I demonstrated the positions with enough technical detail to forestall mockery—pliésto strengthen leg muscles and improve knee tracking,arabesquesfor balance and core engagement,port de brasfor shoulder flexibility and upper body control.
The sight of massive hockey players attemptingpliéscreated hilarious chaos that made even Coach Williams's mouth twitch with suppressed amusement. They wobbled, they complained, they struggled with basic positions that I could hold for minutes without breaking a sweat.
"Engage your core!" I called out. "You're relying too much on leg strength. The power comes from your center."
"My center is crying!" someone yelled back.
"Your center is weak! Again!"
Logan deliberately performed moves incorrectly—I could tell because I'd watched him execute perfect edge work that required similar balance. He was doing this on purpose, requiring me to manually adjust his positioning with hands-on correction he clearly didn't actually need.
"Your hip placement is wrong," I said, moving to correct him.
"Is it?" Logan's voice was innocence itself. "I can't seem to get it right. Maybe if you showed me again?"
I adjusted his hips with more force than strictly necessary. He grinned.
"Better?" he asked. "I'm just a dedicated student seeking proper instruction."
"You're a dedicated pain in my ass."
His grin widened. "I can work with that."
One of the sophomore players made a crude comment about figure skaters being flexible in bed, and the temperature in the rink dropped about twenty degrees.
Before I could respond, all three of my housemates converged on him with violent intent that made the entire team go silent. Nolan reached him first, getting in his face with controlled fury. Logan abandoned his net—again—skating over with his goalie stick held in a way that suggested it might become a weapon. Blake was the most terrifying, his enforcer persona emerging as he loomed over the sophomore with an expression that promised pain.
"Apologize," Nolan said quietly, which was somehow more menacing than yelling.
"I was just—"
"Now!"
The sophomore stammered an apology directed at me, his face pale.
I should have let them continue. Should have let them deliver whatever punishment they thought was appropriate. But watching three grown men leap to my defense like I couldn't handle one immature comment was both thrilling and slightly insulting.
"I can handle myself," I said firmly, skating over. "But thank you for the thought."
"He can't talk to you like that," Blake said, his voice low and dangerous.
"No, he can't. Which is why he's going to spend the rest of practice doing penalty drills until he understands proper respect." I turned to the sophomore. "Skate laps. Full speed. Until I say stop."
"How many?" he asked weakly.
"I'll let you know when you've done enough."
He started skating. I let him do twenty laps before calling him back, by which point he was gasping and appropriately contrite.
Logan, Nolan, and Blake watched the whole thing with expressions of mingled approval and continued murder intent, like they were simultaneously proud of me and disappointed they didn't get to punch someone.
That evening, I stayed late at the rink after practice ended. I needed ice time to maintain my skills, needed the emotional release that only skating provided. Needed to remember who I was beneath all the complications of living with three hockey players who were rapidly destroying my ability to think rationally.
I changed into my performance dress—a simple but elegant design in deep blue that made me feel like a figure skater instead of a hockey performance specialist. Stepped onto empty ice with relief, letting the familiar cold and silence settle over me like coming home.
Without an audience, I didn't have to be anything other than myself.
I started my solo program, letting the music guide my movement. The program I'd been working on since before Sam left, before everything fell apart. A program about loss and longing, about identity fractured and slowly rebuilding, about opening yourself to trust after betrayal.
