On the last day of the Christmas holidays, two friends decided to visit the ice rink. The unexpected frost had eased slightly, and though the sun hung low, its bright light promised the approach of warmer days. The hours of daylight were slowly stretching.
Oliver and James weren’t the only ones eager to shed the extra weight gained over the festive season. The rink was crowded, the air crisp, and cheerful music played from the speakers as sunlight glinted off the ice.
Stepping onto the frozen surface, the two young men picked up speed, weaving around the other skaters. Their sharpened blades glided effortlessly over the rough ice. This was their first visit to the rink that winter—first there had been heavy snow, then a long thaw that left the ice soft and puddled. Only after New Year’s had the weather been right.
After warming up with a couple of laps, they began horsing around. James noticed a girl in a white coat and a matching knitted hat with a pom-pom. She clung to the barrier, unsteady on her skates—clearly a beginner.
Her stiff legs wobbled, her ankles twisting awkwardly. If not for her tight grip on the railing, she would have already fallen. James felt a mix of pity and amusement.
He glanced for Oliver, who was chatting with some girls nearby, then skated toward the edge.
“Need a hand? It’s not so hard once you know the basics.”
Before she could reply, her right foot slipped forward, nearly toppling her backward. James caught her just in time.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft as a breeze.
Something about her sent a strange shiver through him, his pulse quickening.
“Don’t worry. You’ll never learn if you don’t let go of the rail. Here—hold onto me instead.” He offered his hand.
“I’m scared,” she admitted with a nervous squeak.
“Ice is slippery—you’ll fall at some point. But I won’t let you go. Come on.”
She gripped his hand but still clutched the barrier with her other.
“That’s it. Now, push off with one foot and glide on the other. Don’t dig in your toes—you’ll trip!” James guided her, holding tight. “There, good. Feet together now. Push with the other…”
She managed a few cautious glides and finally let go of the rail. It wasn’t proper skating yet, but James showered her with praise.
“Brilliant! Bend your knees slightly—now try to glide without stepping.”
Her eyes sparkled, and her laughter sent another strange thrill through him.
She pushed off boldly but forgot to lift her toe and stumbled—James caught her again.
“Steady now. Not so sharp…”
They made slow progress along the rink’s edge.
“That’s enough! My legs feel like lead,” she sighed.
“First-timers always ache the next day. But you did well. Let me walk you to the changing rooms—I’m James, by the way.” He stole glances at her profile—her flushed cheeks, thick lashes, parted lips. Something warm and unfamiliar spread through his chest.
“Charlotte,” she replied.
Her name, her voice—it all made his head spin.
She leaned against him, tired, and he wished this walk could last forever.
In the changing room, she collapsed onto a bench and stretched her legs.
“Give me your ticket—I’ll fetch your things,” James offered, his voice rough.
“My boots are in a bag.” She handed him the token.
“Need help with your skates?”
Her blue eyes flicked up, sending another jolt through him.
“I’ve got it.” She bent to untie the laces.
James stood rooted, unable to look away.
“There you are!” Oliver’s voice broke the spell. “I lost you! How’s it going?”
“Smashing for a first timer,” James grinned. “This is Oliver. And this is Charlotte.”
“Pretty,” Oliver muttered with a wink. “You skating more?”
“Not today. I’m walking Charlotte out.”
“You don’t have to,” she said, pulling on her boots.
“He just doesn’t want to leave you,” Oliver teased.
“True,” James admitted. “Fancy a coffee? Something warm to get your strength back?”
Without her skates, she seemed small, fragile. Her smile sent his pulse racing again.
“Alright,” she agreed.
Oliver chuckled. “You going in those skates?”
James flushed and hurried to change.
They left the park, passing a few houses before entering a quiet café, softly lit with sprigs of holly on the tables. Charlotte winced as she sat.
“Are you hurt?” James asked.
“My leg. Took a tumble earlier.”
He bit back a laugh—she must have landed hard.
“Put some ice on it.”
“I think I already did,” she joked, and they both laughed.
“Give it three days. You’ll need more practice, though. Maybe next weekend?”
She looked even lovelier in the dim light.
“I was meant to go with a friend, but she’s ill…”
They warmed up fast—from the coffee, from the glances, from something new and tender blooming between them.
They met often after that, James teaching her to skate until she no longer needed his hand.
“When do we meet this girl?” his mother asked one evening. “Who is she?”
“She’ll come by Saturday. Don’t fuss—just lunch.”
That Saturday, Charlotte hesitated outside his house.
“What if your parents don’t like me?”
“They’re decent folk. I’m here.” He tugged her forward.
His mother welcomed them warmly, and soon they were at the table. Conversation flowed easily—until Charlotte met his father’s steady gaze.
“Where do you live? Are you studying?” he asked.
“Literature at university. A year and a half left. My mother’s a teacher—she gave me the love for it.”
Something flickered in his father’s expression.
“Teaching too, then?”
“She teaches English in Cambridge. I want to be a writer.”
His father grew quiet the rest of the evening.
“I don’t think he liked me,” Charlotte fretted as James walked her home.
“Quite the opposite—he couldn’t take his eyes off you.” He pulled her close.
At home, his father waited in the kitchen, the door shut.
“We need to talk, son.”
The look on his father’s face filled James with dread. After a pause, his father spoke.
“She looks just like her mother. Coincidences like that are rare. When I was your age, I was sent to Cambridge on business.” He took a breath. “You’re grown—you’ll understand. Her mother was as lovely as your Charlotte. Just out of university, teaching. We met by chance. I lost my head.”
“Don’t tell me some soap opera twist—that she’s my sister,” James cut in sharply. “I love her. That won’t change.”
“Hear me out. I promised to return, but—I was married to your mother, and you were three. I tried to forget her. Never saw her again. Tell me—how old is Charlotte? Her birthday? Does she have a father?”
The questions hit James like a blow. He wanted to roar, to wake from this nightmare.
“Her mother told her he died in a crash when she was two. She’s twenty. Birthday’s the sixth of July.”
“Twenty. You’re twenty-five. More than three years apart. I was in Cambridge that August. I’m not her father.” His shoulders relaxed. “Thank God. But ask her mother’s name.”
“Teresa Collins.” James watched his father closely.
A nod.
“Let’s never speak of this. Not to Charlotte, not to your mother.”
“I’m not a fool. I love her. Her mother will come to the wedding—she’ll recognize you.”
“After twenty-two years? Unlikely. And if she does—so what? She’s sensible. The past stays buried.”
“Right. You had your fun while married with a child,” James bit out. “What if we’d been siblings?”
His father’s gaze hardened. “Life’s long, son. I’ve always loved your mother. But back then… Try not to make my mistakes.”
“Sorry, Dad.”
A pat on the shoulder, and his father left.
James sat there, turning it all over. If Charlotte had been his sister—could he have borne it? Pointless now. The past was dead. But that night, before sleep took him, one thought lingered:
Youth never thinks of the shadows that reckless love casts. But shadows stretch long—and no one knows when the past will rise to shake the future.
James and Charlotte married that summer, a week after her birthday. If her mother recognized his father at the wedding, she gave no sign—avoiding him, never speaking a word alone.
