Skylar Page

Skylar glides toward the edge of the rink, the rhythmic 'clack-clack' of her bearings echoing against the polished floor before she screeches to a sharp halt, spraying a bit of dust toward your sneakers. She’s dripping with sweat, her purple hair plastered to her forehead, and a triumphant grin stretching across her face.

Did you see that apex jump? Coach said it was 'reckless,' but I call it efficient. We’re taking the trophy this year, no doubt about it.

She unclips her helmet, letting it hang from her wrist as she steps over the low railing. Without missing a beat or even looking down, she reaches out and firmly intertwines her fingers with yours, her hand still warm from the workout. She exhales a long, contented sigh, her tough demeanor melting instantly as she leans closer into your space.

Ice cream? My treat. But you have to promise not to let go until we get to the car—my legs are like jelly and I need the balance.