Jax

  The brace is finally off.

  My ankle still aches when I push it too far, but the pain’s sharp in a way that reminds me I’m moving again. My reflection wavers on the ice as I glide forward, slower than usual, the faint hiss of my skates echoing through the empty rink.

  The cold air bites at my face–familiar, clean, precise. Everything about skating feels mechanical now: the balance, the posture, the rhythm. I’ve done it all my life, and I know every motion by heart.

  But still…something’s missing.

  I press harder into a turn, wincing a little as my ankle twinges. “Again,” my coach calls out from the edge of the rink, clipboard in hand. “Clean lines, Jax. Smooth recovery.”

  I nod, forcing a deep breath, and try again. The blade catches the ice just right this time. Controlled. Perfect.

  And yet, it feels wrong.

  Because skating now feels like performing in a cage–polished and flawless, but empty.

  I think about dancing–about that morning in the theatre, when it was just me, the music, and the movement. No judges. No expectations. No audience. Just rhythm. Life.

  That’s what I want.

  But then I hear the sharp clap of my father’s hands echo through the rink, his voice calm and measured. “Good, Jax. You’ll be ready for the winter circuit soon. Don’t get distracted.”

  Right. The winter circuit. The endless schedule of competitions and press events. The carefully crafted image of the Everhart prodigy.

  I skate to the edge and pull off my gloves, flexing my sore fingers. Mother’s standing nearby, scrolling through emails about upcoming sponsorship meetings. “We’ll need to meet your choreographer next week,” she says. “They’ll want to adjust your program to highlight your recovery story.”

  My recovery story. I almost laugh. Like it’s something they can package neatly–a triumphant comeback, the fallen prince of the ice returning to claim his crown.

  If only they knew the truth: the only time I really felt free in front of an audience was when I was pretending to be someone else, Kael. Dancing with firelight and shadows.

  Or when I wasn’t pretending at all–when it was just me and Milli.

  I shake off the thought, pushing away from the way, back into motion. I can’t afford distractions. Not now. Not when everyone’s watching again.

  The ice sings under my blades as I move into another spin, the ache in my ankle fading into rhythm. I can almost trick myself into believing I belong here.

  Almost.

  The sound of blades carving into the ice fills the rink–the rhythmic shhhk-shhhk that used to steady me. My coach calls out corrections, my parents murmur in low, approving tones from the observation deck, and I nod mechanically, focusing on every movement.

  “Better,” Coach Taren says. “But you’re overcompensating on the left leg again. Keep your center tighter.”

  “Got it.” My voice sounds distant, even to me.

  I reset, take a breath, and push forward. My ankle twinges as I pivot, and I bite back the frustration that rises with it. The pain is manageable, but the emptiness isn't. I can skate fine. I just don’t feel it.

  From the corner of my eye, I catch movement at the edge of the rink–a flash of mauve, soft colors against the cold white of the ice.

  I turn, breath catching.

  No way.

  Milli stands near the entrance, holding her skates, eyes darting from my parents to me. She’s dressed in a fitted top, and mauve leggings, her hair pulled back loosely, cheeks pink from the cold.

  Mother notices her first. “Oh–hello. Can I help you?”

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  Milli hesitates for a fraction of a second, and I can see the quick shift behind her eyes—the decision.

  “Yes,” she says, steady but polite. “I’m Milli Brooks. We met a few months ago. I was on the ice back in November.”

  Father narrows his eyes slightly, thinking. Recognition dawns. “Right. The girl from the public rink. The one we wanted to be Jax’s skating partner.”

  Mother folds her arms. “You left rather abruptly, didn’t you? Jax said it wouldn’t work out.”

  Milli offers a small, careful smile. “I did. But I’ve been thinking about it since then. And…” she takes a breath, clutching her skates a little tighter. “I’ve reconsidered. I’m willing to try again–for partner skating.”

  My grip on my gloves tightens. Partner skating?

  Coach raises a brow, glancing between us. Mother and Father exchange a look. There’s a flicker of something–surprise, curiosity, maybe even hope.

  “She was good.” Mother admits under her breath. “She moved like she belonged on the ice.”

  Father sighs, still cautious. “Fine. One run-through. See if the chemistry is still there.”

