Step on the ice, Ada.

She approached her oldest friend, this time with neglected blades and a soul in fragments.

The trip, the fall, the smack plagued her mind, until the ice grew horns and became the enemy even to its greatest ally.

Step on the ice, Ada. Your mother would be so disappointed.

“No, she wouldn’t.” Her voice was shaky, craving freedom from the torment.

Gone was the steady thump, thump of her heartbeat as she stared at the scuffs on her boot, replaced by incessant striking, like fury unleashed on a children’s drum set.

The abrasions became blurry, wetness staining her cheeks.

Step on the ice, Ada. Cowardice demands failure.

“I’m not a coward,” she murmured through gritted teeth.

Her metal blade met the ice. Crash, thud, wail. As if it was yesterday.

The blade slammed back into the rubber floor, a scream tearing wildly from her lungs. She whipped the gloves from her trembling hands, launching them across the rink.

The single hour of private ice stole a week’s wages, and for what? A long-expired childhood dream, and her favourite gloves now equally unreachable.

A sigh escaped her cracked lips and she glanced around, wishing for someone charitable to retrieve them. No such luck.

When she lowered a knee to the ice, the cold bit through her jeans. She shuffled forward, and the safety of the barrier was behind her. Cameras, she remembered. Don’t let them see you tremble.

‘Ada, can you hear me?’ The voice had been a faraway buzzing. ‘We’re waiting for an ambulance.’

The trail of tears left on her path turned red in the illusions of her mind. Focus on your gloves, Ada.

Blood. Her blood. A pool around her head. Trickling down her neck. Drip, drip, drip across the ice as they wheeled her away.

She grabbed the gloves. Slipped them onto her hands. Looked back at the barrier, where her mother once stood.

‘We all fall down, Ada.’ She’d smiled at her young child with tender affection. ‘Only the strongest get up and keep going.’

She lifted her knee, but the blade didn’t grip; instead, she slid to the side.

The barrier, she thought. Where you look is where you’ll end up.

She rose up on her knees, hearing her mother’s gentle instruction as though she was right in front of her again.

One blade on the ice. Push up from your knee. Skate away.

Her breath caught as she realised she was standing.

“Skate… away,” she repeated and held her breath, braving a small step.

Then, she remembered. The scratch of sharpened blades as they cut through the ice; chill turned to sweat; the thunderous roar of the crowd.

Her hands met the barrier as she came to a stop, eyes wide and chest heaving.

Welcome back to the ice, Ada.

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