On the final day of the Christmas holidays, Oliver and James decided to visit the ice rink. The biting cold had eased slightly, and though the sun hung low in the sky, its bright rays stung their eyes, offering hope that warmer days were on their way. The daylight was slowly stretching longer each afternoon.
They weren’t the only ones hoping to shed the extra pounds gained over the festive season. The rink was crowded, the crisp air invigorating, cheerful music blaring from the speakers lifting everyone’s spirits.
Stepping onto the ice, Oliver and James picked up speed, weaving around the other skaters. Their sharpened blades glided effortlessly over the rough surface. It was their first visit this winter—snow had made the rink impossible to clear, then a thaw left the ice soft and puddled. Only after Boxing Day had they finally managed to get here.
After a couple of laps to warm up, the lads began fooling around. James’s attention was caught by a girl in a white puffer coat and a matching knitted bobble hat. She clung to the barrier, unsteady on her skates—clearly a beginner, probably her first time.
Her stiff legs wobbled, her ankles twisting awkwardly. If not for her death grip on the railing, she’d have fallen ages ago. James felt a flicker of amusement and pity.
He glanced over at Oliver, who was deep in conversation with a group of girls. James skated toward the barrier.
“Want me to teach you? It’s not as hard as it looks. Just need to know a few basics.”
The girl didn’t answer—her right foot slid forward, nearly sending her onto her back. James caught her just in time.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
Her voice sent an odd shiver down his spine, and his pulse quickened.
“Don’t be scared. You’ll never learn if you keep holding onto the railing. Here—take my hand.”
“I’m scared,” she squeaked.
“Ice is slippery. Falling’s part of it. But I won’t let you go. Come on.”
She clutched his hand but kept her other on the barrier.
“Good, that’s it,” James encouraged. “Now push off with one foot and glide on the other. Don’t point your toes—you’ll trip! Yeah, like that. Bring your feet together. Now push with the other…”
She managed a few cautious strides, finally releasing the railing. It wasn’t exactly skating, but James showered her with praise.
“Brilliant! Bend your knees a bit. Now try gliding instead of stepping.”
Her eyes sparkled with delight. A peal of laughter escaped her, and James’s heart lurched.
She pushed off again, forgetting the toe pick—stumbling, she nearly fell before James steadied her.
“Easy there. Not too fast.”
They inched along the edge of the rink.
“That’s it—I can’t do anymore. My legs are shaking,” she pleaded.
“First time’s always rough. You’ll ache tomorrow. But next time’ll be easier. You’re a natural.” He studied her profile. “I’m James.”
Her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly parted—he felt something warm and unfamiliar spread through his chest.
“Charlotte,” she replied.
Her name, sweet as summer air, made his head spin.
She swayed against him, exhausted, her weight leaning into his arm. He wished the walk could last forever—her uneven breath, the faint cloud of condensation from her lips.
At the changing rooms, she collapsed onto a bench.
“Give me your token—I’ll grab your stuff,” James offered, voice rough.
She handed it over. “Boots are in there.”
When he returned, he hesitated. “Need help with the skates?”
Her piercing blue eyes sent a jolt through him.
“I’ve got it,” Charlotte said, bending to untie the laces.
James stood frozen, unable to look away.
“There you are!” Oliver’s voice cut in. “Lost you. How’d it go?”
“Amazing for her first time,” James said brightly. “This is Oliver. And Charlotte.”
“Stunning,” Oliver muttered, nudging James with a wink. “Skating more?”
“Go ahead. I’ll walk Charlotte back.”
“You don’t have to—” she began.
“Oh, he *wants* to,” Oliver laughed.
“I do,” James admitted. “How about coffee? Or hot chocolate? Warm up a bit?”
Off the ice, she seemed tiny, fragile. Her smile sent his heart leaping into his throat.
Oliver smirked. “You’re going like that? In skates?”
Flushing, James scrambled for his shoes.
They left the park, heading to a cosy café—dim lighting, sprigs of holly in vases. As Charlotte sat, she winced.
“Hurt yourself?”
“My leg. Took a spill.”
James nodded. Obvious where she’d landed, but he kept that to himself.
“Ice would help.”
“Pretty sure I’ve had enough of that,” she joked.
“It’ll fade in a few days. But practice helps. Maybe next weekend?”
In the warm glow, she looked even lovelier.
“I was meant to go with a friend, but she’s ill…”
The coffee steamed between them, their gazes just as heated.
They met most evenings after that, James teaching her to skate every weekend.
“When do we meet this girl?” his mother asked one night. “Who is she?”
“Saturday. Don’t fuss—just a normal lunch.”
His mother studied him. “Saturday, then.”
Charlotte fidgeted outside his house that morning.
“What if they don’t like me?”
“They’re decent people. I’ll be right with you.” He tugged her toward the door.
His mother welcomed them warmly. Over tea, Charlotte kept her eyes down—until she met his father’s stare.
“Where do you live? What do you study?”
“English Lit at university. One more year. My mum’s a teacher—got me into books.”
His father paled slightly. “Teaching, then?”
“She teaches in York. I want to be a journalist.”
The man fell silent, brooding the whole evening.
“Your father didn’t like me,” Charlotte fretted as James walked her home.
“Opposite. Couldn’t take his eyes off you. I was jealous.” He pulled her close.
At home, his father waited in the kitchen, door shut.
“Need to talk, son.”
The grim look unsettled James.
“She’s the image of her mother. Too much to be chance.” His father exhaled. “When I was your age, I was sent to York for work. You’re grown—you’ll understand. Her mother… just as kind, just as lovely. We met by chance. I lost my head.”
“Don’t tell me some soap opera twist—that she’s my sister. I love her. That won’t change.”
“Hear me out. I promised to return, but… I was married. You were three. I tried forgetting her. Never saw her again. How old is Charlotte? Birthdate? Father?”
The words hit like a blow. James wanted to roar, deny it all.
“Her mum said he died in a crash when she was two. She’s twenty. July sixth.”
“Twenty. You’re twenty-five. I was there in August. Not her dad.” Relief washed over him. “She lives at uni? Still—ask her mother’s name.”
“Dormitory. Her mum’s Elizabeth Morgan.”
His father nodded. “Forget this. Tell no one—not Charlotte, not your mother.”
“Right. But if we marry, her mum’ll come. She might recognise you.”
“Unlikely. Twenty-two years change a man. Even if she does—so what? She’s smart. Won’t air old secrets.”
“Nice excuse—‘youthful mistake.’ What if she *had* been my sister?” James nearly slammed the table. “How often did you stray?”
His father’s glare silenced him.
“Life’s long, son. I’ve always loved your mother. But back then… I couldn’t help myself. Don’t make my mistakes.”
“Sorry, Dad.”
A pat on the shoulder, then his father left.
James sat for hours, replaying it. *Would I have walked away if she were my sister?*
Pointless now. But the shadows of recklessness stretch far—skeletons in closets, waiting to wreck lives.
They married that summer, a week after her birthday. If Elizabeth recognised James’s father at the wedding, she didn’t show it. She avoided him, never spoke alone.
