Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The foggy glass reflected my pale face, my hair still damp, and the paper with the schedule folded between my hands — that little piece of routine that, suddenly, seemed to dictate the rest of my life.

From the front seat, my mother spoke with contained enthusiasm:

— The school is beautiful, isn't it? And so organized... even the cafeteria looks like something out of a movie.

My father answered with a distracted murmur, his gaze fixed on the road — he was never one for long words, and the way he gripped the steering wheel — firm, focused — said everything.

The move had been because of me, but I knew it weighed on them too, and the road was clean, almost perfect, lined with rows of houses that looked like they'd come off Christmas cards. Snow-covered rooftops, white lights hanging from porches, and chimneys releasing thin smoke into the cold air. I leaned my head against the glass, watching the lights blur together, and for a moment, I missed everything I had left behind. The old house — small, noisy, with floors that creaked at every step and the smell of coffee always present. There, I knew where the sun came in the morning, the sound the gate made when it closed, the way the neighbor sang off-key in the backyard.

Here, everything was new. And too new sometimes frightens.

— I think you'll like the room, Tema — my mother said, turning to me with a smile. — It's much bigger than the old one.

I nodded, unable to respond, because it wasn't about the size — it was about the emptiness. Homesickness.

— Did you eat something, sweetheart? — my father asked, without taking his eyes off the road.

The truth is that food had always been a complicated subject for me — since the very beginning, everything around me seemed to revolve around control — posture, balance, diet. On the ice, every gram counts.

I'm five foot three and weigh ninety-seven pounds — almost always the same number, because I make a point of it. I'm short, of course. Almost all skaters are. I don't have a tall frame.

But sometimes, being so small also means being invisible, compressed inside an impossible goal. I had seen girls faint after rehearsals, their faces white against the ice, the sound of a body falling louder than the music, dizzy, starving, calling it "routine." But nobody teaches you what to do when you break on the inside.

I had seen others locked in bathrooms, trying to erase what they had eaten, swearing it was "part of the process," as if regret could purge the body. It's not something people talk about. And we pretend it's normal.

That anorexia and bulimia don't exist, and that extreme pressure for thinness is called "invention." Some called it discipline — I called it pain with sequins. They say it's about discipline.

But it isn't. It's fear. It's guilt. It's the constant voice saying you will never be enough, and we learn to dance with that voice — until it becomes the only sound that remains. Like swapping cake for fruit, sugar for approval. Once, at a birthday party, I watched a teammate blow out candles over a watermelon cake. They said it was lovely. I only thought about how it looked like a cry for help disguised as health — ignored. Swapping cake for a slice of watermelon is just "self-control." That orthorexia is a lifestyle. That vigorexia is self-love.

That punishing yourself with exercise is just "focus." Fake smiles in front of cameras, empty eyes outside them. I answered with a quick "mm-hmm," just enough to end the conversation before my mother turned back to insist.

I had a scale at home — one of those digital ones that shows the numbers too fast, before I have time to breathe. And every time the display changes, I feel something inside me change along with it.

I learned early to turn meals into calculations. Grams. Calories. Proteins. All measurable. And controllable. In skating, the body is an instrument, but sometimes it feels like a prison.

We are small, light, fast. Or, at least, that's what they expect us to be. I sighed, looking out the window, and the reflection showed my pale face and the outline of my thin shoulders beneath the heavy coat.

Sometimes, it felt like I disappeared a little more with each practice. My mother was saying something about dinner, but I only saw the street lights passing quickly, blurred by the foggy glass. I thought about how many calories a simple piece of bread could have, and I hated myself for it.

I just wanted food to stop being mathematics. I didn't want to talk about food, or about bodies, or about how exhausting it was to pretend all of this was normal. I try not to restrict myself so much. I try to relax, enjoy, eat without guilt.

But it's inevitable. Control became part of me, like the blades of my skates: sharp, necessary, dangerous. The car went on in silence for a few minutes, the sound of tires crushing snow, until it turned the last corner before the new house, and the headlights reflected my face in the glass — thin, tired, with eyes too hollow for my age.

The image of a girl the world saw as talented, but who, sometimes, only saw herself as light enough not to break the ice. In our neighborhood there were larger houses, silent, all with the same kind of white fence and gardens covered in frost. The kind of place where silence weighs more than noise. When we stopped in front of the new house, I felt a strange pang in my chest.

It was beautiful — large windows, light wood facade, lights on, the smell of a fireplace coming from somewhere. Everything seemed welcoming, but nothing yet belonged to me. I climbed the stairs with a tired body and an even more tired heart.

The bedroom was on the upper floor — spacious, bright, with a large window overlooking the snow-covered street. Outside, the night spread, and the sky seemed too heavy for so much calm.

I placed my skates on the shelf carefully, as if they were too fragile for this new floor, and then my bag. They were the only thing that made me feel centered — the only piece of "before" that still made sense now.

I threw myself on the bed, leaving the schedule beside me. The colored lines still stared back at me, impassive, as if they knew how much I was about to change. I closed my eyes and listened to the distant sounds of the house: my parents talking quietly, the crackling of the fireplace, the wind against the window.

It was peaceful — but a peace that hurt a little. Tomorrow would be the first day. The beginning of everything — and perhaps the end of who I was before.

My mother came upstairs right behind me, balancing a box in her hands and a tired smile on her face.

