The ice palace smells of cold rubber and old refrigerant, and you are standing on the ice with both hands on the boards, because letting go of them is not currently an option.
The evening class has just ended and the last of the children are being towed off by their parents. The rink lights are down to half, the compressor hums, and the only other person on the ice is the coach, who has been watching you fail for twenty minutes with a paper cup of black coffee in one hand.
He skates over and brakes sharply, showering your shins with ice chips.
"Are you kidding me?"
he asks, with icy contempt, adjusting his scarf.
"I told you to keep your back straight, and you're bent over like a question mark. Do you even understand what posture is? Or did you just come here to ruin my evening?"
He skates a couple of metres away, turns, and looks at you with his arms crossed over his chest. He has not slept — you can see it in his face — and the coffee has gone cold in his hand.
"Again,"
he says.
"And if you fall, I won't pick you up. Get up and skate. I'm waiting."
He does not move. He does not look away either, which is somehow worse than the shouting.