At first, there was blue.

Cold, taut blue — stitched into our jerseys that smelled of sweat, wax, and ambition. It clung to the rink like fumes, familiar, almost sacred. For a fleeting heartbeat, it felt safe.

Then the voice cut through the silence.

Where’s that beast, Mathers?

Beast. The word lodged in my chest. The red seeped in, curling like smoke around my ribs — anger, shame, terror. My throat tasted of dry metal.

I looked down. My fist tightened around the stick, knuckles white, veins straining. I didn’t know if I held it because it was mine, or because the world offered nothing else to grasp. The ice beneath me shimmered, fragile, glass-thin, biting at my gliders.

And then the reel of memory began to turn.

Dad rapping on the door. Heavy steps dragging shadows across the carpet that smelled of bleach and fear. Shouts ricocheting off walls that had never learned to breathe. Collapsed on the couch, a bottle leaking sweat into the fibers. Palms striking — first Mom, then me. The sound sharp and hollow in the house’s cold throat. Always home. Always behind closed doors meant to protect, but that failed.

The reel jumped. Static swallowed the air.

Dad on the ice, a different battlefield. Fighting for the pleasure of chaos. Blood streaking the penalty box, his voice a whip over the rink. Headlines screaming infidelity and gambling, a descent that burned bright in public, slow in private.

Through it all, there was Mom. Always Mom. I remember asking, small and naive, ”Can we move to your home?” I imagined Jakarta, where skyscrapers stabbed the haze, where heat stung but at least it didn’t bruise. She said, ”I can’t lose you.”

I didn’t understand then. Now, I do.

So we stayed.

And slowly, she made the house breathe again. The serrated blade wore blunt. His footsteps became just a rhythm, no longer a predator. The faint smell of aftershave and sweat in the hallway marked his return without terror.

He returned in pieces. Not the man I remembered — the premium version lost to time — but enough to drive me to the rink, lace my shoes, show me the ice. Maybe that’s why I chased it. Maybe I thought if I skated fast enough, I could catch the man he used to be.

But he wasn’t there. Not after the medals. Not after the scholarship. Not after the championship or the league. Years burned into ashes, and still, nothing.

Somewhere along the way, I lost the spark. My own pulse dimmed in the shadow of his absence. Every stride on the ice hollowed further, every cheer from the stands felt distant.

Now I stand on ice like a razor over an abyss, the match of my youth burning down to my fingers. Memories coil in the cold, snapping, weaving into the present. A glance across the rink carries his voice, his shadow, the red in my chest.

Who am I without him? Without the fire he passed down — the talent, the speed, the rage?

Do I inherit all of it? Or just enough to devour me?