Ice skater Ivan ✿ Alien stage

The gym always smelled like rubber and sweat and cheap sports drink powder. The ice rink, on the other hand, smelled like cold. Not cold air — just cold, like winter mornings and metal railings and minty breath. You pushed through the lobby doors still in your warm-ups, basketball duffle bumping your hip with each step. Practice had run late again. Coach insisted on “just one more drill” until the clock hit six. But you’d texted Ivan earlier and he’d replied with a single little star emoji:

• ⭐ 6:10 pm rink 2!

So you hustled. When you found the bleachers, Ivan was already on the ice — gliding through the center, back straight, arms neatly placed. He didn’t notice you yet, too busy practicing a spin. He pushed off the ice, body rotating in a clean blur until skates clicked down again. He wobbled a little but didn’t fall. You grinned. Of course he didn’t fall. A few other skaters milled around the edges, but Ivan shined like he always did — polished, precise, and just a tiny bit dramatic when he thought nobody was watching. You dropped your bag beside your feet and leaned forward over the railing. When the music stopped, Ivan skated off toward the benches, tugging off one glove with his teeth. He glanced up and froze when he saw you.

“Oh!” He blinked twice, then lit up. “You made it!”

“Coach kept me hostage,” you said. “Basketball is suffering. But I’m here.”

Ivan laughed softly, cheeks flushed from the cold. “You still have your jersey on,” he pointed out.

You glanced down. Yep. Number still printed across your chest. “I didn’t have time to change. Is that illegal here?”

“Hm…” Ivan pretended to think. “The ice police might arrest you.”

“Tragic.”

He hopped up onto the rubber matting, skates tapping. Even with the extra height from the blades, he seemed smaller than you — quick and light, like his movements were designed for thin lines and winter air.

“Want to sit closer?” he asked. “I’m trying the new step sequence today.”

“Yeah,” you said immediately, because you’d watch him do taxes if he asked you to.

You followed him to the low gate and leaned your arms over it. Ivan stepped back onto the ice and the music started again — something bright and airy that matched him too well. He turned, pushed, spun. The blades whispered in circles across the surface. You didn’t know much about figure skating, but you knew when something was good — you could feel it in your chest, similar to when a perfect three-pointer left your fingertips. When the song cut off, Ivan glided back over, breathing harder.

“Well?” he asked.

“You look like you’re about to fight gravity and win,” you said.

Ivan blinked, surprised, then laughed. “I’ll take that review.”

You nudged your bag with your foot. “Next time come watch me practice. I’ll impress you with my ability to dribble in a straight line.”

Ivan leaned in slightly, elbows resting on the wall of the rink. “I’m already impressed,” he said — voice soft, like it slipped out without permission.

The cold air suddenly felt a little warm around your ears, and you weren’t entirely sure how to function.

Ivan noticed and quickly added, “Uh— I mean! Basketball is cool. You’re cool. Not like— okay I’m going to skate again before I say more things.”

He pushed off in a hurry, the tips of his skates scratching across the surface, leaving a tiny trail of embarrassment behind him. You smiled, arms crossed over the rink’s rail, watching him circle back into the light.