As I’m putting my car in reverse to head in the direction of the ice rink, I see my sister come running back out of the front door and down the steps. Her long blonde hair is twisted into a neat bun at the top of her head, and she has a thick black puffer coat on. She’s wearing a pair of tan Uggs and I can see clouds of white forming around her lips as she breathes.

"Scar,” she stops running when she reaches my car and I put it in park so I don’t run her feet over. “Can I please come to the rink with you today? I've been wanting to practice something.”

"No, Hal. Not today. I have to work on my Biellmann spin, I told you that when I picked you up from school," I watch as she blinks away a few tears, and roll my eyes when she turns around and trudges back up the stairs and into the house, slamming the door behind her on the way in.

Until Hallie was born, my parents swore that I was a drama queen, but now that Hallie is older and is far more dramatic than I’ve ever been, I think they realize now that I was just preparing them for her.

On Hallie’s sixth birthday, my parents got Hallie a bunch of Barbie dolls for her and her friends to play with. What my parent’s didn’t realize, though, was that Barbie dolls were no longer the ‘cool’ toy for someone of her age. Bratz dolls were. So, Hallie being Hallie, she popped the heads off of every single doll that she’d gotten, and then when she realized what she’d done, Hallie then proceeded to cry until my dad popped them all back on and straightened out their hair for her. The next day, Hallie did the same exact thing, but this time my dad didn’t put them back on. He said that by him leaving the heads off, he’d be teaching her a lesson of knowing that her actions have consequences. I don’t really think it taught her very much because she’s still a cry baby when she doesn’t get her way.

So anyway, Hallie’s sixth birthday was the day my parent’s realized that I am the easy child. Am I high-maintenance? Yes. Am I dramatic? Of course. But, still, Hallie has me beat.

I’m sure that the little brat probably went inside and burst into tears screaming about how much I hate her, and if that wasn’t enough to make my parents mad at me, she probably then stormed up to her bedroom and slammed that door as well.

Mom and Dad will probably pull the 'we pay for this car, we pay for your private ice sessions, you can take your sister to the rink,' card on me when I get home, but for now I don’t care.

I turn the key in the ignition of my light blue Volkswagen Beetle and listen to Taylor Swift on the six-minute drive to the rink. I’m both relieved and pleased when I get there and find that there are no other cars in the lot.

Although my sessions are private and are paid for well in advance, people, also known as the hockey team, linger around the arena after their sessions are over, or sometimes, even before their sessions are set to begin which I find to be utterly unprofessional.

After a quick five-minute stretch I put my skates on and adjust my light pink leg warmers around the top of them. Since I was younger, I’ve made it a habit to check the time before hitting the ice, and I always make sure to set an alarm for 6:58, which leaves me two minutes to get off of the ice, take my skates off, and ensure that I'm out of the building before 7:00 when the next session is due to start. Now that is being courteous of other people's time and money.

As soon as I hit the ice, I start with a full lap of forward swizzles. The swizzle technique is basic and the first one that I'd learned when I started skating. My mother, an elite figure skater back her in glory days, always tells me to make sure I start with them as they're effortless yet highly effective in warming and stretching out your legs.

I push my feet out to my sides, and they meet back in the middle to form a V-shape. Each time I let my legs go further apart, and I make an effort to stretch my thighs out even more than usual because they're sore from a personal training session I'd taken at my gym last week. After a few laps, I switch to doing backward swizzles, being sure to look over my shoulder to avoid falling.

Once completing a lap of both, I skate to the center of the ice for my final warmup of forward stroking. I push one leg in front of me and raise the other behind me, just slightly off of the ice. My arms are held out to my sides to keep my balance, and I make sure to raise my legs a bit higher with every stroke. When I get to the other side of the ice, I come to a complete stop and smile.

Now is when the fun happens.

I skate over to the edge of the ice and grab the controller for the rink's audio system. When I hear the words pour through the speakers, I begin my routine envisioning myself in the purple, sparkly, figure skating outfit my mother just bought me. My blades feel brand new as I spin thanks to the fresh ice that the Zamboni driver left me today. I’ll have to call Ms. Johnson, the coordinator at the arena, so she can let him know to prepare the ice for me just like this, every week.

I practice my routine six times through, and once I'm finished I look at the giant lit up clock above me that reads 6:40. I'm right on schedule. As usual.