— You'll be able to decorate it — she said, with that hopeful tone she used when she tried to cheer me up. — Your father bought new wallpaper, look.

She opened the box and pulled out a roll with a delicate pattern of blue-grey flowers — the kind of thing that, in any other moment, I would have found beautiful. But now, it just seemed... strange. Too new, too cold to be mine.

— It's nice, Mom — I murmured, without really looking.

She nodded, satisfied, not noticing the weight in my voice. She began to talk about where the desk would go, the lampshade, maybe some photos on the wall. And I pretended to care.

I let her, because it was easier than saying that none of it made me feel at home yet. I looked out the window again. The snow kept falling, covering the world in white, silent and distant.

Outside, everything seemed ready to begin. While I looked at my skates, I thought about everything I needed to learn to fit into this world of artistic skating.

It wasn't just sliding on ice or wheels; it was a mix of strength, technique, endurance, and rhythm — all together, as if my body were a musical instrument that had to play perfectly.

My training friends, even the ones I barely knew yet, had bodies different from ordinary girls my age. Short, light, defined — and I wasn't just talking about appearance.

Their VO₂max was high, their endurance enormous, and the height of their jumps? Something like eight inches in the air, spinning, rotating, almost effortlessly. But every muscle seemed sculpted for the most complex movements.

Artistic roller skating was like this: a sport that demanded body and mind, training and discipline, but also grace and expression. I had to build strength to power my jumps, speed to chain spins together, balance to keep from falling, and coordination so that every dance step looked light and natural.

And even so, I knew there were risks. Repetitive strain injuries were common. Every double jump, every complex spin increased the chance of hurting a muscle or joint. And worst of all: almost all athletes started young, often before the age of six, specializing in technical movements before they had time to simply be children.

I myself had started early enough to learn all these movements and still carry the idea that I had to be perfect with the same goal as girls who reach competitive level. Some had begun training at three or four years old, competing nationally and internationally before they could even remember what it was like to play in a backyard. I was lucky to have started at six — even so... the pressure was already there, invisible, waiting to challenge me.

I closed my eyes and visualized the next day's training. The cold of the ice, the sound of blades cutting the surface, the smell of the vinyl floor, the reflections of lights on the blades. The rink seemed larger than anything I had ever seen, and the feeling of sliding inside it was almost intimidating.

I sighed. Fear and excitement mingled like the snow falling outside. The fear of making mistakes, of not being good enough, of feeling small among so many girls who already seemed perfect.

The excitement of finally being there, where the ice was my home, even if temporary, and the skates, my wings. My gaze returned to the schedule. Technical training — 7:30 in the morning.

I breathed deeply. I would need to wake up early, be ready, sharpen every muscle, every movement, every thought. And even with all the exhaustion and anxiety, I felt a spark inside me.

Something that said there was still space to learn, to grow, to become better. Tomorrow would be the first real day, and despite everything, something told me I was ready to face the rink, the training, and perhaps even the fear I had carried with me since I first began to skate. I closed my eyes again and whispered to myself:

— Tomorrow everything truly begins.

I remembered old training sessions and what I had already read about artistic skating athletes. Those who were more advanced had more strength and agility, but in the end, flexibility was more or less the same for everyone. I needed to reach that level, and fast.

And, of course, there were numbers that circled the mind of any dedicated skater: jumps in thirty seconds, how long they could hold their own weight on their hands, vertical jump height... all to measure whether someone was improving. I wasn't near that yet, but I knew every practice brought me closer to the goal.

My body needed to be light but strong; agile but stable. Endurance was important so I wouldn't tire mid-choreography, and arm strength helped with the double jumps I was still learning. Every muscle had to work together, almost without thinking, so that the movements looked easy.

This sport demanded physical and mental perfection from childhood onward. Jumps, spins, choreography, hours and hours of training... and all of this before there was even time to just be a child. Many girls gave up other sports, games, anything that wasn't ice or roller. I was still trying to maintain some balance, but I knew it wouldn't be easy.

And there were injuries. Skaters' bodies were pushed to the limit: lower limbs, back, knees... everything could suffer. Repetitive strain injuries were common. I had already seen teammates complaining of patellofemoral pain, tendinitis, or hip problems. Every double jump or complex spin increased the risk of hurting a muscle or joint.

It was hard not to think about that while tying my skates. One mistake, one poorly executed movement, and I could be kept away from training or competition. But it wasn't only the body that suffered. The mind also had to be strong.

The pressure to maintain the "perfect" body could be suffocating. Eating too much, eating too little, training until you couldn't anymore — all of it was part of a silent game that most skaters knew very well.

And even knowing this, I still loved the feeling of ice beneath my blades. I still wanted to feel the wind cutting across my face in every perfect spin, every jump that left me suspended for an instant that seemed eternal. I needed to learn to protect myself — from the body, from the mind, from expectations.

Coaches could help, but in the end, each of us had to listen to our own bodies, respect our limits, and challenge ourselves with intelligence.

Artistic skating had evolved. Everyone knew the ice version, but the roller version was also growing and gaining more and more attention.

What impressed me most was how the sport kept becoming more demanding. Before, everything was more comparative, somewhat subjective — whoever looked better scored more points. Now, with the new Rollart judging system, everything was divided: technical elements and artistic components, and the sum determined the placement. Every spin, every jump, every detail was evaluated. There was no escaping any mistake.

