——

Solace still remembers the first moment he learned to love skating, though in bits and pieces.

He had been young—that he knows—and far too adventurous for his parents’ liking. Then again, they hadn’t liked much about him, anyway.

During those years trapped inside that suffocating house, Solace had been itching for something to do.

Books took too much focus and, quite frankly, bored him out of his mind. He just couldn’t (and still can’t) follow plots—a flaw that’s garnered more than a few disappointing outcomes at parent-teacher conferences.

Drawing took creativity that he did not have. Though, when he did doodle, he was known to draw a few tears (though charmed viewers and vaguely traumatized, maybe-future-court witnesses are so hard to decipher, aren’t they?).

So he couldn’t read and he couldn’t draw; really, what else was there to do?

Solace had been trapped, and he couldn’t see a way out.

Then his friend, Avery, had mentioned something in passing—a sport, he’d said.

Now, sports in general were never Solace’s thing (even now he still grimaces at the thought of countless drills and laps), so he wasn’t all that thrilled at the beginning.

But when questioned further, Avery had said that there was still lots of running involved, technically—and while that may usually be enough to set Solace off, the way his friend’s eyes gleamed when he described the sport made him pause.

Because he had looked alive.

He always did, obviously, but it was different—because living and being alive were.

You can be living when you’re in the worst situation imaginable. You’re only truly alive when you find a way out of that hole, because that’s when you feel the most human—when you’ve been through hell and you’ve finally found your anchor.

And God, had Avery looked alive.

So he let him talk. Let him tell him all about this sport—hockey—and all the advantages that came with it.

“It’s not easy, though,” Avery had murmured when he saw the eager gleam in Solace’s eyes. “Most of the people who tried out last year quit before an official game, just because they couldn’t get it.”

And to that, Solace had only grinned—that mischievous, I’m-about-to-do-something-dumb grin of his—and said, “how do I sign up?”

That was how one eleven-year-old Solace Turner found himself inside a huge skating rink only a week later, his mother’s oh-so encouraging speech still fresh in his mind while the coach lined all the kids up.

Coach Burwin had been a strange man—big, almost intimidating with his height and size alone, yet unexpectedly soft.

A friendly giant, if you will (ha, see what I did there?).

But seriously, he was a good man. Younger Solace didn’t like him as much, but that was only because he made them do drills for so long, and God, if his muscles didn’t burn the next day.

That being said, Coach Burwin was honest—brutally, unapologetically so. If he didn’t like your performance, he straight up said it.

“You don’t get any better if ya don’t know ya own flaws,” he’d said once after a practice. “I’m doing you kids a favor.”

Solace had rolled his eyes and nudged Avery beside him, sharing a small, carefree laugh.

It’s easy to forget those times, just because of how different they feel in comparison—especially since, now, he understands the man perfectly.

He remembers the first words Burwin had said to him:

“Look, kid: ya utter shit at hockey.”

Solace had just gotten out of the locker room, flushed with anger at losing and stomping about with a vengeance.

Everyone had stayed away from him, casting nervous glances over their shoulders when they thought he wasn’t looking.

Burwin had taken one look at his pathetic, immature state, and patted the spot next to him on the bench with a sigh.

And geez, had little Solace been furious at that. He remembers throwing a huge fit—one that used to feel validated but now only brought a flush to his cheeks.

But Burwin had only listened to him with a weary look in his soft, somehow still stern eyes. He hadn’t stopped him, hadn’t told him to shut up because his teammates were just outside the door.

And because he was young and already so mad with so many things that weren’t in his control, he only got angrier.

The silence between his shouts felt too loud and quiet all at once, like both an invitation to keep going, but a promise to be judged.

He’d learned over the years to fear silence, because silence meant being ignored and shut out. Unimportant, naive Solace Turner; never interesting enough to listen to.

So he’d gone on and said something dumb—something he knew, even then, was a bit too far.

“I hate you—I hate you and this dumb game! Skating sucks, it sucks, it sucks!”

And that—that was what broke Coach Burwin.

