Chapter 2 — Frozen Encounters

Lia

The cold slams into me the second I step out of my car, sharp and almost cruel against my flushed skin. My fingers linger on the doorframe as I inhale deeply, the frost-laden air stinging my lungs. I hadn’t been planning on coming here, not consciously. But after the chaos of the parking lot—teammates shouting, parents congratulating, Blake’s overwhelming presence—getting away felt like the only option. My hands had gripped the wheel tightly, and before I even realized it, I was steering toward the stillness of the lake, like somewhere deep inside, I already knew I needed the quiet.

The frozen lake stretches out before me, pale and still under the faint glow of the moon. Towering pines frame the scene, their dark silhouettes stark against the frosted sky. The air bites, crisp and unforgiving, but for once, the silence feels like a gift. I pull my hoodie tighter around me, my breath fogging in soft white clouds as I crunch across the snow-dusted ground. Something about this place makes me feel lighter, almost untethered, like I’ve stepped into a piece of another life. Simpler, freer.

I stop at the edge of the lake, my fingers brushing the strap of my lacrosse stick slung over my shoulder. It’s always with me, a constant presence—even now, when I don’t need it. My gaze drifts to the ice, and for a moment, I swear I can hear the laughter of my younger self, skating without a care in the world. No drills, no expectations—just the rhythm of blades slicing the ice and the kind of joy that feels like it belongs to someone else now. Dalton and I used to spend hours here, racing and spinning, practicing for nothing other than fun.

“Lia?”

His voice cuts through the stillness, soft and familiar, like a flicker of warmth against the cold. My heart skips, and I freeze mid-step, unsure if I imagined it. Slowly, I turn.

Dalton stands a few feet away, his skates slung over one shoulder by their laces, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket. Moonlight glints off his messy hair, turning it a muted gold, and soft clouds of breath escape his lips as he exhales. He looks the same and different all at once—older, sure, but there’s still an ease about him, like the years haven’t weathered him the way they’ve weathered me.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The years we’ve spent apart stretch between us, fragile and unspoken, yet somehow, it feels like no time has passed. The tightness in my chest grows, my mind scrambling for something to say, anything to fill the space.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” I manage finally, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.

He shrugs, his lips curving into a small, familiar smile. “Could say the same about you.”

I glance back at the lake, its surface shimmering faintly under the stars. “I needed some air. Too much noise.”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice soft but knowing. “I get that.”

The pause that follows isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s heavy, filled with everything we’re not saying. I think about making up an excuse, something casual and detached, but the truth is, I don’t want to. My weight shifts, the crunch of snow under my boots filling the quiet between us.

“You still skate here?” I ask, my fingers tightening briefly on the strap of my stick.

Dalton’s grin widens, easy and unassuming. “You kidding? Best ice in town.” He tilts his chin toward the lake, his breath fogging the air. “Remember when we used to race out here? First one to the far edge without falling?”

A flicker of a memory—a blur of motion, the sting of cold air, breathless laughter—crosses my mind. “I remember,” I murmur, my voice laced with something I can’t quite name. My fingers brush the worn grip of my stick, the texture grounding me as the past bleeds into the present.

Dalton’s gaze flickers to the stick, then back to my face. “You want to skate?”

I glance at him, then down at my boots. “I didn’t bring skates,” I say wryly, though there’s an awkwardness to the admission that surprises even me.

He shrugs, his lopsided grin unfaltering. “You can borrow mine. They might be a size... or two too big, but they’ll work.”

I shake my head, almost laughing despite myself. “I’m not wearing your skates, Dalton.”

“Well, I wasn’t planning on skating alone.” He raises an eyebrow, his tone teasing but gentle. “Come on, Lia. Live a little.”

His words catch me off guard—not because of what he says, but because part of me wants to listen. I glance at the lake again, at the way it stretches into the night, vast and quiet. The weight on my chest loosens slightly, just enough for me to nod.

“Fine,” I say, setting my stick carefully against a nearby tree. “But if I fall, it’s on you.”

“Deal,” he replies, his grin widening as he crouches to help me lace up the skates.

The skates are too big, just as he warned, the laces stiff and awkward under my fingers. Dalton is already on the ice, gliding effortlessly, like it’s second nature. Maybe it is. I push off tentatively, my legs wobbling as I struggle to find my balance. It’s been years, and my body feels stiff, uncooperative.

Dalton spins to face me, skating backward with infuriating ease. “You forgot how to do this, didn’t you?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, but there’s no real bite behind it. My lips twitch upward despite myself. I push off again, shaky but determined, and the ice feels sharper beneath my blades than I remember. The motions are strange, distant, yet familiar—a flicker of muscle memory sparking to life.

“There you go,” Dalton says, slowing just enough to skate alongside me. “It’s like riding a bike.”

“Except on ice,” I counter, wobbling as my blades hit a rough patch. His hand brushes my arm instinctively, steadying me before I can stumble. The warmth of his touch lingers through the thick fabric of my hoodie, and my breath catches. Whether from the near-fall or something else, I’m not entirely sure.

“You’re fine,” he says softly, his eyes locking on mine.

“I know.” The words feel automatic, hollow. Vulnerability feels foreign, almost wrong, but out here, in the quiet with Dalton, it sneaks in.

We skate in silence for a while, our movements finding a rhythm. The ice glints beneath us, smooth and pale, and the world narrows to the sound of blades slicing through the stillness. It’s easy—almost too easy—to fall back into this, into the quiet comfort we once had.

“You’re still good at this,” I say eventually, my voice cutting through the crisp air.

Dalton chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Guess I’ve had a lot of practice.”

I nod, my gaze fixed on the horizon. “I used to be good at this, too. Before lacrosse took over.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, but I feel his eyes on me, steady and thoughtful. “You still are,” he says finally. “You just forgot for a bit.”

His words settle into my chest, heavier than I expect. “What if I can’t get it back?” The question slips out before I can stop it, raw and unfiltered.

Dalton slows, stopping in the middle of the lake. The stillness feels intimate, like the world has paused just for us. “Then you figure out what you want instead,” he says simply. “It’s not about getting it back, Lia. It’s about finding what makes you happy now.”

His honesty catches me off guard, and I look away, the tightness in my throat returning. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“Not really,” he replies quietly. “I get it. The pressure, the expectations... It’s a lot. But you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Something in his voice—a mix of understanding and sincerity—makes me want to believe him. For a moment, I almost do.

By the time we step off the ice, my legs ache, but my chest feels lighter. As I hand Dalton his skates, our fingers brush briefly, and I catch the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“See you around, Lia,” he says, his voice warm and steady.

“Yeah,” I reply, my own smile small but real. “See you.”

As I walk back to my car, my breath visible in the cold air, I glance over my shoulder. The lake glimmers faintly, the stars above mirrored in its surface. For the first time in a long while, I feel like I can breathe.