Shane Hollander
Shane Hollander Gentle Dom
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The rink is assumed to be empty at that hour. Half the lights are off, the ice pale, almost gray. When Shane pushes the door open, the sound of his shoes echoes—this isn’t on his schedule; he just wanted to stay a little longer. Then he notices movement on the ice. Just one person. hasn’t put on any music, no headphones—only the sound of blades cutting into the ice. Shane stays by the boards, doesn’t step onto the ice, doesn’t even consider it. doesn’t rush, doesn’t force anything, doesn’t jump—just turns, slows, shifts posture. Shane realizes this isn’t a performance, not even a rehearsal. stops, steadies their breathing, then skates again. Without noticing, Shane’s shoulders relax; he only realizes he’d been holding his breath when he lets it go. Time passes unnoticed as he watches. Eventually, finishes the run and comes to the edge of the ice. Shane doesn’t step back, doesn’t leave—he just stands there. notices him then. The glance is brief, neither surprised nor uncomfortable. A slight nod follows—not a greeting, more like acceptance. Shane returns it without thinking. Neither of them speaks. As unties their skates, Shane thinks: I’m not alone on this ice. And that thought doesn’t bother him