The disciplines were also many. At the beginning, there were only individual men's, individual women's, and mixed pairs, but today there were figures, pairs, free, dance... and still the show disciplines, with precision, quartets, mini-groups, and large groups. Each style demanded something different from the body, the mind, and the imagination.

And I felt like an intruder in my own room — in the freshly painted walls, the smell of new furniture, the silence too tidy to be real. I should have been happy. I should have been grateful for all of it — for finally having a bigger house, for my brothers having a room of their own, for my parents smiling with relief every time they looked around.

But I wasn't. And the worst part was knowing that, and hating myself for feeling this way.

I missed everything. The old house, where the floors creaked but laughter filled every room. My friends. The rink I didn't have to share with anyone. The mornings that began with the sound of blades cutting ice and ended with cheap hot chocolate and conversations that seemed to last forever.

Now everything seemed... too clean, too organized, too distant. The kind of perfection that makes you want to mess it up just to feel something alive. I squeezed the pillow tightly and whispered into the emptiness of the room:

— I hate being here.

And, in an even lower whisper, as if confessing a sin:

— I hate even more the fact that I'm not happy for them being happy.

My phone suddenly vibrated: a group video call from my friends Matsuri and Yukata. I sighed and answered, needing a distraction after the exhausting day.

— So, how was it? — asked Matsuri, with that bright smile I envied so much.

I rolled my eyes, leaning my head on the pillow.

— Awful. — I started, already feeling the irritation rise again. — Some idiot from the hockey team hit me in the shoulder with a puck today. And to top it off, I'm going to have to share the rink with them.

Yukata's eyes went wide on the other side of the screen.

— Seriously? God, Tema...

I shook my head, frustrated.

— And that's not all. The team captain... she didn't exactly warm up to me. Apparently she likes the idiot who threw the puck at me. So, of course, all my effort to fit in got a little... compromised.

Matsuri made a sympathetic face.

— Ugh, what a pain. But look, don't let her intimidate you, okay? You don't need to please anyone, Temari.

I sighed again, looking up at the ceiling of my new room, gleaming under the cold light.

— I know... but it's hard to ignore when they're always right there, laughing, making jokes and... — I ran my hand through my hair, trying to push the frustration away — and you realize everything feels like a round in a game you haven't quite learned to play yet.

Yukata sighed from the other side.

— Well... at least tomorrow is another day. You'll see that, little by little, you'll find your place. And if anyone tries to knock you down, you show them who you are.

I smiled faintly, but it was a genuine smile.

— Thanks, girls... I needed to hear that.

— Do they already know you hate skating in groups and prefer to be alone? — asked Matsuri, biting her lip as if she were waiting for my reaction.

I rolled my eyes and sighed.

— Isn't that reason enough for you to hate it too? — I retorted with a crooked smile. — I missed you guys.

— Ah, we missed you too... — Matsuri answered, her voice softer. — And the coach... Coach Baki was really sad when he found out you left. We even saw him wiping away a tear.

I let out a low, disbelieving laugh.

— A tear? Him, with that difficult temper? I doubt it. Must have been an itch.

— I'm dying missing you guys, seriously — I admitted, the screen showing my friends' animated faces.

— And how is it there? — asked Matsuri, tilting her head.

I thought for a moment, trying to put the feeling of displacement into words.

— Ah... I don't know. Different. Everything bigger, colder, more... distant. The house is nice but it's not the same. The rink is huge, I felt tiny in it. And the atmosphere... everything is more intense here, you know? — I swallowed. — Like everything is waiting to test me all the time.

There was a pause on the other side of the screen, and I felt the weight of their silence, as if they were absorbing every word.

— It'll work out, Temari — said Yukata finally, firmly. — You've always been strong. You just need time to adjust.

— I hope so... — I murmured, looking at the bedroom wall, imagining the rink and all the routines waiting for me. — Tomorrow is just the beginning.

— You were always the best on the team — said Yukata, trying to cheer me up.

I rolled my eyes.

— Don't exaggerate...

— Yes you were! — Matsuri insisted. — Now you'll be able to skate with people who are actually at your level.

— You're both great too... — I answered, feeling a pang of longing for all our old routines and jokes.

— What are the hockey players like at Northlake High? — asked Matsuri, tilting her head on the screen. — Because here in Vermont, as you know, they should have hockey if the boys weren't so scrawny and short.

I sighed, shaking my head.

— In my opinion? Annoying, arrogant, and full of themselves. — I made a face, laughing without much will. — Awful... a terrible combination. Seriously, you're much better off without them.

They laughed on the other side of the screen.

— Temari, stop lying — said Yukata, crossing her arms and feigning indignation. — They must be interesting, cute, and hot. You can tell us — Matsuri and I won't be jealous... just envious that you're surrounded by cute boys our age.

I smiled faintly, shrugging.

— Ah, you two are cruel. But fine... some of them are good-looking, yes. Not that it matters... — I murmured, shifting my gaze to the bedroom ceiling. — It's just that they have those conceited smiles of people who think they're the best, and that... is irritating.

— And what will your routine be like there? — asked Yukata, tilting her head on the screen. — Will you manage to do ballet?

I sighed, running a hand through my hair, thinking about how to explain without sounding overwhelmed.