Before I continue, I take a deep breath and mentally prepare myself to practice the one-foot spin that I’ve been putting off for years. If I don’t nail the Bielmann this year, according to my mother, there is absolutely no way that I will be asked to join Boston College’s Figure Skating Team next fall.

Glancing back up to the clock, I wish time would go by faster so that I don’t have to practice this right now, but unfortunately, time is not in my favor right now. The clock above reads only 6:42. Great.

I'm reaching for my foot when I hear a group of guys walk into the arena. They’re early. As usual.

I roll my eyes and attempt to focus on grabbing my right foot that is now up off of the ice completely, I’ve almost got it in my hand when a heavy laugh echoes through the building.

My eyes leave their pinpointed spot on the wall, and I feel my left skate start to give out underneath of me. Crap. Rule number one of doing spins: never lose sight of where you're spotting your turn. I blink, and before I can stop myself, my body is hitting the ice, but at least I managed to cup my hands over my head to avoid a concussion.

When I squint my eyes open, a large shadow is casting over me.

I feel a warm hand touch my shoulder, and a soothing voice takes over my senses.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

I nod my head.

"What is that nod for? Question one? Or question two? Do you want me to call someone for you?" his voice is concerned, and I haven't managed to open my eyes completely to see who the voice belongs too.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t need your help,” I push his arm but he doesn’t move.

When I attempt to sit up white fuzz instantly fills my eyes, and his warm hand is now on the small of my back.

"It's Scarlett right?" he says, and I finally ease my eyes open to see him.

Graham Ryan. Star hockey player. Maplewood, Minnesota legend at the age of eighteen.

I nod in answer his question and force my legs up so I can rest my head in between them. I can already feel a bruise forming on my butt.

"Are you okay?" he asks for the second time. I’m growing increasingly more annoyed every time he speaks.

"Well, I’d certainly be much better if you and your asshole friends let people have their given time during private ice sessions, but other than that I'm just dandy," I can feel the bitterness in my tone as the words roll off my tongue.

"Uh, sorry. We didn't know anyone was in here," he runs a tan hand through his mess of curly brown hair. He’s nervous. Good.

"My car's out front. If there's a car out front, that's probably a pretty clear indication that someone is in here," I roll my eyes and put my hand down on the ice to push myself up.

His warm hand brushes over my arm, and he grabs my bicep lightly.

"Let me help you, please. That was a hard fall," a small apologetic smile forms on his lips as he’s talking, but the rage fuming inside of me makes his smile more annoying than anything so I snatch my arm out of his hand and push myself up without his help. When I stand, the room is spinning, but the amount of anger I'm feeling shortly surpasses any kind of pain that I'm in.

"I don't need your help. I need you and your little posse to stay clear of the rink until 7:00 on the dot. Thanks," I skate off and leave him standing alone in the center of the ice.

Graham Ryan and his ignorant posse owe me ten minutes of private ice time, and I will be sure to let them know of this.

****

When I walk out of the locker room, I attempt to head straight for the door, but I let my eyes flutter over to the three guys practicing. Clearly my fall did nothing to deter their plans for the night.

The young blonde haired kid who was set to defend Graham has no shot against him, and I'm sure he knows it. I can see his antsy feet moving in small strides in anticipation of the incoming force that is Graham Ryan.

I watch as Graham skillfully weaves in and out of bright orange cones. When he gets to the blonde, he fakes the puck right but takes it left instead, leaving the kid with his head and shoulders slumped as he watches Graham weave in and out of more cones before lifting the puck into the upper left-hand corner of the net. The brunette in the goal throws his hands up in anger.

"Are you kidding me? Upper left?" The goalie yells while crossing his arms over his chest in frustration. He shakes his head at himself. "You never go upper left," he huffs.

A smile forms on Graham's face revealing his perfectly straight teeth. A small scar near his mouth becomes more evident when a dimple forms on his cheek. He throws his hands over his head in triumph.

"Goal!" He yells, causing an echo to roar through the building. I shake my head, adjust the duffel bag on my shoulder and walk out of the building still fuming from their lack of respect for other athletes -- and at myself for not mastering the spin.

When I sit down in my car, I feel a shooting pain in my back and wince in pain.

Ice and a heating pad will be my best friends for the next few days.