Based on a prior story of mine

So, here’s a fun fact about me: I’m a middle-aged, 300-pound man with a bum knee, two ex-wives, and exactly zero business attempting anything that involves blades on my feet and frozen water. But I watched one—just one—Olympic montage, and suddenly I had dreams of glittering costumes and gold medals.

Okay, maybe not gold medals. But, like… just not falling on my face would be neat.

So, on a brisk February morning, still half-fueled by late-night inspiration and way too much coffee, I rolled into the local rink. The plan was simple: rent some skates, wobble around, prove I was still spry, and reward myself with pancakes. What could go wrong?

Well, first of all, the parking lot was a madhouse. I was expecting three retired folks and maybe a kid in hockey gear. Instead? Wall-to-wall cars. I parked somewhere that might’ve technically been part of a snowbank and waddled my way to the building.

I step in—and BAM. Chaos. Screaming children. Speed skating teens zipping by like caffeinated gazelles. And the unmistakable scent of hot dogs and crushed dreams. There were three rinks in the building, and one clearly had some sort of competition going on. Great. That meant I’d be flailing publicly.

I shuffled to the rental counter, already sweating.

“Hi,” I said, giving my warmest, most charming smile. “I’d like to rent some skates… and maybe a helmet. I haven’t been on ice in twenty years, and I’d rather not Jackson Pollock myself across the rink.”

The woman behind the counter—let’s call her Denise—didn’t even blink. She gave me a look that could only be described as Retail Ennui™, Olympic Edition.

“Heard that one before,” she said, deadpan. “Size?”

“Twelve?” I offered, with the kind of confidence you give when guessing someone’s birthday.

She plunked down a pair of battered old hockey skates and a black helmet that looked like it had survived a war.

“Locker room’s back there. Lockers are a buck. Changing rooms attached.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, taking the gear and escaping her dead-eyed stare. I would not survive in retail.

I made my way to the locker room. And let’s be clear—“locker room” is generous. It was a long bench, a couple metal lockers, co-ed as mostly people were just changing shoes for skates, there were full changing rooms for men and women attached, but I wasn't changing my clothes, and the faint smell of Axe body spray and childhood trauma. I sat, grunting, next to a perky young woman who looked like she hadn’t aged past 20 and probably believed in dream boards and reusable shopping bags.

“Oh my God,” she beamed, like I was her long-lost soulmate. “I thought I was gonna be here alone! Hi!”

I blinked. “Uh. Hi.”

She was way too excited to see me. Did I know her? Did she mistake me for her uncle? Former band teacher? Ex–Boy Scout leader?

“You look nervous,” she said, her blonde ponytail bouncing like it had its own theme song. “That makes sense, though.”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “A little. I mean, I haven’t skated since—”

I paused, suddenly rubbing my hands together. They felt… cold. But not from the air. Like, weirdly cold. And slender. My fingers looked longer. Delicate, almost? With a shimmery metallic pedicure?

“What the hell…” I whispered.

“Huh?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said quickly, before trying to gaslight myself. “Probably a reflection or something. Or I bumped into a bottle of nail polish. Or… maybe I passed out and this is a coma dream.”

She giggled. “Oh, Lizzie. You’re always such a riot.”

Lizzie?

Nope. Nope. Nope. That is not my name. I’m Rick. Richard ..... shoot what is my last name. 4......4 years old. Divorced twice. Has a thing for bowling shirts and definitely not named Lizzie.

“Sally,” I blurted, her name finally clicking into place yet not sure from where, “What’s going on?”

She blinked. “What do you mean, Liz? You’re acting so weird. Did you not get enough protein this morning or something?”

Protein? I looked down—and the clothes I definitely remember being a hoodie and sweatpants were now… black. Tight. Smooth. Clingy in a way that left very little to the imagination. I looked like I was heading to an ice dancing competition or a Victoria’s Secret photo shoot.

“I mean, sure, it’s just a weekend skate,” I heard myself say, my voice suddenly lilting up at the end, like a question?

And… was that a slight valley girl cadence? Oh no. No no no. My speech patterns were changing. This wasn’t just clothes.

“Did you finish your part of the physics project?” Sally asked, tapping her skate against the floor.

“I haven’t done a project in like—” I stopped. Wait. Did I finish it? Suddenly, my brain was flooded with equations. Graphs. Charts. Something about kinetic friction on Zamboni-cleaned ice. College is SOOOO hard.....wait

What the hell was happening?

I looked at the skates. Gone were the big, clunky hockey ones. In their place? Dainty black figure skates. My size. Which… apparently was now “tiny woodland creature.” I picked them up with trembling hands.

“Are these mine?” I whispered.

“Of course!” Sally chirped. “Who else has Cinderella feet like those?”

I stared at her, at my feet, and—oh no. The skates weren’t rented. I owned them. My dad gave them to me after I graduated high school. They were expensive. He wasn’t thrilled I chose figure skating over hockey, but he still supported me.

Wait. What?

I glanced down at my body. No stomach. Legs? Long. Smooth. Ridiculously toned. And definitely shaved. My hips curved gently. My boobs were… perky. My hair was falling past my shoulders, thick and golden and tied up with a sparkle scrunchie.

“Okay,” I said shakily. “Okay, no big deal. Just transforming into an 19-year-old figure skater named Lizzie. Happens all the time.”

Sally leaned in. “Lizzie? You okay? You’re spacing out again.”

I gulped. “Sally… something feels off.”

She squinted at me. “Nope. You look perfect to me, babe.”

Babe?

“You sure?” I asked, my voice now a buttery smooth alto.

“Of course, Lizzie. You’ve got this. You’ve trained for this competition for years. You missed prom for this. You gave up junk food for this. You even told off your ex-girlfriend for mocking your spins. You’re a machine.”

She kissed me. KISSED ME. Right on the lips.

Okay. Yep. Definitely like women. Still love women. Just, now I was a girl....so I'm gay then?

Before I could even protest, she stood up—tall. Like, 5’5” and lifting me like I was a doll.

I looked down at my body. I was 5' even. Maybe 101 pounds soaking wet. I wasn’t Rick anymore. I wasn’t even “Rick who tried ice skating.” I was Eliza Michelle Kennison—Lizzie to my friends.

And I had better be ready.

“Now competing,” said a voice over the loudspeaker, “Eliza Kennison.”

I stepped onto the ice, heart pounding. I didn’t know the routine. I didn’t remember the choreography.

But my body did.

I struck my starting pose, sparkles catching the light.

I’d come to the rink hoping to relive some childhood dream.

I just didn’t know it was her dream.

Let’s just hope I don’t trip on my own cute, dainty feet.