The blood rushes to my head, chasing away the chill. “You act like it’s the only place in the world that matters. But it isn’t. There’s so much more to—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get you.” Dani edges backward to the kitchen doorway. “You hate Watonka, and you’ll do anything to leave. So now you’re hooking up with random hockey boys in exchange for ice time? Classy, girl. Real classy.” She kicks a chunk of ice across the pavement and disappears into the kitchen.

Back inside, I finish up that clumpy batch of cupcakes—passable, but definitely not my best work—and hit the floor for my breakfast shift. Thankfully, everyone in this town must be home ogling their Christmas loot, because it’s dead today. Dani and I have the space to work around each other, talking only when we absolutely have to. She runs my food when I’m in the bathroom, I deliver her drinks when she’s stuck with a chatty customer. She buses one of my tables, I cash out one of hers. We work as a team to get things done, but we don’t look at each other. And when Nat and Marianne show up for the next shift, I don’t wait around to split a plate of Trick’s corned beef hash at the prep counter or offer her a preview of my latest cupcake experiments. I just hang my apron on the hook, pack two non-clumpy cupcakes for the road, flip open my phone, and text the only person I know who doesn’t have any expectations of me—past, present, or future.

My blank canvas.

meet me @ fillmore in 1 hr? :-)

Josh leans against the signpost and tightens his laces, head bent beneath the thin ice warnings so that when he looks up at me and smiles, the Department of Parks and Recreation sends me a totally new message.

DANGER:

JOSH BLACKTHORN SMILING!

“Thanks for coming,” I say, returning his grin. “You totally saved me.”

He stands and blocks out the rest of the warnings. “Bad day at the diner?”

“Put it this way. Another five minutes and they’d be calling it ‘going waitress’ instead of ‘going postal.’”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“It’s stupid.” I say. “Things have been a little off with me and Dani lately. And now she’s pissed because Will asked me to Amir’s New Year’s thing and I didn’t call her five seconds later with all the gory details.”

“Um …” Josh rubs his head, looking out over the lake. “Wow.”

“Holy melodrama, right? Told you it was stupid.”

“No, I … um … so you’re going to the party with Will?”

“I’m not going anywhere with anyone. I have to babysit my brother.” I stab the ice with my toe pick and sigh. But then I realize I’m not exactly taking a stand against melodrama here, so I plaster on another smile. “Anyway, in exchange for your heroic selflessness in meeting me on such short notice, I have a present for you.” I reach into my jacket and fish out his USB drive.

“You’re regifting my music? Can you even do that?”

“No way.” I shake my head. “That would be a complete gift violation. This is your drive, but my music. Totally reloaded. There’s even some old obscure blues stuff on there from Trick.”

“Nicely done, Avery.” Josh slips the drive into his pocket and tugs his hat over his ears. “But don’t be too grateful. My motives weren’t all that selfless. I need help with the—shoot. Hang on.” He checks his ever-buzzing phone. Great. I hope Cougar Mama doesn’t show up at Fillmore. An ex-stripper against an ex-skater? Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets.

“Sorry, one sec.” He sends out a text, turns off the phone, and buries it in his jacket pocket. “Anyway, I totally suck at those backward crossover things you showed us. So, yeah. Help.”

I laugh. “Follow me.”

The indoor rink is definitely better for technical work, but I was actually starting to miss the ruggedness of Fillmore, my original secret spot. If I was more clearheaded when I left work, I probably would’ve just come here alone. But for once, I didn’t stop to analyze everything. I just did what I felt like doing.

I felt like being with Josh. No kissing, no coach secrets and weird family politics, no subtext. Just two friends hitting the ice.

Now I lead him through backward speed drills, slowly working him up to the crossovers. After several falls (his) and laughs (mine), he’s finally getting it, and I give him a wide space to perfect his moves.

I run through my figures as he works, looping across the runoff, skates rubbing uncomfortably against my toes and ankles. The leather has stretched with my growing feet; it’s thinned and scuffed in spots, torn near the eyelets, but the blades are still sharp. Like all my skates, my father got these for me. A brand-new, custom-made pair. I spent months breaking them in, working them on the ice until they were perfect, soft and buttery.

They fit me a whole lot better back then, just like the pair before that and the ones before that, all the way back to the very first time I ever felt the ice beneath my feet. It was during the winter Olympics more than a decade ago. I was a toddler, mesmerized by the twirls and turns on TV and the way the skaters’ feet seemed to float as if they were dancing on water. I’d never before wanted to be anything as much as I wanted to be that—a ballerina on ice. So one morning my father drove me to Miller’s Pond, this old place out in the country. He parked the car and came around to my side, kneeling in front of me with a big white box. I took it into my lap, legs dangling over the edge of the seat as I tore off the lid and pulled out miles and miles of tissue paper. Inside, two magical silver blades shone under soft leather boots, bright as snow. Dad laced them up and set me on the ice like dust on spun glass, and he pulled me around and around and around until my face was numb from smiling in the cold, the same question spilling from my lips for hours.

Please, can you take me again, Daddy?

Soon he’d be paying for lessons at the community center two towns over, then private instruction when they started throwing around phrases like “unlimited potential” and “incredible natural talent.” Not too long after that came Lola Capriani, and that was it. Pro track, all the way. Before he finally split, my father must’ve spent a boatload on my dreams, his entire future staked on the destiny I was supposed to claim.

Still, through all the winters of lessons and competitions, through all the dizzying spins and hard-earned bruises and medals, it never meant as much as it did on that first day at Miller’s Pond when he surprised me with those magical skates. That day, I really was a ballerina and he was my whole world and if I let myself now, I bet I could still feel the warmth of his hand around my tiny pink mitten.

Don’t worry, baby girl. I promise I won’t let you fall.

But I don’t let myself feel that warmth. Even now, as I prepare for another competition and wade through all the old memories, the ghosts of my father’s promises don’t take up nearly as much space as they used to.

“That’s it,” Josh calls out, skating toward me. “I can’t take it anymore.” He stops close, his face pink from cold and exertion. “Now that I’ve thoroughly embarrassed myself, how ’bout showing off some of your killer moves.”

“You’ve seen my moves.”

“Not really.” He stretches his arms out before the lake. “All this room. No walls. No rails. No Brad Nelson running his mouth. It’s just us and the seagulls. And I promise not to crash into you.”

I smile. “There you go, being a hero again.”

“You’re competing in a month, right?”

“One month, six days, and a handful of hours, give or take.”

“Then put your money where your skates are.” Josh nods toward the ice. “Come on, Avery. Show me what you’ve got.”

“That a dare, Blackthorn?”

He shrugs. “Call it what you like. You down?”

“Down? I’m about to make you wish you never got up,” I say, strictly for the cameras. What’s a high school action rom-com docu-drama without a few corny but well-placed one-liners?