— Look... it's going to be tough. School classes are in the afternoon, from 1 to 6 PM. But skating practice starts early, at 7:30 in the morning. — I paused, trying to picture the schedule in my head. — We'll have technical training, choreography rehearsals, physical conditioning... and then, there are still theory classes, until Saturday. It's almost a marathon.

— Wow — Matsuri whispered, surprised. — And ballet?

— So... ballet I'll fit in before or after practice, whenever I can. — I smiled, a little awkwardly. — I think it'll be more about trying to maintain grace and lightness in my movements. — I paused, staring at the pillow. — I even thought: "Okay, Temari, I'll do ballet to try to be as graceful as possible." But it'll depend on how much skating practice and jump, spin, and strength exercises leave me standing by the end of the day.

Matsuri laughed from the other side.

— Wow, seriously, it sounds like a professional athlete's routine.

— That's exactly what it is — I confirmed. — Jump rope, balance exercises, leg strengthening, abs, flexibility... every day will be a new challenge. And I still have to get used to the new rink and share space with the hockey team.

— Wow, Temari... — Matsuri made a face. — You're going to be exhausted.

— Probably — I murmured, laughing faintly. — But I need this. I need to challenge myself. And, well... if I manage to survive it and still do ballet, maybe I can be at least half of what I expect from myself.

— I hope you survive to come visit us over the holidays. — Matsuri said.

— Me too — I agreed.

— But where's your brother?

— Which one? — I asked, putting on that innocent voice I knew Matsuri melted over when it came to my younger brother.

— Gaara — she answered, unable to hide her excitement.

— School, both of them — I explained, shrugging. — You know... it's funny. While I'm going to grind away with training, rehearsals, and classes, they just go to school and hang around.

— Ah, Temari... but I bet there'll be parties and other fun things there — said Yukata, trying to liven up the conversation.

— I don't know if I'll have time for that, Yuk — I murmured, biting my lip and looking at my bedroom window. — Between morning training, afternoon classes, physical conditioning, and ballet when I can fit it in, I think my social life is going to be a little... limited.

— Hahaha, seriously, you're going to become the perfect athlete, then. The next Olympic medalist. Don't forget about us two after the fame. — Yukata laughed on the other side, making funny faces. — But hey, you're going to be busy becoming the most incredible Temari we know.

I smiled faintly, a little awkwardly.

— Thank you... I just hope I don't fall apart before that.

— Ah, but you'll manage — Matsuri said firmly. — You always do.

I heard the sound of the door opening and my brothers' animated voices arriving. An immediate reminder that the house never stayed quiet for long.

— Bye, girls! — I called out, raising my hand and trying to sound cheerful. — I have to go, the boys are back.

— Okay, Tema! — Matsuri answered, smiling from the screen. — Talk later!

— Definitely — I added, setting the phone down beside the bed. — Bye, girls.

The sound of laughter and hurried footsteps from my brothers echoed through the hallway, mixed with the smell of a snack my mother was probably making. I felt torn between wanting to isolate myself inside my own thoughts and the curiosity to hear their news, even if it was all trivial things.

As I watched them run through the house, I felt a pang of nostalgia for my old house, where everything seemed simpler, and at the same time a strange anxiety about the next day. Tomorrow would be my real first day: the training routine, classes, ballet, and the inevitable coexistence with the hockey team. I went downstairs a bit quickly, curious to see my brothers.

— Hey! — I said, trying to sound cheerful, even with the mix of exhaustion and frustration from the day.

— How was it at the rich kids' school, Tema? — asked my middle brother, tilting his head, his brown hair ruffled and his bright eyes watching me with that air of someone who knows everything.

I grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and bit into it, feeling the sweet juice run down my mouth.

— Well... only some jerk hit me with a puck — I replied, arching an eyebrow and rolling my eyes slightly.

— Are you okay? — asked Gaara, my younger brother, the freckles scattered across his cheeks, his red hair disheveled as if he had just been running around the backyard. His eyes were full of genuine concern.

— Yes... I'm fine — I answered, trying to sound calmer than I felt.

— And how was your day? — I asked, trying to shift the focus, curious about what they'd been up to at school.

— Normal... — Kankuro shrugged, leaning on the counter. — Why did he do that to you?

— It was an accident, okay? — I answered, trying to sound light, though my voice wavered a little. — It hit my arm, nothing serious.

— Your arm? — Gaara's green eyes went wide, his fists clenched as if he wanted to run off after whoever had hit me. — I can't believe it! How dare he?

— Easy, Gaara — said Kankuro, laughing at the younger one's dramatic expression. — Temari's fine, relax — she just got to school and you're ready to start a fight, and besides, the hockey player is probably twice our size.

— Okay, okay... — Gaara muttered, still frowning. — But if it were me... there wouldn't be a piece of the rink left for him.

— Hahaha, I seriously doubt that — I laughed, shaking my head. — You two are impossible. But thanks for worrying, really.

— Have you already unpacked everything, sweetheart? — I heard my father's voice echoing from somewhere far off, down the hallway.

— Not yet! — I called back, hearing the echo bounce off the new apartment walls. — I'm still getting used to everything, Dad!

He laughed softly, the warm sound crossing the space.

— That's fine, just don't leave it to the last minute — he said, coming closer, with that half-serious, half-playful way of his when he wanted to seem organized. — Remember tomorrow is your first day, huh?

