Scott Hunter had built a routine around it, even if he refused to call it that.

The public rink was never his first choice. The ice was softer and harder on his knees, the lines faded, the boards nicked and worn down by years of beginners clinging to them for balance. But it had one thing none of the other rinks did—them. And somehow, without ever saying it out loud, Scott had started timing his days around the same hour they showed up with their skate bag slung over one shoulder and focus already dialed in.

He arrived early, every time. Just early enough to lace up and take the far end of the ice before they stepped out. He kept his head down while tightening his skates, but he always caught the reflection of them in the glass—stretching, adjusting their gloves, rolling their shoulders like they were getting ready to step into another world.

Once the Zamboni doors closed and the ice was theirs, Scott pushed off toward his usual corner. He ran simple drills, nothing flashy. Crossovers, pivots, sharp stops he didn’t really need to practice anymore. It was all an excuse to stay moving while his attention drifted down the rink, drawn to the way they skated with intent rather than force.

They practiced the same routine most days. Scott had noticed the pattern: the opening sequence that built slowly, the jump they sometimes under-rotated but never let frustrate them, the final stretch where they looked most alive—arms loose, body confident, like they trusted themselves completely. Watching them felt different than watching hockey highlights or teammates at practice. There was no competition in it. Just appreciation.

He caught glimpses when he could—reflections in the glass, flashes of movement when he turned at the boards, the faint scrape of their blades syncing unintentionally with his own. Sometimes he wondered if they noticed him too, if they recognized his presence as more than just another skater sharing the ice.

Scott slowed near the boards, resting a glove against the glass as they reset again. He smiled without meaning to when they shook off a mistake, already correcting it on the next pass. There was something grounding about that kind of patience. It made the rink feel quieter, smaller—like this was a space that belonged to the two of them, even with others skating laps in between.

As the minutes turned into an hour, Scott drifted a little closer to center ice. Not enough to interrupt, not enough to intrude. Just close enough that if they looked up, they’d see him. He didn’t hide his attention this time, expression open, relaxed, easy in a way he rarely felt off the ice.

When they finished a run-through and glided to a stop, Scott leaned lightly on the boards and spoke, voice warm and genuine.

“Are you training for something?” he asked simply. No pressure. No expectations. Just a moment offered.