05. Priorities

I didn't know why I followed her. There was a part of me that knew better, that knew hockey had to come first. But something about the way she challenged me, the way she didn't even ask if I'd follow-she just expected it-tugged at something inside me.

And I hated it.

I wasn't supposed to be following anyone. I was the one who led, the one who controlled everything. My team. My training. My life. But for the first time in a while, I wasn't the one calling the shots. I was just... tagging along.

We walked in silence, my steps falling into sync with hers. Her breathing evened out, the tension melting off her shoulders. She wasn't rushing anymore. It was like she had finally found a moment to just breathe.

Until, of course, my phone blared through the stillness. I groaned, already annoyed before I even looked at the screen.

"Mav! Where are you? We're gonna go over the game plan, and you're not here!" Luke's voice crackled through the speaker.

I took the call reluctantly. "I'll be there soon, Luke," I muttered, barely registering his response. I could feel the weight of Calliope's presence next to me, and it pulled at me, making me hesitate even more.

I sighed and grabbed her wrist gently to stop her. "I have to go," I said, trying to sound apologetic, but I knew I couldn't explain why it felt so hard to pull away from her. "I'm sorry."

She didn't even look at me-just shrugged and kept walking, her pace slow and unbothered. My gut twisted as I watched her retreat, and, before I could help it, a smirk tugged at my lips.

That girl was going to be the death of me.

Arriving at the massive stadium, I was in awe of the scale. This place-this rink-wasn't anything like the small rinks I used to visit. The building felt like a fortress, the kind where legends could be made, or at least, that's how it seemed to me as I stood at the back entrance, key in hand.

Unlocking the door, I stepped inside, instantly feeling the cool air hit my skin. The hockey gear scattered around the hallway was a reminder that this was their territory, but I couldn't help the excitement that bubbled up inside me. It had been too long since I'd been on the ice, and no matter how many years I'd been away from competitive skating, it was like my body remembered the rush.

As I walked deeper into the building, the changing rooms came into view. The familiar, pungent stench of sweat hit me like a wave, and I wrinkled my nose. It was definitely a locker room for hockey players, and I was sure the boys probably didn't care about the smell. But for me, it was a reminder that I wasn't here to figure skate. This wasn't the kind of rink I was used to-the one with quiet, polished floors designed for elegance and movement. This was rough and ready for the brutality of hockey.

Ignoring the scent and the way the space felt foreign, I quickly pulled my skates from my bag and tied them tightly. The moment the blades clicked into place, I felt a sense of calm wash over me. I was back. Not in my usual rink, but still, I was on ice.

I slipped off my ugly uniform, now replaced by my skating gear: a worn, comfortable top, and the stretchy leggings that allowed me to move. There was no routine, no practice, no warm-ups, but none of that mattered now. All I needed was to be on the ice.

Stepping onto the rink, I took a breath, my skates skating silently over the smooth surface, but a little rougher than I expected. This wasn't the kind of ice I was used to-slightly worn, used for hockey, not for the precise, graceful glides and spins I had spent years perfecting. But it didn't matter. I was back where I belonged.

I pushed off and immediately began to glide, the sharp blades cutting through the ice with that satisfying swish. The air was colder here, heavier with the faint smell of sweat and the scent of hockey pads, but once I moved, I could tune it all out.

I began to skate in a slow circle, testing the ice. It was rougher than I anticipated, but I could still move. I tried a small spin, and though it wasn't as smooth as I wanted, I could feel the familiar thrill of rotation, the world blurring around me. My heart raced with the sensation, remembering how much I loved the feel of the ice beneath me.

Gaining confidence, I pushed myself harder, faster, letting my body fall into the rhythm. A quick push and I executed a glide into a one-foot spin. The ice was harsher than I was used to, but I didn't mind. I adjusted, feeling the force of each movement in my legs and core, using the slight imperfections in the ice to my advantage. It wasn't the pristine, silent rink I had practiced on, but it still gave me a chance to let go.

I spun again, this time faster, arms outstretched like I was flying. I felt the familiar heat building in my chest, that spark of joy only skating could give me. The blades cut through the rougher surface with more resistance than I wanted, but the thrill of the movement, the freedom-it made me feel alive again.

I took off into a fast lap around the rink, my skates carving perfect arcs into the ice, my breath sharp in the cool air. I felt the wind rush past my face as I pushed harder, weaving in and out of invisible opponents. With each lap, I gained more speed, more confidence, forgetting where I was, forgetting who I was supposed to be.

This was my moment. Not a practice, not a routine, not a performance. Just me, my skates, and the ice. I leapt into the air, performing a simple axel-nothing too fancy, just the feeling of lifting off and landing softly on the ice. It wasn't perfect, but the feeling, the freedom, was enough.

As I skated alone on the rink, I realized I was finally back in my element. No expectations. No rules. Just me and the ice.

Skating until I felt a ring from across the side of the rink where I had abandoned my belonging, I carved my way through to it.

Soon answering the call which happened to be my dad, how he got my number I had no clue but I didn't want to worry him.

"Hello?" I called out.

"Thank God! Are you okay? Where are you?" He said in a relieved voice.

I didn't mean to scare him, I just needed to breathe, I needed some peace.

"I'm at the rink, I'm fine." I breathed out.

"I came to find you after last lesson, you weren't anywhere kid, you wasn't even home." He explained through the phone and a wave of guilt hit me.

"Sorry da-Chris." I tumbled over my words, yet again, over what to fucking call my own father.

"It's fine, I'll come down there, give you some hockey pointers?" He said in a light easy tone.

And for some reason I felt like I could relax into the call.

"You should." I glided laps of the rink as I spoke, soon enough ending in my dad telling me he was on his way.

Our relationship is weird, I don't call him dad, he rarely calls me anything but kid, was did he think of me as his kid, or was I just the kid that moved in with him this crappy autumn?

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A/N: CHAPTER 5 DONE!!

I'm even mad Gray chose hockey instead of Calliope!!!!!

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