It starts with a little giggle and ends in a good story.
In the high-stakes, high-gloss world of avant-garde fashion, “Ned” was not a person; Ned was an event.
Ned was six feet of attitude wrapped in architectural neoprene and vintage silk. Ned was the reason feathers were back in season for men’s activewear. Ned was, legally and historically, a woman named Edie Sinclair, but the name Edie had died in a thumping Berlin nightclub fifteen years ago. A deafened fashion buyer had misheard her introduction over a remix of “Blue Monday,” shouted “NED! I LOVE IT! SO MASCULINE YET FEMININE!” and threw a glass of champagne on her. The name stuck, the brand launched, and Edie became the myth.
But on a Tuesday afternoon in November, the myth was currently pinning the hem of a terrifyingly tight unitard on a man who possessed zero percent body fat.
“Ouch,” said Stefan.
“Beauty is pain, darling,” Ned said, her voice a smoky contralto that sounded like it had been aged in oak barrels. She adjusted her oversized, thick-rimmed scarlet glasses. “And aerodynamics are non-negotiable. If you want to win Gold, you must slice through the wind like a fabulous knife.”
Stefan wasn’t just a client; he was The Client. A figure skater with the face of a renaissance angel and the thighs of a draft horse. He was currently Ned’s muse, and unfortunately, the object of a crushing, debilitating, unprofessional infatuation.
Stefan rotated, checking his reflection. The sequins caught the studio lights, scattering disco beams across Ned’s mood board. He smiled at her, and Ned felt her knees do something structurally unsound.
“You know,” Stefan said, stepping off the podium. “You always talk about the physics of the ice, Ned. But have you ever actually been?”
Ned laughed, a sharp, barking sound. “I appreciate the ice from a distance, Stefan. Like a tiger, or a tax audit.”
“Come with me tonight,” he said, toweling off his neck. “I have the rink to myself for an hour before the Zamboni runs. Just for fun. No coaching. Just… us.”
He looked at her. Really looked at her. Not at the ‘Ned’ persona, but at the woman holding a pincushion like a weapon.
“I…” Ned started, her brain flashing ‘DANGER’ in neon letters. She was coordinated when it came to draping silk on a bias, but physical exertion usually involved lifting bolts of fabric. However, the lighting in the rink would be romantic. And he was looking at her like she was a prize. “I suppose I could consult on the… atmospheric conditions.”
The date was going poorly before they even touched the frozen water.
First, there was the issue of the outfit. Ned did not own “casual wear.” Ned owned statements. For a date at an ice rink, she had selected a white faux-fur bolero, a silver metallic bodysuit that resembled a spacesuit from a low-budget 70s sci-fi movie, and black leggings. She looked like a disco yeti.
Stefan, conversely, was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, and still looked like a god.
“Here,” Stefan said, handing her a pair of rental skates. They were brown, battered, and smelled of teenage desperation.
“Do these come in a pump?” Ned asked weakly.
Lacing them up took ten minutes and resulted in the loss of circulation to her toes. When she finally stood up, she realized that the floor outside the rink was rubberized, but the ice—the ice was just waiting.
“Take my hand,” Stefan said, gliding backward onto the surface with irritating perfection.
Ned stepped onto the ice. Immediately, friction filed for divorce. Her feet shot in opposite directions.
“Whoa there!” Stefan caught her.
For the next twenty minutes, the “date” consisted of Stefan skating gorgeous, lazy circles around Ned while she clung to the perimeter wall like a barnacle on a ship hull. She was sweating in the faux fur. Her ankles were screaming.
“Let go of the wall, Ned! Trust your center of gravity!” Stefan shouted from the center, doing a pirouette.
“My center of gravity is currently located in my throat!” she shouted back.
But she couldn’t stay on the wall forever. It was pathetic. She was Ned. She designed couture for pop stars. She had once slapped a supermodel for slouching. She could skate.
She pushed off the wall.
For three seconds, she was flying. She was majestic. She was the Silver Surfer.
Then, she hit a rut.
The physics of the fall were complex. Her right foot went east, her left foot went west, and her torso decided to succumb to gravity with immediate, violent enthusiasm. She didn’t just fall; she performed a chaotic belly-flop onto the hard, unforgiving surface.
Because of her momentum, she didn’t stop upon impact. She slid.
She slid a good fifteen feet across the freshly smoothed ice.
Stefan rushed over, stopping on a dime, spraying snow. “Oh my god! Ned! Are you okay?”
Ned groaned, her face pressed against the cold wetness. She pushed herself up on her elbows. Her chest hurt. Her dignity was dead.
