Chapter 3 EPISODE 3

The following day broke bright and clear, with sunshine slicing through Seoul's frozen streets, causing the snow to glitter like diamond dust. Pyo welcomed me with a smile at the metro station, his breath obscuring the air. In stark contrast to the butterflies in my gut, he appeared vivacious and positive. As we started the short walk to the hockey rink, I tightened my hold on my bag strap.

A building with a curving roof that looked like a huge wave that was about to crash loomed front of us. The thumping in my chest grew stronger as we approached. The air around the stadium had a distinct bite, a cold that wasn't simply caused by the weather; it was also infused with nostalgia, a smell of ice and adrenaline that simultaneously brought back a hundred memories.

Pyo nudged me with his elbow as if he could sense the faint sway in my gait. His eyes were searching me for weaknesses, yet his voice was casual as he inquired, "You good?"

I mustered a grin and swallowed hard. "I think so. Just... strange being back, you know?"

Despite the fact that his experiences differed from mine, he nodded knowingly. "You'll be fine. It's just another story, right?"

But not to me, it wasn't. It wasn't just any old hockey arena. It was a specter of my former self as a skater, a person who previously felt unstoppable when gliding across a surface that now made me feel afraid. I came here to confront the ruins of my own life, not only to cover Choi San's.

The familiar coolness of an arena enveloped me like an old, torn cloak as we entered through the enormous glass doors. Deeper within, the faint sound of blades cutting into ice mixed with the occasional coach's yelled commands. I shuddered because of the need that awoke within of me as much as the cold. Since I hadn't been close to a rink in years, the burden of all I had left behind weighed heavily on me now.

Leading the way to the administrative offices was Pyo, who was always the professional. The sound of our footsteps clicking on the tiled floor filled the quiet hallways. When we got to Coach Kim's office, the walls were covered in glossy pictures of the team's biggest triumphs, with players raising trophies, celebrating wins, and immortalized in their moments of glory. The rink's glaring sheen drew me in and teased the boundaries of my resolve as my gaze lingered on the ice in those photos.

Coach Kim gave us a stern handshake and a piercing, evaluative look. He was a leader in every way-the type of man whose presence dominated a room even when he wasn't talking. He motioned for us to sit, and as we settled into his chair, he leaned back.

"So," he said in a firm, commanding tone. "You're here to learn about San. What exactly do you want to know?"

The tension in the room was reduced by Pyo's confidence as he leaped in first. "We're looking for insight into San's journey as a player-how he's developed under your mentorship, what sets him apart from others on the team."

Coach Kim gave a nod, his expression softening a bit as he thought about the query. "San's been with us for five years now. When he joined, he was all raw talent, unpolished but relentless. Over time, he's turned into one of the most dynamic players I've ever coached. He's got speed, agility, and a sense for the game that's almost instinctual. You can't teach what San has-it's innate."

I frantically scrawled in my notepad, attempting to get down every word. As the coach talked, I began to visualize San: a guy who transformed the rink's pandemonium into his playground, with fire in his veins and precise motions.

Coach Kim went on, "But it's not just his skill," "San has a way of commanding attention. His confidence on the ice-hell, even off it-it's magnetic. He's got a knack for making the impossible look easy, and the fans eat it up. But what I respect most about him is his work ethic. People see the flash, but they don't see the hours he puts in after practice, perfecting every detail."

Intrigued, I looked up from my notes. "How is he with his teammates? Does that confidence ever clash with the rest of the group?"

Coach Kim gave a headshake. "San knows how to walk the line. He's confident, yes, but he's not selfish. He plays to win, and he knows that means making the team stronger. He pushes everyone around him to step up their game. Sure, he's got an ego-what star player doesn't? But it's earned. He knows when to lead and when to step back."

Pyo leaned closer, his curious eyes brightening. "And off the ice? What's he like around the rink when he's not playing?"

A little smile twitched Coach Kim's lips. "Off the ice, he's a mix of things. A joker, for sure-always the one lightening the mood in the locker room. But there's also a seriousness to him. He knows when to have fun, but when it's time to focus, he's all in. I think that balance is part of what makes him so successful."

I was lost in thought while Coach Kim said. My thoughts drifted to the noises coming from the rink: the puck bouncing off the boards, the scrape of skates, and the crisp, sharp voices of players calling moves. A peculiar mix of need and horror made my stomach clench. I was on the outside looking in, and this was the world I had left behind.

My distraction appeared to be noticed by Coach Kim. "Would you like to see him in action? Practice is wrapping up, but there's still some time."

Pyo seized the opportunity. "That'd be great. Thanks, Coach."

I paused, my heart pounding at the idea of being so near the ice once more. However, Pyo was already up and gesturing for me to follow before I could express my doubt.

The arena opened out in front of us, and as we stepped inside, the chilly air pricked my cheeks. Under the brilliant lights, the ice glistened as players glided across it with ease. My gaze instantly landed on San. He stood out even in the midst of the drill mayhem. His presence was imposing, and his motions were precise and fluid. With ease, he swerved past opponents as he sped across the ice, using his stick to manipulate the puck like it was an extension of his body.

As I watched him, the need I had suppressed for years came to the surface, and my heart tightened. I had previously danced on this stage, felt alive in a manner I hadn't since, and this was the ice I knew. It was now the property of someone else, who appeared to represent all I had lost.

Coach Kim's words cut through my thoughts and brought me back to the here and now. "Remarkable, isn't he?"

I swallowed the knot in my throat and nodded. "Yeah," I said. As I watched San rule the rink, I couldn't help but think, "He's... incredible." I wondered if this was fate pushing me to tell San's tale and face my own.

With his eyes firmly on the rink, observing his players complete their drills, he added nonchalantly, "What made you get into journalism after ice skating?"

The words sliced like a dagger through my mind, causing my breath to catch and me to freeze. With my heart thumping in my chest like the ice itself had broken underfoot, I whipped my head in his direction.

I said, "Excuse me-" but my voice was muffled by the distant noises of sticks hitting the puck and skates scrapping the surface.

Coach Kim lifted one eyebrow curiously as he turned his head slightly to look at me. The inquiry seemed casual, as if it were a natural part of the conversation, and he wasn't being invasive. However, it seemed as though he had discovered a long-kept secret that I was not ready to face, least of all in this situation.

As if to deflect the stress, Pyo turned to observe the coach after noticing a change in the atmosphere. He pretended to be interested in the rink by crossing his arms. Pyo said, "San's quick on his feet today," in a purposefully light tone. However, I sensed his eyes flitting in my direction, as if to inquire discreetly for my well-being.

I forced myself to breathe through the knot that was tightening in my chest and swallowed hard. I stumbled, searching for the correct words, "I-um..." "It's complicated."

Coach Kim didn't press, but his eyes stayed on me, pensive, as if he knew more than I did. "Most skaters I've known who left the ice still keep close to it, in one way or another. Coaching, choreography, sometimes broadcasting. But journalism... that's a different path."

The weight of his scrutiny made the air feel colder, and I felt as though I was being examined closely. I tried to deflect by forcing a feeble grin. "It's still storytelling, in a way. I just traded one form for another."

Coach Kim gave a nod, his face inscrutable. "Fair enough. But I've seen skaters like you-ones who leave but still carry the ice with them. You'll find your way back to it, one way or another."

I glanced aside, seeming to concentrate on the players, but the words were like a kick to the belly. My gaze returned to San, whose confident and authoritative motions stood in sharp contrast to the chaos screaming within me. My identity, my haven, had been the ice. And now that I was standing here, I felt alienated and unwelcome.