You don't have to remind me. My head doesn't let me forget.

— I know, I know... I'll get to it.

There were still dozens of cardboard boxes scattered across my bedroom floor.

— I just... need a little time to sort everything out and think about practice. — I murmured, absentmindedly fiddling with a box still half-closed in the corner.

I sighed, knowing he was right, but still resisting the idea of getting back into full routine so quickly. The boxes spread around, the room still half-empty, and the feeling of strangeness reminded me that this place wasn't entirely mine yet.

— I'll try... — I said, more to myself than to him, as I sat on the bed surrounded by open boxes, trying to absorb the new reality.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of boxes, nervous laughter, and instructions to my brothers. My parents and I took turns between the living room, the bedrooms, the kitchen — turning every corner of the house into a space that might finally be called ours. Some boxes still remained, piled in the corners, reminders of what hadn't yet found a place.

When I finally collapsed on the bed, my body heavy with exhaustion, I felt my eyelids could barely stay open. The room, with that smell of new and clean, seemed bigger and stranger than it really was. But, somehow, there was something there that whispered the promise of a different beginning — and I was too tired to think about it now.

I was out almost immediately, as if the world had hit the off switch just for me. What woke me was the insistent sound of the alarm clock. It made me open my eyes slowly, half-blind from the light coming through the windows. The house still felt strange, too large, too different, and the feeling of displacement pressed against my chest.

But alongside the discomfort came that prick of anticipation I couldn't ignore. The training schedule, the rink, the hockey team — it all came to mind at once, making my heart race. I sat up in bed, my feet touching the cold floor, feeling my body ache in a way that recalled the old skating routine.

I breathed deeply. It was my real first day at Northlake High. And, despite the fear, there was something exciting about the idea of facing all of this on my own. I got up slowly, my feet touching the cold floor, and went to the closet. I chose my clothes carefully, as if each detail could protect me from everything that was to come. The training uniform was impeccable, the fitted fabric hugging my body like a second skin, allowing every movement without restriction. I pulled my skates from the corner of the room, feeling the familiar weight, the smell of leather mixed with a faint scent of cleanliness. I held them for a moment, and thought: Tomorrow I'll be back there, at the rink, trying to be the best version of myself. While getting ready, I couldn't stop thinking about my brothers. How they were probably still asleep, or tangled up in their own routines.

I looked at myself in the mirror and noticed the tension in my shoulders, my breathing still a little irregular, as if my body were anticipating the shock of the rink and all the eyes that would be watching. I breathed deeply, trying to organize my thoughts. Just one more day. Just one more beginning. Tomorrow, everything will be different, but I can do this.

I picked up my skates, the school schedule, and the training timetable, and sat on the edge of the bed. I ran mentally through each time block, each activity. Jumps, spins, strength and flexibility exercises, choreography rehearsals... Even jump rope was there, scheduled for mornings, alongside balance exercises and footwork. It was a new world, heavy, but exciting. I picked up my two bags — my school backpack and my skating bag.

Each strap pressed into my shoulder, reminding me of everything I needed to carry beyond books and skates: expectations, fears, anxiety, and that edge of curiosity that kept me from sleeping properly at night.

Before I left, my father appeared in the kitchen with a steaming mug of coffee.

— Here, sweetheart. You'll need the energy for the first day — he said, handing me the drink with a quick, distracted smile, as if he were balancing worry with haste.

I held the mug carefully, feeling the warmth in my fingers, and took a few sips, letting the strong coffee aroma fill my still-sleepy morning. The coffee helped me wake up, but it didn't erase the anxiety burning in my chest.

I left the house and breathed deeply. The cold morning air cut across my face, making me shiver and, at the same time, fully wake up. The city felt different from Vermont — bigger, faster — and every block along clean sidewalks and still half-empty streets made me feel small in the face of everything that was coming. I looked through the windows of the buildings I passed, seeing other students going to school, some alone, others in groups. I didn't know whether to feel envy or relief at starting alone, without the familiarity of Vermont, but a part of me knew this was necessary. To grow, I needed to get a little lost before finding myself again. My father dropped me off in front of the school. And as I walked, I observed the houses, the frost-covered trees, and the cars going by. Everything seemed so real, so solid, but I felt like I was floating, almost displaced within my own world.

My backpack swayed on my back, the skates in the other bag hanging to one side, and I tried to mentally organize every detail of the day. Skating class at 7:30 at the main rink, then the first school class in the afternoon. When I arrived at Northlake High, the imposing building made me swallow hard. The glass reflected the morning light and my own image looked small and restless. I tightened the shoulder straps, feeling the cold in my stomach, the nervousness that mixed fear with anticipation. It was time to go in, face unfamiliar eyes, crowded hallways, and, of course, the rink.

I sighed again, trying to organize my thoughts. One step at a time, Temari. One step at a time. And then I pushed open the door, ready to begin. The rink was quiet, except for the distant sound of low music echoing through the speakers. It felt like I was a lost soul in there, alone between the ice and the sound of my own footsteps.

I set my backpack carefully against the locker room bench, almost as if I didn't want anyone to touch my things. I took off my sneakers carefully and put on my skates — white, with laces tightened until I felt my ankles secure, the brand-new wheels gleaming under the fluorescent light.

