15: An Empty Rink

SEVEN.

The moment I stepped out of my SUV, I knew I had made a mistake.

I had been so focused on finding Mikka that I forgot who I was in the eyes of everyone else. Before I had taken five steps, students were already slowing down to stare. Someone whispered my name. Another person lifted a phone. Within seconds, more cameras appeared from every direction. It felt like the entire courtyard had stopped moving just to watch me walk across campus.

Then I saw Mikka.

She stood near the entrance of the faculty building, clutching the strap of her backpack with one hand while her other hand held her phone. She looked frozen beneath all those eyes. When our gazes met, she forced a small smile, but I could tell it took everything she had just to stay where she was. She looked like she wanted the ground to open and swallow her whole.

I walked straight to her.

"Hey."

She nodded.

"Hi."

"You ready for practice?"

She glanced around at the students recording us before looking back at me.

"Now?"

"If you're free."

She hesitated for only a second.

"I'm free."

"Good."

I smiled.

"Let's go."

She nodded again but never looked me in the eye.

We started walking toward the parking lot together. The whispers followed us almost immediately.

"That's her."

"The girl from Levi's video."

"I told you they were together."

"No, she's using him."

"I heard she's trying to stay in Canada."

"Poor Seven."

"Poor Levi."

I clenched my jaw. Mikka kept walking as though she couldn't hear any of it, but I noticed her fingers.

They tightened around her backpack every single time another comment reached us. Her shoulders became stiffer, and her head lowered just a little more. She was pretending to be strong, but I had already learned that pretending was something she did very well.

"I'm sorry."

She looked up.

"For what?"

"This."

I nodded toward the crowd.

"You shouldn't have to deal with it."

She smiled sadly.

"I've had worse,” she said tsking, a slow breath. "The whispers don't hurt as much anymore."

"I wish I believed that."

She laughed quietly.

"So do I."

When we finally reached my SUV, I opened the passenger door for her. She climbed in without another word. Only after the doors closed did the outside noise disappear.

For the first time all day, it was quiet.

The drive to the community rink felt different.

Instead of sitting in silence, Mikka asked me questions about yesterday's practice. She wanted to know which movements still felt uncomfortable and whether my shoulder hurt after repeating the drills so many times. I answered honestly, and every answer made her think harder. She wasn't just listening to my words. She was studying them, connecting one problem to another before I even realised they were related.

When we reached the rink, she was already planning today's session.

"We're not shooting first."

I blinked.

"We're not?"

She shook her head.

"No."

She pointed toward the blue line.

"Today we're fixing your skating."

I laughed.

"I thought we already did."

"We started."

She smiled.

"There's a difference."

The rink was almost empty again.

Only the sound of skates scraping against fresh ice echoed around us. Mikka walked onto the ice with complete confidence, as though this was the one place where life couldn't touch her. She looked smaller than everyone else, but somehow she still controlled the entire rink without holding a stick.

"Start skating."

I pushed off.

"No."

She stopped me almost immediately.

"What?"

"You're thinking."

"I have to think."

She shook her head.

"No."

She skated a small circle with her finger on the ice.

"Your body already knows what to do."

"It doesn't feel like it."

"Because your brain keeps interrupting."

I let out a heavy sigh. 

"Again."

For the next two hours, she rebuilt everything. She made me slow down until every movement felt strange. Then she made me repeat the same motion over and over again. Sometimes she only adjusted my shoulder by an inch. Other times she moved my hands so slightly that I couldn't even tell the difference. Yet every correction somehow made the next attempt feel smoother than the last.

Halfway through the session, frustration finally caught me.

"I still don't get it."

"You will."

"When?"

She smiled.

"When you stop chasing perfection."

I frowned.

"What does that mean?"

She skated closer.

"It means every time you miss, you carry that miss into the next shot. Then you carry that one too. Eventually you're playing against your own mistakes instead of your opponent."

I stared at the ice.

"That sounds exactly like me."

"I know. I've watched you play, remember?"

Those words stayed with me—not because they were surprising but because nobody had ever paid that much attention before.

After another hour, she gathered six pucks.

"No pressure."

She slid the first one toward me.

"Just trust yourself."

I shot. The puck flew cleanly into the top corner.

She pushed another one forward.

“Again!”

I took the shot, and I scored another goal. 

Then another.

And another.

By the sixth shot, I was laughing.

"I haven't felt like this in months."

She folded her arms proudly.

"I told you."

"You really did."

We stood together watching the empty net, and then after a while, I turned toward her.

"Mikka."

She looked at me.

"Thank you."

She blinked.

"For what?"

"For believing I could still become the player everyone expected."

She looked away shyly.

"You did the hard work."

"No." I shook my head. "I've worked hard all season. But nobody taught me like this."

She opened her mouth to argue.

I stopped her.

"You see things nobody else sees."

She lowered her eyes.

"I just... like hockey."

"No."

I laughed softly.

"You're much better than that."

She looked back at me.

"You're a great coach."

For a second, she didn't speak. The words seemed to catch her completely off guard.

"I..."

Her voice became quiet.

"No one's ever called me that."

"They should."

A gentle smile slowly spread across her face.

It wasn't forced.

It wasn't hiding pain.

It was real.

“I appreciate that,” she said finally

We packed our bags as evening settled outside the rink.

For the first time since meeting her, Mikka looked lighter. She was still carrying the same backpack, the same suitcase, and the same impossible problems, but somehow the weight on her shoulders didn't seem quite as crushing. Seeing her smile made me realise just how rarely she allowed herself to do it.

I had no idea that while we were finding hope inside an empty rink, someone else was quietly making plans for both of us.