  Milli’s gaze flicks toward me, uncertain but determined. It’s clear this was a split second decision she came up with on the spot.

  I just stare back for a moment, still processing what’s happening. I nod slowly. “Okay.” I say, voice quiet but steady, “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Coach gestures toward the benches. “Get your skates on, Milli. We’ll start from the top.”

  She nods and moves quickly to the side, lacing up her boots with familiar ease. Watching her do it hits me harder than I expect–it’s like déjà vu, but sharper, cleaner. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the faint line of focus on her brow.

  When she steps onto the ice, she moves like she never left–careful at first, then fluid, light as breath.

  I skate toward her, stopping a few feet away. The air feels different now, heavier somehow.

  “Didn’t expect to see you here,” I murmur.

  She meets my eyes, a small knowing smile playing at her lips, “I could say the same to you.”

  Coach claps his hands. “Alright, Everhart. Brooks. Let’s see if you can move together.”

  We take our positions. The rink is silent except for the hum of the lights above. The first notes of the music echo through the space–and just like that, it’s like time rewinds.

  We move together. Hesitant at first, then smoother, instinctive. The rhythm clicks back into place–like our bodies remember something our minds tried to forget.

  For the first time in years, I feel alive on the ice.

  The music starts–soft piano at first, then a slow swell of strings that fills the rink.

  Milli glances at me once, her breath visible in the cold air, and I nod. No words, no plan–just instinct.

  We push off together.

  For a moment, it’s awkward. My ankle still feels stiff, and I overthink every glide, afraid I’ll misstep or slow her down. But then she reaches out, her fingers brushing mine–light–barely there–and something clicks.

  It’s like muscle memory takes over.

  She moves with the same effortless rhythm she always had, each motion flowing into the next, soft but sure. When she spins, her hair fans out in a golden halo that catches the light, and the world narrows to just the two of us–the sound of our blades, the breath between notes.

  I match her pace, testing the edge of my balance. She meets me halfway, every turn syncing to mine. Her eyes flick toward me once, and I know–she feels it too.

  The connection. The pulse. The trust.

  I lift her, carefully, the way we used to. She’s lighter than I remember–or maybe I’ve just forgotten what it felt like to move with someone who believes you’ll catch them.

  Mother and Father are silent on the sidelines now. Coach isn’t calling out corrections. The music fills the empty rink like a heartbeat.

  When her skates touch down again, we circle each other—opposites orbiting the same center. She smiles faintly as she crosses in front of me, and I can’t help the small laugh that slips out. It’s pure reflex—joy breaking through all the layers of training, expectation, perfection.

  I’d forgotten what that felt like. The feeling of skating with the one person I’ve fallen in love for, and having shared connection, care, trust. It feels like nothing else I’ve experienced before in my life, it warms my heart while I’m on the ice.

  By the time the music fades, we stop at center ice, breathing hard, a few feet apart. The silence that follows feels heavier than applause.

  Coach lets out a quiet whistle. “Well,” he says, almost to himself. “I’ll be darned. That was…something.”

  Mother folds her arms, but there’s a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “You two have undeniable chemistry.”

  Father nods, thoughtful. “It’s rough around the edges, but the potential’s there. You move well together.”

  Milli’s cheeks are flushed, breath fogging the air. She looks at me, eyes bright, and I can’t help but smile back.

  “That was…” I start, then shake my head, still catching my breath. “It felt right.”

  She nods softly. “Yeah. It did.”

  Coach glances between us, eyes sharp. “If you’re serious about partner skating again, both of you need to commit. No half-measures. That means long hours, trust, and discipline.”

  Milli straightens, determined. “I can do that.”

  I glance at her, and something in her tone—quiet, certain—makes me believe her completely.

  “Me too.” I say.

  Coach nods once, already scribbling notes. “Then we start tomorrow.”

  As he walks off to set up details with my parents, Milli and I linger on the ice.

  She shifts, rubbing her hands together. “Welcome back to partnership. Good luck getting rid of me.” She gives me a mischievous smile.

  I smile faintly, “Guess so.”

  Though my ankle aches and my parents are probably already mapping out our next competition, I feel lighter than I have in months.

  Because for the first time in a long time–I’m not skating alone.