Page 2

GUNNAR

I lived for this—the whisper of steel against ice, the rush of air slicing past my face, the raw speed that made the world blur at the edges. Early mornings at the Denver Ice Arena belonged to me, the wide oval empty except for my lone figure cutting through the silence.

With my legs burning pleasantly and my chest heaving, I leaned into the turn, dropping low enough that my fingertips grazed the ice. Perfectly balanced on the edge of control and chaos, just how I liked it. I raced into the straightaway, pushing harder, faster, chasing that sweet spot where my mind cleared and there was nothing but rhythm and velocity.

"Hayes! Dialing it back today?" Coach Hank Wells shouted from the boards, his stopwatch in hand.

I grinned, pushing harder. Hank knew exactly which buttons to push to get me to accelerate. Another lap, another turn, my body an arrow piercing the cold. When I finally slowed, skating lazy circles to cool down, Hank nodded once—his version of high praise.

"32.4 seconds," he said, showing me the time. "Not bad for a lazy Sunday skate."

I cocked an eyebrow, grabbing my water bottle from the boards. "Lazy? I was flying."

"You were holding back on the turns." Hank crossed both arms over his broad chest. At forty-five, my coach still had the solid build of a former champion speed skater, though his full beard now showed streaks of gray. "Saving yourself for something?"

I took a long drink, avoiding his gaze. "Just pacing myself."

"Bullshit," he said, not unkindly. "You're distracted. Thinking about this charity thing?"

I rolled my shoulders, uncomfortable with how easily he read me. "It's a waste of my time. I should be training for World Cup qualifiers, not playing exhibition games."

Hank's expression turned shrewd. "You need this after that stunt with the reporter. Your sponsors weren't happy, kid."

I winced at the memory. Two months ago, a sports journalist had ambushed me after a disappointing race, asking if my ‘unorthodox style’ was finally catching up with me. I'd responded with a colorful suggestion about where he could shove his microphone, punctuated with a raised middle finger. The gesture had been caught on camera, turning into yet another viral moment in the ongoing saga of Blaze Hayes: Bad Boy of Speed Skating .

"It wasn't that bad," I muttered.

"It was worse," Hank countered. "The sport needs personalities, Gunnar, not assholes. This charity event is your chance to show the sponsors you can play nice."

"By skating with the ice princess?" I pulled off my gloves, tossing them into my bag. "She's going to hate every second of it, and honestly, so will I."

"Starla McKenzie?" Hank's eyebrows rose. "She's damn good…Certain Olympic material."

"She's a fucking robot," I countered. "Have you seen her skate? Like someone programmed a computer and stuck it on blades."

"I've seen her skate on many occasions. Her technique is almost perfection." There was a hint of admiration in his voice that annoyed me. "You could learn something from her discipline."

I scoffed. "And she could learn to actually feel something on the ice instead of just following the script."

"Maybe that's why they paired you two," Hank mused, a knowing glint in his eye. "Fire and ice…should make for a good show."

Before I could respond, the arena door opened. I turned, and everything inside me stilled.

She stood in the entrance, silhouetted for a moment before stepping into the light. Starla McKenzie wore simple black leggings and a fitted pale blue jacket, her mousy-blonde hair pulled into a severe bun that emphasized her high cheekbones and delicate features. She moved with the fluid grace and confidence of someone who'd spent their life on the ice—and had the wins to show for it. Even in the way she carried her skate bag—balanced perfectly at her side—I could see the control that defined her.

Damn though, she was beautiful—in that untouchable, pristine way that made me instantly want to ruffle her feathers. Despite her petite frame, she carried herself with such authority that she seemed taller than her actual height. And those eyes—emerald-green, sharp, assessing everything in their path.

"You can still learn something from that discipline," Hank murmured beside me, too low for her to hear. Then louder: "Ms. McKenzie! Right on time."

She approached, her haughty gaze sweeping over me before settling on Hank. "Coach Wells," she greeted with a professional nod and polite smile. Then to me, coolly: "Hi, Gunnar."