“Ya don’t even know what skating is,” he’d snorted, but there was something in his gaze that hardened.

“Of course I do!” Solace had screamed, “I’ve only been doing it all bloody week, haven’t I?!”

And at that, Burwin looked up at him with anger. Not impatience—genuine anger.

“Ya call that skating, boy? Ya’ve barely even moved.”

“Are you kidding?” Solace scoffed, taking a step closer to his coach with his tiny fists balled up. “I’ve spent hours trying to get it right!”

“And you’ve spent them doing nothin’—nothin’ but wobblin’ and fearin.’ You do that a lot, kid—you think I’v’nt noticed? You fear the ice, and ya let that control you.”

Solace had been stunned into silence, then.

Because even then, he knew the man was right.

Solace hadn’t been good at hockey—not one bit. Whether because he lacked talent didn’t matter, because he knew what his most important issues were already: his fear.

His pride.

His vulnerability.

Hockey came into close contact with all three. Fear of losing and being rejected, fear of being seen as less than, and terrified of seeming weak.

He had been so caught up with fear that he didn’t see any joy beneath it all, and apparently, it was obvious.

Burwin sighed.

“Look, kid. Come down after school, and I’ll show ya what skating really is.”

Solace hadn’t known then how important this moment was. It felt like a chore—another adult telling him what to do like they had any right.

After school the next day, he had begrudgingly dragged himself to the rink. He hadn’t told his parents about it (they would’ve forgotten once they got their hands on a drink, anyway), but he was sure it’d be fine.

He met Burwin in the lobby, the man giving him a tight smile while Solace only shrank further into himself.

“C’mon, don’t look like that. I’m ‘boutta change ya life, boy.”

“Yeah, for the worse,” Solace muttered, rolling his eyes.

Burwin hadn’t even winced—just threw his head back and laughed.

“Alright kid, go get ya skates and meet me out ‘ere.”

A few minutes later, Solace found himself overlooking the ice with his huge, frightening, and honestly annoying coach.

The smooth surface gleamed and shined under the artificial light above, millions of different lines etched into the ice.

Solace stared at it, transfixed.

“Now, I want ya to try to walk. You can do that, can’t ya? No runnin’, just one foot in front of the other—slowly.”

He nodded, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth.

He willed his body to move, to walk just as Burwin had ordered.

But he couldn’t.

His eyes were stuck on the rink, and there was a certain dread climbing up his stomach.

His fingers kept twitching at his sides, begging to unlace those crappy skates, throw them into a dumpster, and be done with skating as a whole.

That little spiral was cut to an end quickly by Coach Burwin, though.

He placed one big hand on his shoulder and looked down at him with something almost akin to fondness.

“It’s normal to feel a bit afraid,” he shrugged. “‘M not expectin’ ya not to be. But the only way to get past fear is to show yourself there ain’t nothing to be fearful of. So,” he gestured to the rink, “take a step, kid. Then keep goin’.”

Solace looked up at him for a long second.

Neither moved or talked, just sat in the moment of silence.

Finally, Solace stepped onto the ice.

…and instantly fell.

He grabbed onto the railing just in time, his knees buckling beneath him.

“This isn’t fun!” he yelled, looking down at the ice like it posed a real threat. His hands gripped the railing so hard his knuckles turned white.

Burwin snorted behind him.

“Didn’t think it would be, did ya?” he said, sounding amused. “Ya just started. You ain’t gonna get it in the first try, probably not ‘til the twentieth. Ain’t nobody expect ya to, though.”

Solace groaned and threw his head back, staring up at the high ceiling.

“This is awful!” he whined, sounding every bit the petulant child he was. “How does anyone enjoy this?”

“Alright, cut it out. I want ya to let go of that railin’, now.”

Solace looked back at him like he was insane (and, okay, fair).

“I’ll die!” he screeched, sounding like an angered squirrel. “Do you want me to die on your rink, Coach? Because I will, and it’ll be bloody, and I won’t apologize when I’m six feet in the grave and you’re still here, wiping up my brains!”

