Page 31 of Puck Me Thrice
I was terrified.
The hockey team was somewhere in the audience—I'd seen them file in, all twenty-plus guys in team jackets, looking distinctly uncomfortable in the figure skating environment. Logan, Blake, and Nolan had tried to catch my eye, but I'd avoided them. If I looked at them now, I'd lose my nerve.
My music started—something dark and contemporary, nothing like the classical pieces Sam always chose—and I skated onto the ice.
The first thirty seconds were pure muscle memory. Setup, crossovers, preparation. Then the first jump—a triple lutz I'd only landed reliably in the last few weeks. I went up, rotated, came down clean.
The confidence from that landing carried into the rest. Triple flip. Triple toe loop. A combination Sam would have said was too ambitious, too risky, too much about me instead of us.
I landed every single one.
The program told a story—breaking free from partnership dependency, finding strength in solitude, discovering that I could create something beautiful on my own terms. Every movement was a declaration: I don't need someone else to be whole.
The final spin sequence was something I'd choreographed in my room, alone, at 2 AM. It was fast andtechnical and probably a little aggressive for figure skating, but it was mine.
I stuck the final pose and the rink erupted in applause.
Skating off the ice, my hands were shaking. I'd done it. I'd actually done it. And more importantly—I'd wanted to do it. Not for a score, not for a competition, not to prove anything to anyone except myself.
The exhibition coordinator found me immediately. "That was incredible! We need you to join the team for the finale, and then we're inviting the hockey players onto the ice for a fun demonstration. Nothing serious, just—"
"They're going to murder me," I said, picturing Blake trying to execute a toe loop.
"It'll be great publicity. And between you and me, watching giant hockey players fall on their asses is hilarious."
She wasn't wrong.
Twenty minutes later, I stood on the ice with the entire hockey team, all of them in their skates, looking at me like I'd personally betrayed them.
"You want us to what?" Blake asked.
"Just basic skating. Some forward crossovers, maybe a simple spin." I demonstrated a two-foot spin, the easiest thing in my arsenal. "See? Simple."
"That looked simple when you did it," one of the younger players said. "You also made a triple lutz look simple."
"Everyone can do this. Come on."
What followed was possibly the most entertaining thirty minutes of my life. Hockey players who could execute complex plays and devastating checks turned into wobbling disastersthe moment they tried to adapt their skating to figure skating technique.
Except Nolan.
"How are you doing that?" I asked, watching him execute a surprisingly decent bracket turn.
He had the grace to look embarrassed. "My mom made me take ballet when I was nine. She said it would help with coordination."
"Your mom is a genius."
Blake, meanwhile, was attempting increasingly dramatic moves to make me laugh—including a spread eagle that ended with him flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.
"I'm okay!" he announced. "That was intentional!"
"That was painful to watch," Logan said, offering him a hand up. Then he turned to me with a wicked grin. "My turn."
Logan proceeded to attempt moves that were completely beyond his skill level, falling spectacularly each time, just to make me laugh. A failed axel attempt. A truly tragic scratch spin. An arabesque that looked more like he was trying to kick himself in the face.
I was laughing so hard I could barely stand.
"Okay, let me show you properly," I said, skating over to Blake. "For pairs elements, it's all about trust. You need to understand how to support your partner's weight."
