After the final lesson, I step outside, buttoning my jacket as I walk. I make my way around the unassuming brick building, worn and tagged in places, and follow the cracked concrete path that winds around the football field. At the far end, I spot Tanner leaning against the fence, smoking alone. Catching sight of me, he takes one final drag before tossing the cigarette away. "Let's go," he says, pushing the metal sheet of the fence aside without waiting for a response.

"I have practice," I remind him, but he probably doesn't care.

He shoots me a look. "Come on, Leighton! Are you still in this track'n'field shit?"

I don't answer him. But yeah. And I kinda like running...

"And what's the point anyway?" he continues. "I offer you the same shit - only more fun." Tanner bares his teeth and turns away, expecting me to follow. Without further argument, I do.

On the other side of the fence, in a narrow passage, a pair of bats lean against the wall. Tanner hands one to me, and I tuck it into my backpack. I doubt I'll use it, but, again, arguing with Tanner seems pointless.

The rain has stopped, but the air is damp and cold, clinging to my skin. I button my jacket up to my throat, but it doesn't seem to help much. It's only when Tanner and I board a bus that my hands start to warm up. After a few stops, we disembark. I still don't know our destination, but I have a pretty good guess. There aren't many places to go around here.

Tanner finally stops in front of an indoor skating rink and outlines his plan for the evening. It's nothing new, and its predictability is neither comforting nor reassuring. I nod briefly at Tanner's words, and we head inside.

This rink sure has seen better days. Once-vibrant murals on the walls faded. The air is thick with the scent of worn-out leather and cold metal. The lighting is subdued, with flickering fluorescent bulbs creating pockets of brightness and shadow. The sound system, an ancient relic from the '00s, crackles occasionally, playing a mix of classic hits that became the rink's unofficial soundtrack. The dull hum of the ice-resurfacing machine provides an intermittent rhythm. The ice itself is more like a patchwork quilt. Some sections are almost worn down to the underlying concrete, while others retain the crunchiness of ice that wasn't skated on for a while. The ice rink's boards are marked with nicks and dings from hockey games. A little further, the snack bar in the corner offers lukewarm cocoa and pre-packaged snacks.

Despite its worn appearance, this place is popular. People skate around, some showing off their skills while others fall. The air is filled with laughter and the rhythmic sound of blades scraping against the ice. I listen to the sounds around me as I lace up my skates. Once done, I scan the rink until I spot a group of guys and girls on the opposite side. "The idiot in the striped sweater," I recall Tanner's description and search the group until I find the guy. I push myself up off the bench and wobble towards the ice. Ice skating is not my forte. I can run, jump and even hurdle, but gliding on thin blades is just not my thing.

Taking a deep breath, I step onto the ice. My weight shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other, the blades feeling foreign and unwieldy beneath me. It takes some time for my hesitant shuffling to evolve into a more controlled glide. I make a few circles around the rink, alternating between moving closer to and farther away from the group.

From his position near the far entrance, Tanner frowns and raises his eyebrows at me, signaling that it's time to start our little performance. I focus my gaze on the guy in the striped sweater. He's holding hands with a girl, engrossed in conversation. Tanner said that guy hit on Tricia and got all handsy. But honestly, Tanner would spin whatever legend to get to someone. So it could be true, or maybe Tanner was pissed because of the odd number of stripes on the guy's sweater. And it doesn't really matter.

I nod to Tanner and edge closer to the group. With one rather ungraceful turn, I bump into them, causing a chaotic tangle of limbs.

"What the hell, man?" one of the guys exclaims as I free myself.

"Yeah, watch where you're going!" another adds, his voice filled with hostility.

"Or what?" I stand up, locking eyes with the guy in the striped sweater. He hesitates, his girlfriend glancing warily between us. "Or what?" I press.

One of his friends shoves me in the shoulder. "Piss off, dickweed."

I don't need to react as Tanner lunges at them, creating another outburst of chaos. The girl quickly moves away. Tanner's target ends up flattened on the ice. Tanner glides closer, laughing and spraying his face with ice crumbles from under his blades. The tension mounts. The guy who shoved me rushes towards Tanner, while another approaches me. I manage to trip him, sending him skidding toward the onlookers, who watch the scene in stunned silence.

Tanner clocks the other guy and grabs his main entertainment by the blade, never letting him get up. He drags him around the ice, cackling, "I knew you had a knack for figure skating. Come on, show me your moves!"

The guy's fury, though fueled by humiliation, is futile. He swears and curses to Tanner's undeterred delight. I keep an eye on the surroundings; no one is skating anymore. Everyone stands at a distance along the sides, watching the scene. But no one steps in to help the guys, no one tells Tanner to stop. One of the guy's friends makes another attempt to intervene, but Tanner punches him squarely in the face, sending him sprawling to the ice.

Suddenly, my head snaps sharply from the impact. I barely have time to turn back before I receive another blow - again on my unlucky cheekbone... from the same Wiggins. When did he get here?

Meanwhile, the guy's second friend attacks Tanner, forcing him to release his grip. They grapple, resembling two bad hockey players. But I can't focus on that because Wiggins is already winding up for another punch. Leaning back, I lose my balance and tumble onto the ice. I try to scramble up, but Wiggins knees me. In desperation, I grab his leg, causing him to topple as well.

The next moment was too short for me to realize what had happened. A flash of pain tints everything red, followed by a collective gasp.

The ice bites into my cheek with its coldness, yet it also soothes my throbbing cheekbone. I don't know where Tanner or Wiggins is, but Wiggins doesn't try to finish me off. Given all the red around, maybe he already did.

Struggling, I sit up and drag my hand down my face; my palm comes away red, and the ice is stained with the same color.

Tanner's face materializes in front of me as he crouches down beside me. He studies my face, then wordlessly helps me to my feet. I taste metal on my tongue all the way to the hospital.