“Think you’d be the only one, do ya?”

Solace startled, a strange mix between a gargle and a gasp coming up his throat. In his surprise his grip on the railing slackened, and with flailing limbs he collapsed.

“Ouch!” he whined, “I hope you smell my corpse for years!”

It took several more attempts to actually be able to stand without the railing after that.

Burwin had been patient, but it’d been clear that his patience was waning thin.

By the end of the second hour, he was snappy and irritated—which Solace (because of course) immediately took as criticism and judgement.

But when he could stand?

The pride was unmatched.

Honestly, Solace doesn’t think there’s a moment quite like when you finally succeed at something crucial—something you don’t know you’ll love, but that you can feel in your soul is important.

And he had felt it.

“Good,” Burwin nodded, and Solace doesn’t think he imagined the relief on his coach’s face.

“Now, skate.”

Solace looked down at his feet, his lower lip caught in his teeth.

Then, slowly, he did.

He pressed forward on his right foot, his left trailing behind. Then he dug his right heel into the ice just a bit, brought his other foot up, and—

And he glided.

And suddenly—every thought was gone.

His feet kept moving, but his mind was empty.

Without realizing it, he’d been looking towards the stands—to the same spot where his parents were earlier.

He looked up to that spot then, and thought: you watching now?

In his imagination, they would be cheering and clapping, leaning over to scream into people’s ears— “that’s my son!”

In his heart, he knew there would be no such things.

But he hoped.

He acknowledged his desires—looked at them and knew them for what they were.

And he let them all go, because they didn’t matter anymore.

Solace, for once in eleven years, didn’t have his parents on his mind for another hour.

For once, he wasn’t wobblin’ and fearin’ anymore.

For once, he was alive.

*THE END!!!!!

Woah.

Okay, that was a lot of work, lol. I know it’s not perfect, but like, it’s done??? Yay??? 😅

(Oh, and hey, I finished this at 2am and it was like 7 when I started, so if there’s like a pacing issue, that’s probably where I took my break and the tone went off a bit??)

This may or may not turn into a series—I haven’t decided yet. I feel like there’s so much I can do with this storyline, but at the same time, I don’t know ANYTHING about hockey. Like, at all.

I don’t even know why I chose to write about a story so focused on a sport, especially this one???

I guess it just came to my mind and I was like, “oh yeah, it makes absolute sense to write a series about a dude playing hockey when I am *neither* a dude, nor a hockey player!”

Okay, I feel like this should be mentioned, too: Burwin’s accent. I honestly have no idea what it’s supposed to be? I had an idea of a hockey coach, and he just sounded like he had some sort of dialect to me—so I wrote it. If it’s blarringly wrong… feel free to laugh at me, cause I probably deserve it 🥲

That being said, I’m sorry for it being so long. Idk if long stories are popular on this platform, but I guess we’ll see! I usually post super long, detailed stories, and I wouldn’t expect a sudden change in that regard anytime soon.

Speaking of which—this is, what, my fourth story that I’ve shared?? Goodness 😅 this is scary… why is it so scary, guys???

BTW, I’ve been on this platform quite a bit in my free time—both writing my own work and reading others’—and I’ve noticed something:

You guys are so nice. Like, sooo nice.

It seems like there’s always positivity in the comments, and I don’t think I’ve seen a single negative one so far.

I get the impression that the people here are very supportive and kind, so thank you all (and the Daily Prompt creators) for making this such a lovely platform to post on.

I’m still new, so I don’t know everything, but from what I’ve seen, it’s pretty great.

Okay… I think that’s it!!! I really, really hoped you enjoyed this, and if you’ve stayed all the way to this ramble, you’re amazing!! Like, genuinely—I love you sm!

(P.S., daily reminder to take care of yourself! Go get yourself some water and have a relaxing day. Buy yourself a treat. Tell that annoying old lady down the street that she smells like expired yogurt. Hell, get a foot massage!! You deserve it, darling.)

XXX*