I put on my training uniform: fitted black pants that hugged my legs like a second skin, allowing every movement without restriction, and a light, long-sleeved navy blue top. My hair was tied in a ponytail, but a few strands insisted on escaping, swaying with each step I took.

I looked at my skates one more time, turning them gently on the cold floor. It was time to warm up, to prepare. The feeling of gliding on ice was different from anything else I had ever felt — light, fast, almost floating.

When I returned to the rink, the reflections of the glass and ice made me hesitate for a second. I was alone. Each step echoed, the sound of metal cutting ice resonating in my ears. I had come early on purpose; I wanted time for myself, to warm up my muscles, to get used to the cold that penetrated to the bone and the smell of ice mixed with the metal of the skates.

I started with simple steps, gliding from side to side, feeling each movement reverberate from foot to torso. I breathed deeply, letting the icy air fill my lungs, and tried to push away the nervousness pressing against my chest.

But for now, it was just me, my skates, and the strange feeling of freedom that came with the solitude of an empty rink.

I let my hair down. It wasn't nighttime, and I knew that technically it wasn't recommended — hair tied up helps with balance, keeps it from getting in the way during spins — but in that moment, I felt too free to worry about rules.

The strands fell across my shoulders, some brushing my face, and I moved slowly, feeling the weight of my hair swaying with each glide. It was a small luxury, almost an act of silent rebellion that only I knew about. The cold of the rink mingled with the warmth rising from my body, and I let out a sigh, trying to absorb every detail of the sensation: the scrape of the skates on the ice, the faint echo of the distant music, the metallic and clean smell that permeated the air.

I began to spin, first slowly, letting the rhythm of my body dictate the movements. Each step was measured, but my loose hair swayed in sync with my body, reminding me that, despite the fear and anxiety, there was something there that belonged only to me.

It was my first real morning at the Northlake High rink, but for a few minutes — just a few minutes — no one else existed. Not Shikamaru, not the hockey team, not the school. Just me, the ice, and the freedom I had never felt permitted to have before.

And, even aware that I couldn't let myself get distracted, I felt an involuntary smile rise to my lips. For now, I was exactly where I needed to be.

I began to warm up, slowly, gliding from one side of the rink to the other. Each movement woke up my muscles, my ankles protesting under the pressure of the skates, my hips adjusting. It was strange, being alone in such a large space — as if the ice had swallowed me, and each echo of my movement reverberated straight into the void.

I raised my arms, felt the tension in my shoulders and neck as I spun gently. Each rotation was a test of control and balance. My body remembered movements learned in Vermont, but every spin here felt different: the ice was smoother, colder, and each glide reverberated through my confidence.

I decided to start with simple jumps. I bent my knees, pushed off the ice and lifted — not much, just enough to feel the air rush past my face and my heart race. The cold floor met my feet with a slight impact that reverberated up to my spine. I breathed deeply, trying to remember that this was only the warm-up, that there were still hours of training ahead.

As I spun again, I watched my reflection in the mirrored walls of the rink. I saw a tense but determined girl; small for the size of the space, but filling every centimeter with intention. I let out another sigh and, for a moment, forgot that I would have to share the ice with the hockey team — forgot even that it was my real first morning.

Then I began to test more complex movements, incorporating dance steps: crossovers, lateral glides, small spins. Each gesture required strength, coordination, and body awareness — and each mistake reminded me that this was no longer just fun; here, every glide counted, every jump had weight.

Even with the tension and the cold, I felt a small spark of pride. I was there, alone, making my body remember what it knew, preparing myself to face what was coming. And, for the first time, I liked feeling the ice pressing against me, molding me, challenging me. The music that started playing — Mirrorball, by Taylor. Probably Ino had put it on before leaving, and I could swear she was at school. I closed my eyes and let my body glide across the ice, each movement trying to become unique, as if the rink itself were answering me.

Skating with my eyes closed had something magical about it. I could feel every crack in the ice, every small jump, every glide. It was one of the ways all successful skaters mentioned in interviews: to connect with the ice, to become one with it. It didn't matter if someone was watching, if there were eyes fixed on me; I ignored everything. The world outside the rink disappeared.

My hands lifted in the air, my arms forming soft lines, trying to combine grace and strength. My heart beat fast, but it wasn't anxiety — it was adrenaline, it was my body remembering what it knew how to do even on bad days. I was alone, and at the same time I wasn't. Each spin was a silent conversation between the ice and me, a dialogue no one else could hear.

*I want you to know*
*I'm a mirrorball*
*I'll show you every version of yourself tonight*
*I'll get you out on the floor*
*Shimmering beautiful*
*And when I break, it's in a million pieces*

*Hush, when no one is around, my dear*
*You'll find me on my tallest tip-toes*
*Spinning in my highest heels, love*
*Shining just for you*

*Hush, I know they said the end is near*
*But I'm still on my tallest tip-toes*
*Spinning in my highest heels, love*
*Shining just for you*

*I want you to know*
*I'm a mirrorball*
*I can change everything about me to fit in*

*You are not like the regulars*
*The masquerade revelers*
*Drunk as they watch my shattered edges glisten*

*Hush, when no one is around, my dear*
*You'll find me on my tallest tip-toes*
*Spinning in my highest heels, love*
*Shining just for you*

*Hush, I know they said the end is near*
*But I'm still on my tallest tip-toes*
*Spinning in my highest heels, love*
*Shining just for you*

The sound of the music was still echoing when I noticed movement at the rink door. I slowly opened my eyes and there he was: Shikamaru, casually leaning at the edge of the ice — arms crossed, gaze evaluating. The light reflected off his disheveled hair and the strong lines of his face — a mix of irritation and curiosity that made my stomach clench for no apparent reason.

