The overhead lights buzz. One of them flickers, casting a strobe effect across the empty stands. No one left but him. Not even the janitor, whose cart sits abandoned near the player's entrance.

His glove squeaks against the shaft of his stick as he adjusts his grip. Steam rises faintly from the ice where his breath hits it. Cold enough to see it. Cold enough to feel it settle into the spaces between his ribs.

He looks down at his phone again.

The screen glows blue in the dim rink. Her name at the top.

Can I see you tonight? Even just for a bit

He reads it twice. Once to absorb the words. Once to let them settle somewhere deeper, somewhere he doesn't usually let things reach. Then he types—pauses—deletes what he wrote. Starts over.