The team was already on.
Small bodies in oversized gear, jerseys hanging loose, movement just a second behind intention. Passes missed by inches. Stops that slid too far. Determination written into every adjustment.
I set the boxes down along the boards, the scrape of cardboard against rubber pulling a few curious glances from the nearest players.
One of them recognized me first.
A stick faltered mid-pass. A head snapped up. Then another. The shift moved through them fast, quiet but undeniable.
Bobby came into view a second later, cutting across the ice too hard, nearly losing an edge before catching himself. His helmet sat slightly crooked, his jersey too big, his movement still carrying that same stubborn determination I remembered from the street.
He saw me. “You—” he started, pushing off the ice in a rush that didn’t quite translate to control. He skidded toward the boards, catching himself hard enough to rattle them. “What are you doing here?”
I didn’t answer immediately.
I reached down, flipped open the top box, and pulled a pair free—clean, new, blades catching the light in a way that didn’t belong in a place like this.
His gaze locked onto them.
“You’re not playing in those.” I nodded down to the kid’s feet. “Yours are shot.”
The rink noise kept moving around us—whistle, chatter, the scrape of skates—but right there, in that small pocket of space, everything narrowed.
Bobby’s jaw shifted. “Why?” he asked, the word falling close to a whisper.
I shrugged once. Minimal. Dismissive if you didn’t know better. “Because you need them.”
Bobby didn’t take them right away.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
The noise of the rink carried on around us—sharp and chaotic and alive—but right there, in front of me, everything slowed.
“You’re not funny,” he chuckled finally, but there was no bite to it. Just disbelief. “You’re messing with me.”
“I don’t have that kind of time,” I returned, rotating the skates once in my hand before holding it out again. “Take them.”
He stared at me for another second. Then his shoulders dropped—just a fraction.
“They’re… new,” he muttered.
“That’s usually how that works.”
His mouth twitched.
“You’re late,” I added, nodding toward the ice.
That snapped him out of it.
“Yeah—shit—” He looked down at his skates, then back at me, something sharper flashing behind the panic now—urgency, embarrassment, the kind that came from not wanting to waste something you’d been given.
He dropped fast, knees hitting the ice without thinking,fumbling for the laces with gloved hands that weren’t built for precision. The old skates looked worse up close—laces frayed, eyelets stretched, the leather broken down in ways that didn’t hold anymore.
“I got it.” I exhaled through my nose, already moving. Laughing despite myself, I hopped over the boards with my sneakers still on, the rubber edge catching for half a second before I planted cleanly onto the ice.
He didn’t argue. Just stilled, hands hovering uselessly as I dropped in front of him and took over.