— You also have the habit of arriving early? — he asked, his voice low, almost challenging.

— Yes — I answered, gliding slowly closer, trying not to show how much my heart had sped up from the surprise. — I like to take advantage of when the ice is still just mine.

He arched an eyebrow, a small, half-ironic smile forming at the corners of his mouth.

— Hey — he started, his voice husky from the cold. — About yesterday... — Temari stopped skating, turning slowly. The sound of her blades ceased like a comma.

— "About yesterday"? — she repeated, arching an eyebrow, her gaze sharp. — You mean when you hit me with a puck?

The cold still bit at her hands, even through her gloves, and the vapor of her breath mixed with the irregular sound of blades echoing through the empty rink. Temari breathed deeply, trying to synchronize each movement, each spin, but the silence was broken by firm footsteps on the ice.

He approached, helmet in hand, hair disheveled from the sharp morning wind.

The provocative look from the day before had given way to something different: hesitation. Shikamaru ran a hand across the back of his neck, as if trying to organize what to say.

— Yeah... that. It was an accident, okay? I was just warming up.

— Right. Because aiming at people's heads is a great warm-up technique — Temari retorted, crossing her arms, firm.

He sighed, trying not to smile, but the corner of his mouth betrayed the truth. — I... I just want to apologize... — You still haven't told me your name.

— Temari No Sabaku — she said, sharply. — There. Now you know.

— I... I just want to apologize, Temari. And not leave things awkward between us. We're going to see each other every day — I don't want to leave things unresolved.

— Too late.

She kept her arms crossed, weighing every word. — And you're doing a great job of it. — A silence stretched between them. The cold felt even sharper there, caught between the vapor of their breathing. Shikamaru finally raised his gaze — and she noticed he really did seem sorry.

— Look... I just wanted to say it was a mistake. I'm not that kind of guy. — Temari studied him for a moment. Part of her wanted to believe it. The other part — the one that still heard the sound of the puck passing too close — wasn't ready for that.

— Fine — she said, at last. — Just try not to do it again. — She turned her body and glided back to the center of the rink. Shikamaru stayed where he was, watching her skate — her movements precise, her balance almost irritatingly calm. A small smile escaped him.

— I'm not planning to — he murmured softly, more to himself.

— I'm just trying to make things better. — he said, his voice low, carrying genuine sincerity. — I think... we started off on the wrong foot, but I want to fix that.

Temari didn't know whether to sigh with relief or frown even harder. He seemed to genuinely want to make amends, but that prick of caution was still running through her chest. The ice reflected the light of the rink, and each broken breath seemed to amplify the silence between them.

— Better start slow, then — she answered, letting only a thread of her voice escape, as she resumed her spins on the ice, her loose hair dancing around her face.

He watched her, his eyes following each movement carefully, as if studying not only the skater before him, but also the girl hidden behind the impeccable precision of the ice.

— I interrupted you, didn't I? — he came closer, his blades still lightly hissing on the ice. — I've never seen a skater skate with her hair down, No Sabaku.

Temari arched an eyebrow, spinning on the ice and throwing a look that was half irritated, half challenging.

— And you thought you needed to comment on that? — she answered, her voice firm, but with a subtle trace of curiosity hidden beneath the words. — No — Temari interrupted, firm. — It's a personal thing. I prefer to skate alone. You'd better leave... I arrived first and you're getting in my way, Captain.

He smiled sideways, clearly amused by her provocation, but something in his eyes showed that he was genuinely watching each movement, each spin.

— Right... you win this one — he murmured, stepping back a few paces, respecting her territory.

— How do you know I'm the captain?

— Sakura told me.

Looks like this guy really wasn't going to let me train in peace. He wanted to talk, make conversation, and I was definitely not interested. I adjusted my skates, steadied my balance, and prepared to get back to my training, ignoring the cold in my stomach that refused to disappear.

— Ah... so she told you everything about me — he replied, shrugging and glancing away, as if it were too amusing to bother with.

— Not much. — I answered.

— You're not very sociable, are you, Temari? — he asked, tilting his head slightly, his voice carrying a tone somewhere between provocation and genuine curiosity.

I let out a sigh, without looking at him. — Are you calling me antisocial?

— Me? — Shikamaru raised his hands in an innocent gesture, the smile playing on his lips. — Never. I'm just trying to understand why it seems like you've built a wall of ice around yourself.

I rolled my eyes. — Maybe because it works well for keeping certain people away.

— People like me? — he insisted, taking a step forward on the ice, the sound of his blades echoing low, slow.

I kept my gaze fixed on the reflection of the lights on the frozen surface, trying to hide the discomfort that ran through me.

— People who talk too much — I finally replied.

He laughed — that kind of laugh that wasn't loud, but had an irritating calm about it, as if nothing fazed him.

— I think I'll take that as a "yes."

— Do what you want, Captain — I said, gliding to the other side of the rink, leaving behind the faint sound of his laughter.

But, as much as I tried, I couldn't ignore the feeling of being watched.

