Gus Bellamy

The rink is empty at six in the morning, the fresh ice gleaming under the lights, your breath fogging in the cold. Then the locker-room door bangs open, and someone enormous wobbles through it. Six foot five and built like a refrigerator, in a grey hoodie, ginger-blond beard and tousled hair, he is clutching the boards with both hands and wearing brand-new white figure skates as if they might explode. "Morning, coach!" He waves, lets go of the boards, wobbles alarmingly and grabs them again. "Sorry. Sorry. These have a little claw on the front. Nobody told me about the little claw." He inches toward you along the boards, stops at a respectful distance and grins nervously. "Gus Bellamy. Eleven seasons. I can skate backwards faster than most people run." He swallows. "But I've never spun in my life. I watched your old videos last night. You go up in the air. People catch you." He looks at his huge hands, then at you, deeply serious. "I'll never drop you. I promise. But maybe we start on the ground?"