…There’s Waterloo’s Andrew Poje all in black, his raven locks slightly blowing behind him as he strides around the oval…
This journalist needs to sit down… her fan girl is showing…
Is Andrew the hero of some gothic romance novel now?
… Actually, I would be okay with that.
YES. This is literally the beginning of a really bad fan fiction…
The cold of the ice rink was biting and harsh. So different from the thick, muggy air of the world outside. Everything seemed so much more serious and unforgiving in here. The open air felt of freedom and endless summers, but this place tasted of disappointment and bitterness.
Would this end the same way as last time, she wondered? She had her dreams snatched from beneath her before and the memories, fear and hidden desperation clenched in her chest.
A thick sheen of dewy wetness clung to the panes surrounding the rink. With a restless hand, she wiped at it, feeling the droplets of icy water run through her fingers.
A view of the rink and its skaters was now revealed. Shadows moving in the murky haze had uncloaked their form.
Then, through the swirling fog, emerged the imposing silhouette of a man. She immediately recognised him to be Waterloo’s Andrew Poje. He was resplendent all in black, his raven locks slightly blowing behind him as he glided powerfully across the ice.
He looked up and he searched through the foggy frame she had cleared in the glass. His dark eyes fixed upon hers. A small smile reached his lips.
Perhaps there is hope, afterall, she thought to herself…
—- What Kaitlyn was thinking when she went to try out with Andrew for the first time, probably..
The first moment he took her hand in his, the world seemed to stop. The other skaters seemed tiny and far away; the voices of their coaches were but distant echoes. All that was, all that mattered, was the man beside her, his majestic figure and his splendid hair. She cared not that she was wearing a pink t-shirt with cupcakes on it, or that her hair was coming loose from its braid. Here, in this damp, isolated world, in its own way like the wild moors of legend, none of that mattered.
All that there was was his strength and power and his rugged good looks.
She was not, she knew, the first girl to bask in his presence this week, and nor would she be the last. But she allowed herself to think, as they swooped across the ice, hand in hand, that maybe, just maybe, she would be his chosen one. That he would see what she saw: a long road ahead of them, full of pain and disappointment and the hope of glory. Together,