It was as if the air had changed since he arrived — denser, warmer, more... aware.

Temari was still on the rink, practicing slow spins, when she heard it again:

— So... — he began, his voice a little softer. — Where are you from?

— Vermont. — she answered without hesitating, her tone neutral.

— Vermont, huh? — he repeated, as if testing the word. — Cold, snow, mountains... doesn't sound so different from here.

Temari raised an eyebrow. — Then why the question, Captain?

— My name is Shikamaru Nara, No Sabaku. You don't have to keep calling me Captain.

He shrugged, feigning casualness.

— Curiosity. I like to know where people come from when they try to kill me with their eyes.

She held back a smile, adjusting her glove.

— Whatever. Well, now you know. Vermont. Where we learn to aim better.

He laughed at that — low, genuine.

— Alright, point for you, No Sabaku.

Temari just spun on the ice, moving away a little.

Shikamaru watched her in silence, his eyes following the precise movement of her blades, until she stopped again a few meters from him.

— You know — he said, with a half-smile — if you want, I can show you the rink during the hours when the team doesn't practice. To avoid... collisions.

— Ah, so now the hockey captain is offering a guided tour?

— Let's say it's the least I can do after almost hitting you in the face with a puck.

She breathed deeply, her gaze meeting his for a second that lasted too long.

— No thanks. Sakura already did that. — Why are you here, Nara? — I asked, turning my body and resting my hands on my hips. — I bet this isn't your time slot.

— I always skate before the skaters arrive — he replied, rolling his shoulders. — A few minutes before classes start.

— And the hockey time slot isn't in the afternoon? — I arched an eyebrow.

— Three to five-thirty — he confirmed, resting the stick on his shoulder. — But I like to come early, when the rink is still empty.

— What for? — I asked, narrowing my eyes.

— To improve. I don't have much of a choice. — he said, simple, as if the answer were obvious.

The vapor of his breath rose between us, mixing with the cold. There was something almost vulnerable in the sincerity with which he spoke — a strange contrast to the arrogant confidence from before.

I crossed my arms. — So you take advantage of the empty school. Is that it, Captain?

He laughed softly, a low sound that reverberated through the frozen space. — "Take advantage" is a strong phrase, No Sabaku. I just like the silence.

— Interesting — I murmured, lifting my chin again. — But today the rink was already occupied.

He took half a step back, his blades scratching the ice with a light sound.

— Yeah, I noticed. The new girl arrived first.

I rolled my eyes. — And yet you stayed. Like an intruder.

— Maybe I wanted to see what the new girl does at six in the morning — he retorted, amused.

— Train — I answered flatly. — It's what people do when they take what they do seriously.

His smile disappeared, replaced by something more contained, almost respectful.

— Then we have that in common, Temari.

For a second, the world seemed to shrink down to the distant sound of ice crackling beneath our feet.

Two different routines, two separate worlds... and, somehow, colliding in the same impossible hour.

— Do you like waking up early? — he asked, his voice too husky for such a cruel hour.

— I do — I replied, adjusting the blade of my skate, my tone deliberately neutral.

— I hate it — he shot back without my having asked. — I'd rather sleep, but what can you do. — He shrugged, his disheveled hair falling across his forehead. He had that insolent expression of someone who finds everything amusing, even being woken up by his own ego.

I adjusted my jacket, feigned total focus on the ice.

If he wanted to play at being charming before seven in the morning, he could do it alone. I had better things to do — like not falling for the charms of a hockey player with a troublemaker's smile.

*"What can you do."*

I glanced at him sideways, and he actually looked genuinely exhausted — the eyes of someone who lives between training sessions and expectations.

For a moment, I thought I might understand that. The weight of always trying to be good enough. But, of course, I wasn't going to say that.

— Then go back to bed, Nara.

— If only.

— You shouldn't complain — I said. — Sports demand discipline. And you, as captain, should be setting an example.

He arched an eyebrow, the crooked smile appearing.

— You talk like my mother, No Sabaku.

— She sounds like a sensible woman — I retorted.

He laughed softly, and the sound was almost... gentle.

Disturbingly gentle.

The girls started arriving one by one.

Shikamaru noticed the movement and let out a light sigh, as if he'd been caught in the act.

— See you around, Vermont — he said, with that half-smile that looked like a challenge in disguise, before leaving the rink and heading down the hallway, the sound of his blades fading until it disappeared.

As soon as the door closed behind him, I felt a wave of eyes on me.

The girls were watching me as if I had just broken some unspoken rule.

— Was that Shikamaru? — one of them asked, frowning.

— The team captain? — another completed, arching her eyebrows.

I nodded, my cheeks faintly flushed from the cold — or perhaps from the unwanted attention.

— He was here with you? — Shiho's voice sounded sharp, too firm to be just curiosity. She was standing a little behind, her blond hair tied in a flawless bun, her gaze as sharp as a blade.

— He just came to apologize for yesterday — I replied, simply, trying to end the matter.

Shiho gave a short laugh, without humor.

— Of course. Shikamaru apologizing. How unprecedented. — She turned her face away, but not before letting slip that quick, assessing look — the kind that measures you, classifies you, and puts you on a shelf you never asked to be on.

Before anyone could add anything else, the coach's firm voice echoed through the rink, reverberating off the ice walls:

— Girls, positions! Let's start the warm-up now!