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One winter when Sheet was a child, a relative gave him a beautiful pair of ice skates as a birthday gift. The timing was perfect: the lake was completely frozen over, the weather was clear with no wind or snow, and the air stung lightly at the nose while enticing you to move around and shake off the chill. Sheet ran downstairs to meet up with his friends, chasing and sliding across the mirror-like ice.
He had great form. As he passed a group of adults sipping coffee by the lake, Sheet overheard their conversation.
His body proportions are excellent.
Very stable center of gravity. Strong leg muscles.
Have you asked him how much he knows about figure skating?
Sheet knew nothing about it. But from that day on, the coaches started to take notice of him. They invited him to train, and for a time, he went every day. He earned a few rankings—some memorable, some forgettable—and several beautiful photo albums of him performing, now faded and marked with dates in worn-out marker, tucked beneath the TV cabinet. He had started and retired early, not for lack of talent, but because his parents would rather he stayed cozy by the fireplace than sacrifice everything early in pursuit of a dim, elusive little flame.
Play a bit more! They said. You’ve got time. Be a kid. Don’t work so hard. Are you rushing off to work because you’re afraid we can’t support you?
The guests burst out laughing, and Sheet felt a shy warmth rise to his cheeks. He was a child nurtured in abundance.
I hope you’ll always be healthy and happy, said his mother.
Then my wish is for Mom—for everyone’s wishes to come true, said Sheet silently in his heart as he blew out the candles.
He graduated, naturally leaving the sports team behind, focused calmly on his studies, passed the university entrance exam, and chose literature as his major. A letter of recommendation from his high school teacher described him this way: his eyes can see people. Not just their faces, but their laughter and tears, their past and future. Read his writing! You’ll be moved by the warmth in the details.
Perhaps that was his greatest gift. Nothing to do with height, weight, or muscle strength—he had empathy. Everyone was lovable. Exaggerated as it might sound, perhaps the meaning of his life was to love and help everyone.
So when Coach Glide came to him, Sheet hadn’t thought about the world of sports in years. He still enjoyed physical activity, but had no interest in cutthroat competition.
We need a backup, Glide explained the team’s situation. No need for past experience or marble sports expertise. We need someone who’ll step up when others can’t. Someone who can support the team through hard times.
A reserve wouldn’t train as much as the main players, so it wouldn’t interfere with his studies. Just give it a try, said Glide.
Sheet agreed. He liked the word “reserve.”
They shared a slice of cake, and just as Sheet was pondering what to say next, Glide laughed, “Today is the Glaciers’ birthday then!”
Happy birthday. I wish for your team to carry on forever, Sheet thought.
The five members of the new Glaciers came from all over the world. If you marked their hometowns on a map with thumbtacks and strung them together with thread, you could literally encircle the entire Marblearth.
Captain Alpine was petite but fiery. She had moved into the youth training dormitory at the age when kids just learn to tie their shoes. Everything in her life—down to the bunk she slept in and up to the opportunities to compete—had to be earned through winning.
Competition is no joke! she shouted.
You just want the spotlight! Do you even know what teamwork means? Iceberg, who had captained a team of the same name for years, slammed the table so hard he spilled tea. The two glared at each other, faces red with anger.
Frost tried to mediate, but he was constantly burdened by responsibilities with Valient Vanillas, sponsorships, and endless obligations. Even when he managed to speak, he found it hard, as a dual-team star athlete, to say anything meaningful to people who had staked everything to be here.
Polar sat in a corner, silent and indifferent. No one bothered the doll-like girl who seemed incapable of feeling pain, and she was content to be left alone, counting seconds on the clock until the debriefing was over.
Sheet sat at the far end of the table, palms sweating from the tension in the room. He felt deeply that this team needed him—not just as a backup, but as the one who could fill the cracks when everything was falling apart. He separated Alpine and Iceberg, handed a simplified schedule to Frost, and helped Polar correct her unbalanced posture. One by one, the four turned to look at him—first confused, then surprised, and finally grateful.
Sheet received a wave of praise: a dazzling newcomer, a reliable reserve, an outstanding fifth member. When a fastball was shot toward the goal, he dove to intercept it. When Alpine knocked over the penalty dominoes, he cleaned up the mess. When he stepped onto the funnel, he used his skating skills to carve out the steadiest curve.
His birthday party was packed: former Glaciers, new Glacier, Snowballs, and even Sweet from Jawbreakers, who happened to be in town on business. Purple Rockets from his hometown of Sheetersburg sent a card. Someone handed him a gift from Felynia—Cyan Eye seemed to be quite close to the birthday boy!
Amid the laughter, Sheet clasped his hands and closed his eyes. I wish Glaciers can keep rolling. I wish we can all keep going.
Polar can’t take this level of training anymore, the team doctor announced. She’s fallen behind. She needs to fall behind.
Sheet stood in front of the girl a head shorter than him, completely at a loss. Her expression was as unreadable as ever, but Sheet could tell—she wasn’t sad.
You deserve a spot on the main roster, Polar said, her voice low but steady. As a reserve, your most important job… is to take over for me.
If he took one step forward, Sheet would no longer be that magical, all-purpose, universally beloved backup—the one who could go anywhere, do anything, fix any flaw. His promotion wasn’t just the removal of an (R) after his name. It meant officially becoming a professional athlete, accepting the risks and rewards that came with it. Unless the team disbanded, his story would continue until the shimmer of his marble wore down, cracks appeared, and he eventually retired with honor, stepping into a life beyond sports.
There were still several months until his next birthday. There was no candle flame flickering in front of him, no chance to make a wish with cake, sparkling juice, a paper crown, and whispered secrets.
So he stepped forward and hugged Polar tightly.
I will keep going—with you, and with all of you, he promised.