The Rink (BXB) (COMPLETE~ UNDER EDITING)

🩶Deal🩶

Hello everyone!

Warning: Chapter contains a severe panic attack and brief mention of a homophobic slur. Read with caution. Start and end of panic attack are marked with "⚠️⚠️⚠️". Stay safe and ily<3

🌼-🌼-🌼-🌼-🌼-🌼-🌼-🌼-🌼-🌼-🌼

I anxiously played with my hands underneath the shiny hickory brown desk, below Coach's sight. My eyes scanned the room, glancing around the crimson-red walls. The small clock above the shelves -which matched the wood of the desk- behind Coach occasionally ticked, the dreadful sound weighing heavy against my eardrums. It smelled of coffee and somewhat rusty medals, which were hung up messily on one of the walls. The shelves held up trophies from various games and sports, the most precious one safely displayed underneath a glass case. Envy struck through my brain as I inspected the beautiful silver trophy, which resembled a figure skater in all her glory.

Rummaging through his drawers, a stream of curses escaped under Coach's breath when he hit his head against the desktop. He grumbled as he straightened up, using two fingers to slide a piece of paper in my direction.

He cleared his throat, holding up a finger so as to say something. "Italian boy," he began, "you know you're one of my best skaters, you know that."

I slowly nodded, my eyes switching between making eye contact and briefly overviewing the paper in front of me. My hands glided over the corduroy armrests of the chair I was seated on, its army green color contrasting the red walls.

Coach took a sip of his coffee before he sharply inhaled through his nose, scratching his fading mustache. "Well, a few weeks from now, there's a new performance night hosted here, at the rink."

Oh no.

I awkwardly cleared my throat, trying to stop the insufferable flashbacks from flooding my mind. It didn't work well. "O-oh," was all I could say, my voice croaky.

He nodded eagerly, seemingly completely unaware of previous events, even though he had been there. "So, I have drawn out a rough routine for you, we can polish it as we go, hm?"

My lips parted, but no words came out. I could feel the anxiety shoot through my veins, gushing up and down until I felt nauseous. My hands gripped onto the armrests of the chair, my nails digging into the ribbed fabric. Shaking, my leg almost hit the desk as I tried to stop my breathing from hitching. I just nodded with a tight-lipped smile.

Coach leaned across the desk to clap my shoulder with a satisfied smile on his face. "That's my boy, proud'a you. I won't be of much help during practice I'm afraid, upcoming football game, you know the drill. I'm sure you'll manage, though. Perhaps you can find someone to train with? And of course, don't be afraid to ask me if you have any questions. M'kay?"

I swallowed thickly, my throat too tight to speak. I found myself nodding again, a mere hum rolling past my lips. Coach just smiled again, eyeing the door as he scribbled something onto the paper before patting the table. I took the paper and as I got up, my body almost refused to let me walk away, muscles tensing severely.

-------
"...and so that's why cotton is most definitely way more useful than nylon. Fight me about it bitch!"

"Okay, but what about the cheaper industry? Nylon is often much cheaper, therefore much more useful for them."