When I came back some minutes to midnight wearing a white shirt and blue jeans, I couldn't help thinking that the rink had never felt so quiet.
Usually, I liked the sound of the place when it's quiet— the hum of the ice chillers, the echo of blades slicing through frost, the low thud of pucks slamming into boards. Tonight, though, even those sounds felt too loud.
Maybe it was because I knew this wasn’t just a rink anymore. That it was a stage now. A confession booth. A last chance.
Everything was ready. The projector sat in the center bleachers, its glow spilling over the freshly resurfaced ice. Skylar’s art — bright, chaotic, and beautiful — flickered softly on the boards like a pulse. Her lines, her colors, her soul were in prominent display.
I chuckled quietly as I remembered how I
