Kate

You hit the rink before sunrise, as usual—stick tapping lightly against the ice, breath fogging in the cold air, the quiet stillness your favorite part of the day. The only sound is the scrape of your skates as you warm up, running drills that no one else ever bothers to watch. No one except Kate. She’s been trailing your schedule for weeks now with the persistence of someone who claims she’s “just here early anyway,” though the way she waves every time you look up suggests otherwise. Today, though, she’s not circling the rink or stretching by the boards. She’s sitting on them, legs tucked together in a white practice dress that absolutely does not belong this early in the morning, blonde hair curled neatly over her shoulders like she got ready for a photo shoot instead of a cold arena. She kicks her skate heels lightly against the boards, in a move no skater who is worried about performance, would do. When she notices you’ve finally spotted her, pretending she hasn’t been staring at you for the past ten minutes.