Not really an enthusiastic introduction, more of a statement. I extended my hand, curious if she'd take it.

"The one and only," I replied with a deliberately casual smile. "Though you can call me Blaze…Everyone does."

She hesitated for a fraction of a second before shaking my hand. Her grip was surprisingly firm, her skin cool against mine.

"I'll stick with Gunnar," she said evenly, withdrawing her hand. "I'm not big on nicknames."

Of course she wasn't. I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

Hank, perhaps sensing the brewing tension, stepped in. "I'll leave you two to get acquainted. Gunnar, remember what we discussed…this matters." He gave me a pointed look before nodding to Starla and heading toward the exit. "I'll check back in an hour."

With Hank gone, an awkward silence fell between us. Starla set her bag down and unzipped to reveal a pair of pristine white figure skates nestled inside.

"So…" I began, leaning against the boards, "How do you want to approach this?"

"In an organized and efficient manner," she replied while concentrating on pulling out her skates. "How else? I've drafted some ideas for routines that might work for our...different styles."

Of course she had a draft ready. Probably color-coded and indexed too.

"You don't think we should, I don't know, maybe talk about our skating backgrounds first? Get to know each other a little?" I suggested.

She glanced up, those green eyes narrowing slightly. "I know who you are, Gunnar. Three-time national champion in short track. Gold at World Championships last year. Known for..." she paused, choosing her words carefully, "...unconventional racing tactics."

"You've done your homework," I acknowledged. "And I know you're Starla McKenzie, figure skating prodigy. Silver at Nationals. Sister of the famous Logan McKenzie. Nicknamed The Ice Queen not only for your skating."

A flicker of something—annoyance? hurt?—crossed her face before it settled back into its neutral porcelain-like mask. "I see my reputation precedes me."

"Just like mine," I countered. "So maybe we should forget what we think we know and start fresh."

"What I know is that we have four weeks to create a coherent routine," she snapped, sitting on the bench to lace her skates. Each loop and pull was strong and sure, the cords crossing in perfect symmetry. "And I'd prefer not to waste time on unnecessary socializing."

"Right…All business…Got it." I pushed off from the boards, skating a slow circle as she finished lacing her skates. "So what's this brilliant routine you've drafted?"

From a small bag, she pulled out a notebook and flipped it open. "I've outlined a four-minute program that incorporates elements from both disciplines. Classical music would be ideal…perhaps Tchaikovsky or…"

"Classical?" I interrupted. "Are you serious? Nobody wants to watch figure skating to classical music anymore."

She looked up sharply. "It's traditional."

"It's boring," I countered. "If we're doing this, we need something with energy. Something that actually makes people want to watch."

Her lips pursed. "The audience for this event includes Olympic Committee members and sponsors who appreciate technical proficiency and artistic interpretation. Not everything needs to be flashy to be impressive."

"And not everything needs to be a museum piece to be good," I shot back. "You figure skaters are all the same…stuck in the past, afraid to try anything new."

"That's not fair," she argued, her voice gaining an edge. "Figure skating has evolved tremendously. But there are standards of excellence that…"

"That…What? Keep it old school? Predictable?" I skated closer, deliberately invading her space. "No wonder they call you the Ice Queen. Have you ever broken a rule even once in your life?"

Her cheeks flushed. "Let's focus on the routine. I thought we could start with a side-by-side section to establish the contrast in our styles, then move into…"

"Side by side?" I shook my head. "That's not a pair routine. That's two people doing their own thing on the same ice. We need to interact."

"Fine." She flipped a page in her notebook. "We can incorporate some basic pairs elements. Synchronized jumps, perhaps a simple lift…"

"A lift?" I perked up at that. "Now we're talking."

She looked wary. "A choreographed, planned lift with proper technique."

"Show me."

"What?"

"Show me this lift you have in mind." I skated toward her.

She took a step back. "We need to work up to that. Practice the approach, the timing…"

"Or we could just try it and see what works," I suggested.

"That's not how this works," she insisted, frustration coloring her voice. "These elements require precision."

"Everything with you does," I muttered. "Do you ever just...you know, skate? Feel the ice, respond to the moment?"

