Wax

Fire on Ice (1/2)

*

Vanilla Julian White was a figure skater with an ass. That much, Leroy Cox knew.

He'd first witnessed its blessed existence on a scorched midsummer evening, where the college's skating arena was his refuge for long afternoons and accumulated assignments that had to be completed within a week. As Rivendell University's star ice hockey player and the team's co-captain, candles-for-eyes had unrestricted access to the rink and the rest of the arena, including the rest area and locker room located in the same building. To sum it up, he'd one day chanced upon the figure-skating team in the locker room after their hours and a certain snowy male with the letters 'V.J. White' labeled neatly on his locker had, in perfect timing, slipped his pants off just as Leroy passed from behind and behold—a national treasure.

He'd stared at it for a good two seconds before completely forgetting whatever the fuck he was doing and leaving the arena with the image in his head, rent-free.

In the poor idiot's defense, the college's ice hockey and figure skating team lived entirely separate lives and schedules despite sharing a skating rink for weekly practice sessions. Figure skaters had the rink on Mondays and Thursdays while the hockey boys had Tuesdays and Fridays. Weekend sessions were optional and had the teams coming in at separate timings too, thus giving the athletes absolutely no reason to bump into one another.

That said, there remained the general stereotype about interactions between figure skaters and ice hockey players. The former, masters of grace and art, and the latter, a bunch of brutes (gender-neutral) who liked seeing blood bounce on ice—either they'd never see eye to eye, or they'd be openly checking out the other party.

Though stuff like that was never really part of Leroy's give-a-fuck circle, which, by now you should know, was extremely limited and exclusive in his realm of things, he couldn't help but question the latter stereotype after his encounter with the school's prized figure skater.

He was everywhere, Mr. White was. State champion; national team; the winter Olympics. All whilst maintaining a stellar GPA of 3.96, or so the school's morning news loved to emphasize. There were posters of him in every hallway possible, showcasing the same graceful shot of him mid-jump—a triple overhead lutz—eyes closed for some reason. It looked like peace on ice.

Mr. Idiot on the other hand, could never. It was the puck the puck the puck, bam, the puck the puck, boom, the puck the puck, score. He was used to the tough and rough; after all, his father had been the school's star coach since the very beginning of time and ice hockey had been, pretty much, his entire life. It was routine. And routine had, with time, become dull. Mundane. Boring.

The time was nine in the evening and Leroy was venting in the rink after practice. He'd do this every now and then at then of the day after the rest of the team had left the arena and had the silence of the cold to himself—breathing in the chill of the rink and feeling the bonfire within reduce to a singular flame.

He'd do hockey stops from top to bottom, crossing the distance at record speeds and coming to an instant halt, spraying frost flakes in every direction possible and quite frankly messing up the rink like the rude bastard he was. After all, he knew at the back of his head that maintenance would turn up the next morning to ready the rink for the figure skaters. And so, he had no issue destroying the surface...

"Good evening."

The clear, calm voice of the additional presence sounded to Leroy like icicles in the wind. A soft clinking; echoing in a snowy cave. Clarity on a level he never thought possible.