the visions of ice, flowing fabrics, straining muscles and the sound of blades cutting ice.

She chuckled as an old-timer ABBA's Waterloo kicked in, Pavel, you are a confident, confident man!

***

After dropping Mike off for his library vigil, Daya walked along the second level of the yet deserted VITAL.

The empty climbing wall reached out to the second level's ceiling through the gap in the walkway to her left. The blue water of the pool stood motionless well below her, to the right. She had never entered the building through the doors by the twin skating rinks, nor parked at that second entrance. Who wanted to bump into the hockey bag toting crowds, right?

Who needed to see the arenas? Apparently, today she did. Desperately so.

She bounded down the staircase to the ground floor. Her steps slowed down the closer she got to the skating rinks. She was all but crawling past the empty reception desk.

But it was not far to go, so eventually she made it to the door of the East Arena, and peeped in. A Zamboni was making its mesmerizing circles on ice, the sight she could never tire of.

"Hey, stranger!" a cheery voice said behind her.

Startled, Daya turned around to see a miniature gal with a mop of thick, black hair overrunning her forehead and ears, but shaved off at the bottom.

"I'm Joy. Don't try so hard to remember me, or your face gonna explode. I don't remember your name, but I am pretty sure you were in the Challenge a few years back in my group."

Somewhere in the middle, Joy extended her hand for a shake.

Challenge was a Canada-wide qualifier event for the Nationals. It was a wonder Joy remembered her from it. But, yes, she'd met the requirements a few times, and went. Hoping to make the Nationals every time too... got there twice, and that was so long ago now.

"Daya," she supplied, pumping the other girl's hand, marveling at how bird-like light it was. She could probably wrap her little finger around Joy's wrist. She imagined Joy skidding along the ice like a feather in the wind. "I'm from Ontario originally."

"Uh-huh," Joy nodded. "I'm a local gal. Quit the whole competitive circus two years back. As soon as my parents looked the other way, heh. You?"

"Last year."

"Ah still in mourning then. I get it. I teach kiddies now for Hawthorn Club, they are swell. But guess what? A buddy there don't mind me sneaking in like an idiot before the hockey guys start up. It's fifteen minutes, twenty tops, but it's the whole frigging arena all to myself."

She winked, giggling. "I think he enjoys watching me more than the hockey players."

Daya was still processing the girl just like her, but who said swell in 2017 and giggled, when Joy caught the over-sized knit top from slipping down one shoulder and said, "I'll share the ice, if you want to stretch the old bones. I'm here on Thursday/Saturdays too, same time. Bring the skates, duh."

The knit had colorful patches separated by fluffy strips, but the tank top hidden beneath was all business, tight and black, belying a no-nonsense approach to workout wear. Daya approved of that tank top and she liked the girl inside it, something that would never had happened if they were still competing.

Why didn't she make any friends in Calgary until the shock waves of Mike's fall shook her out of her shell? If she befriended Joy, maybe she'd stop obsessing over every little thing he had said or done and they would be able to—No, I'll keep obsessing over every little thing about him. I can't get him out of my mind... him and skating, my two loves.

Loves?

Loves.

That's unfair. I didn't plan to fall in love with him; he wanted to fall in love with me. I didn't even like the stupid book.

While Daya wrestled with her dilemma, Joy waved and skipped down the tunnel between the two arenas, dragging her skate case behind her. It echoed a little in the cavernous empty building, giving the whole encounter an eerie feel, particularly once Joy disappeared in the locker room.

Did Joy even exist, or did my imagination conjure a figure of the Phantom of the Ice Rink?

There was only one way to find out, on Tuesday or Thursday or Saturday.