Pairs rehearsal turns the rink into a social experiment about territorial behavior. Specifically: watching hockey players attempt figure skating moves while their partners try not to visibly weep.

It’s like observing penguins learn ballet.

Chaotic, earnest, and occasionally someone falls hard.

Derek treats the whole thing like a joke written by someone less funny than him. He barely tries the choreography, rolling his eyes at corrections, acting like participation is beneath his considerable pay grade.

His form is lazy, his effort nonexistent, his attitude exhausting. But his hands never leave Maddie—waist, shoulder, hip.

Constant contact. Marking territory like a dog at a fire hydrant convention.

I watch him steer her across the ice with proprietary confidence and feel something hot twist in my chest.

Anger, probably. Definitely anger.

The specific kind that makes zero rational sense given that Maddie and I aren’t even friends anymore. We’re barely roommates. We’re reluctant cohabitants of a small space filled with tension and that judgmental otter.

Chris, meanwhile, is the opposite of whatever Derek is doing. He attempts a crossover, wobbles dramatically, catches himself on the boards, and laughs like falling is hilarious rather than humiliating.

“That was almost graceful,” he announces to no one in particular. “If you squint and lower your standards significantly.”

“You’re improving,” I tell him, which is technically true.

Yesterday he fell four times during the same sequence. Today only twice. Progress is relative and math doesn’t lie. Statistics favor his eventual survival. Probably.

We run through the routine again. Chris actually listens when I explain weight distribution, actually adjusts when I correct his arm position.

He’s trying. Genuinely, earnestly trying.

It’s disorienting after years of skating alone, trusting nobody except myself.

“Stay after?” he asks when our scheduled time ends. Other pairs are already filtering toward the locker rooms. “I want to nail that lift before it nails me. Self-preservation absolutely demands it.”

I agree because saying no would require social energy I don’t currently possess. We practice the lift until my shoulders ache and Chris can hold me steady for a full three seconds without wobbling. Personal best. We high-five like total dorks.

During a water break, I catch my breath against the boards when Maddie and Derek glide past, practicing their own routine with varying levels of commitment.

She’s flushed from practice, hair escaping her ponytail in ways that shouldn’t be distracting but somehow are. Derek’s arm drapes across her shoulders between runs like he’s claiming real estate. Staking a flag.

“Your footwork’s getting sloppy on the second transition,” Maddie says to me, skating closer. Her tone is helpful. Her eyes are not. “Might want to tighten that up before the showcase. I just know you’ll do great!”

Her sarcasm is not only obvious but practically palpable.

The criticism lands like a paper cut—small, precise, designed to sting without leaving visible damage. Professional sabotage disguised as helpful mentorship.

Classic Maddie, apparently. Elegant destruction wearing a pleasant smile.

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