“I think I broke my soul,” she whispered.
Stefan looked down at the ice behind her. His eyes widened.
“What?” Ned asked. She looked back.
Because of the metallic, structured nature of her bodysuit—specifically the reinforced, cone-shaped bodice she had designed herself for maximum silhouette—and the angle of her slide, she had not left a single smear on the ice.
She had carved two distinct, parallel, deep grooves in the ice.
They stretched back fifteen feet, like tiny railroad tracks.
“Did…” Stefan pointed. “Did your boobs carve the ice?”
Ned stared at the tracks. They were perfectly straight. A testament to her structural engineering, really. But in the context of a romantic date, they were a horror show.
“I have to go,” Ned said, scrambling to her feet, slipping, falling to her knees, and crawling toward the exit.
“Ned, wait! It happens to everyone!” Stefan called, suppressing a laugh. He was definitely suppressing a laugh.
“My ankle!” Ned lied, hauling herself over the barrier. “I must seek medical attention immediately! Do not follow me! The sequins are sharp!”
She barely remembered returning the skates. She fled the building, limping into the biting November air, and jabbed at her phone with trembling fingers until a rideshare was summoned.
She stood on the curb, a shivering disco yeti, the silver bodysuit damp and cold against her skin.
A dark sedan pulled up. The window rolled down.
“Ride for… Ned?”
The driver was a woman. She had messy curls pulled back in a clip, a soft jawline, and eyes that were crinkling at the corners in a way that suggested she smiled a lot. She looked like warm tea and rainy Sundays.
“Yes,” Ned said, opening the back door and collapsing onto the seat. “Please drive. Anywhere. Just away from here.”
“Rough night at the rink?” the driver asked, eyeing the rink signage and then glancing in the rearview mirror. The app said her name was Olivia.
Ned ripped off her fogged-up glasses. “I engraved the ice, Olivia. I didn’t skate on it. I engraved it. With my chest.”
Olivia’s eyes widened in the mirror. Then, she let out a snort. Then a chuckle. Then a full, belly laugh.
“I’m sorry,” Olivia gasped. “I’m sorry, that’s terrible, but… with your chest?”
“Structured bodice,” Ned muttered, leaning her head against the cool window. “I looked like a snow plow. A very expensive, humiliating snow plow. And the guy… he was an Olympian. He glided. I scraped.”
“Well,” Olivia said, merging onto the avenue. “If it makes you feel any better, I once tried to impress a girl at a bowling alley and threw the ball backward. Shattered a vending machine. Glass everywhere. We had to pay for forty-two Snickers bars.”
Ned lifted her head. “Truly?”
“Truly. Banned for life. My picture is behind the counter with a red X over it.”
Ned actually smiled. The adrenaline of the shame was fading, replaced by the soothing warmth of the car’s heater, which smelled vaguely of vanilla and old paper.
“I’m Ned,” she said, properly this time. “Or Edie. Actually, Edie right now. Ned would never have fallen. Ned is invincible. Edie is currently bruised and damp.”
“Nice to meet you, Edie. I’m Olivia.”
They hit a red light. Olivia turned around in her seat. The interior light caught the curve of her cheek. She was, Ned realized with a jolt, absolutely stunning. Not in the angular, starved way of the models Ned worked with, but in a luminous, real way.
“So, Edie,” Olivia said. “Where are we actually going? The app says a warehouse in the meatpacking district?”
“My studio,” Ned sighed. “I live in the loft upstairs. It’s very chic and very lonely and full of mannequins that judge me.”
“Hungry?” Olivia asked.
“Starving. I haven’t eaten a carb since 2014.”
“There’s a drive-thru taco place on the way. My treat. Consolation prize for the ice sculpture incident.”
They sat in the parking lot of the taco place for an hour. Ned, still in her silver bodysuit and faux fur, ate three soft tacos with a ferocity that frightened her. They talked about fabrics (Olivia didn’t know tulle from tarpaulin), about “Ned’s” rise to fame, and about Olivia’s grad school thesis on urban planning.
“You know,” Olivia said, crumpling a napkin. “You’re not as scary as your profile picture on Google suggests.”
“I’m terrified right now,” Ned admitted. “I have bruises forming in places I didn’t know I had places.”
“You need redemption,” Olivia said.
“No. No more sports. I am retiring to a life of sedentary draping.”
“Not sports. Fun. You need to reclaim the snow. The ice was the enemy. Snow is soft.” Olivia checked her watch. “Tomorrow. It’s supposed to snow all night. There’s a hill near the park. Not a rink. A hill.”
“I don’t ski,” Ned warned.
“Sledding,” Olivia grinned. “It involves sitting down. Gravity does the work. No balancing required. And I promise, no sharp edges.”
Ned looked at Olivia. She looked at the grease stain on the wrapper. She looked at her reflection in the side mirror—makeup smeared, hair wild. She looked like a disaster, and Olivia was looking at her like she was the best thing that had happened all night.
“Okay,” Ned said. “But if I carve the hill with my chest, I’m moving to Paris.”
The next day, Ned had an existential crisis regarding her wardrobe.
What did one wear to ‘sled’?
She settled on a quilted puffer coat that was so oversized she looked like a magnificent, walking marshmallow. It was bright electric blue. She paired it with cashmere sweatpants (the closest thing she had to casual) and moon boots.
She met Olivia at the bottom of the hill. Olivia was wearing a beaten-up Carhartt jacket and a beanie with a pom-pom. She held two plastic saucers.
“You look…” Olivia paused, taking in the electric blue puffer. “…aerodynamic.”
“I am protected,” Ned announced. “I am wrapped in down feathers. Nothing can hurt me.”
“Ready?”
They trudged up the hill. It was steep. Ned’s lungs burned, but the air was crisp and clean, scrubbing away the memory of the stale rink air.
At the top, the city sprawled out below them, white and gray and glittering.
“Okay,” Olivia said, putting her saucer down. “Technique is simple. Sit. Hold handles. Scream if necessary.”
“What if I spin?”
“Then you spin. That’s the joy of it, Edie. You’re not performing. You’re just falling with style.”
Ned sat on the plastic disc. It felt flimsy. She looked down the slope. It looked like a cliff.
“Together?” Ned asked, her voice small.
“On three,” Olivia smiled. “One. Two. Three!”
They pushed off.
The sensation was entirely different from skating. Skating was hard, scratching noise and anxiety. This was a woosh of silence followed by the roar of wind. Ned spun backward immediately. She saw the sky, then the snow, then Olivia laughing to her left, then the sky again.
She didn’t have to pose. She didn’t have to suck in her stomach. She just had to hold on.
She screamed. It was a joyful, unhinged scream.
They hit a bump halfway down. Ned’s saucer went airborne for a microsecond before slamming back down, sending a spray of powder into her face. She was blinded, laughing, spinning.
She crashed into the hay bales at the bottom of the hill backwards, legs flying up in the air.
She lay there, panting, staring at the clouds.
A face appeared above her. Olivia, cheeks red, eyes bright.
“Status report?” Olivia asked.
“No tracks,” Ned gasped, wiping snow from her eyelashes. “No structural damage.”
“Fun?”
“Horrifying,” Ned grinned, sitting up. “Let’s do it again.”
They spent the next two hours conquering the hill. By the end, Ned’s electric blue coat was soaked through, her expensive glasses were in her pocket, and she had snow inside her boots. She had never been wet, cold, and exhausted in public before. It was liberating.
As the sun began to set, painting the snow in shades of violet and orange, they sat on their sleds at the bottom of the hill, drinking cocoa from a thermos Olivia had brought.
“So,” Olivia said, bumping her shoulder against Ned’s puffed arm. “Better than the rink?”
“Stefan was very pretty,” Ned mused. “But he didn’t know how to crash.”
“Crashing is an essential life skill.”
Ned turned to look at her. Olivia had a snowflake caught in her eyelashes. Without thinking—Ned, who usually overthought every gesture—reached out with a gloved hand and brushed it away.
Olivia went still. The air between them crackled, warmer than the cocoa.
“I think,” Ned said, her voice dropping the theatricality entirely, just Edie now, “that I would like to take you to dinner. Somewhere with chairs. Stationary chairs.”
“I’d like that,” Olivia whispered.
“And,” Ned added, leaning in closer, drawn by the magnetic pull of Olivia’s warm brown eyes. “I promise not to wear the silver bodysuit.”
“Shame,” Olivia grinned. “I kind of liked the boob-track story.”
Ned laughed, and Olivia closed the gap.
The kiss was cold noses and warm lips, tasting of chocolate and winter air. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t posed. Ned’s hat fell over her eyes, and Olivia slipped a little on the ice patch beneath her boots, clutching Ned’s puffer coat for balance. It was clumsy and perfect.
“Okay,” Ned said, pulling back, breathless. “Definitely better than the rink.”
“Race you to the top one last time?” Olivia challenged, already standing up.
Ned groaned, but she stood up. “You’re on. But if I win, you’re driving me home. The rideshare surge pricing is criminal right now.”
“Deal.”
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