"This isn't improv hour at the comedy club, Gunnar," she said stiffly. "This is a professionally choreographed exhibition."

I sighed dramatically and gave a curl of my arm as I bowed. "Alright, Your Highness. Show me your master plan."

Her eyes flashed. "Don’t call me that."

"Then stop acting so high and mighty," I challenged.

The tension between us crackled as she stared at me, clutching her notebook like a shield. "Let's just try the opening sequence I've drafted."

"Fine."

She described a series of maneuvers—crossovers into a synchronized step sequence, followed by side-by-side spins. It all sounded terribly regimented, but I nodded along, determined to at least give it a shot.

"We'll start at opposite corners," she instructed, "then mirror each other as we approach center ice."

I took my position, waiting for her count. On "three," we pushed off simultaneously. I matched her pace, watching her movements from the corner of my eye. The problem wasn't that I couldn't follow her choreography—everything felt mechanical. There was no room for impulse, for creativity.

As we approached center ice, an idea struck me. Instead of turning right as she'd instructed, I veered left, cutting directly into her path.

She barely avoided a collision, her eyes widening in shock. "What are you doing? You were supposed to turn right!"

"I felt like turning left," I shrugged. "Let's try something different."

"We had a plan," she said, her voice tight with frustration.

" Your plan you mean. And it's boring." I circled her slowly. "This routine needs energy, Starla. Spontaneity."

"It needs structure," she countered. "Not chaos."

"Maybe it needs some of both." I stopped in front of her. "Let me show you what I mean."

Before she could protest, I took her hand and pulled her into motion. She stiffened but followed, her training too ingrained to let her falter. I increased our speed, guiding her through a series of turns that flowed naturally into one another.

"Feel that?" I asked. "No counting, no planned sequence. Just responding to the momentum."

"This isn't…" she started, but I cut her off by releasing her hand and accelerating into a series of crossovers.

"Just follow me," I called over my shoulder. "Stop thinking so much."

I heard her skates behind me, felt her presence as she kept pace. For a moment, it seemed like we might actually find a rhythm together. Then I spun around to face her, skating backwards, and extended my hands.

"Trust me," I said. "Let's try that lift."

Her eyes widened. "Absolutely not. We haven't practiced."

"We're practicing now."

"This is insane. We need to…"

I grabbed her waist before she could finish, attempting to lift her in a move I'd seen pairs skaters perform. Two things became immediately apparent: one, she was lighter than I expected, and two, she was not prepared. She gasped, her hands flying to my shoulders, her body rigid instead of flowing with the motion.

The result was disastrous. Instead of a graceful lift, we wobbled precariously. She overcompensated, throwing us off balance. I tried to correct, but it was too late. We tumbled to the ice in an undignified heap, her landing across my chest with a soft "oof."

For a moment, we just lay there, breathing hard. Then she scrambled away from me, her face flushed with anger and embarrassment.

"Are you out of your mind?" she demanded, brushing ice from her leggings. "You could have seriously injured us both!"

I sat up, wincing slightly. "That's a bit dramatic. It was just a stumble."

"Just a stumble?" She glared at me. "Pairs skaters train for years to perform lifts safely. You can't just decide on a whim to try one!"

"Fine, so it didn't work," I conceded, getting to my feet. "But at least it wasn't boring."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Is that what this is about? You're deliberately sabotaging this because you simply don’t like my style?"

"I'm trying to inject some life into this routine," I corrected. "Something beyond your clinical, by-the-numbers approach."

"My clinical approach is what prevents injuries," she snapped. "What prevents embarrassment on the ice. What ensures the performance is actually worth watching."

"Does the Ice Queen ever actually smile?" I asked, deliberately goading her now. "Or are you afraid your face might crack if you show a real emotion?"

She stiffened, and I knew I'd hit a nerve. Her emerald eyes flashed with genuine anger. "This partnership is never going to work," she said, her voice cold. "We're too incompatible."

"Now who's being dramatic?" I challenged. "We had one fall. Not exactly the end of the world."

"It's not about the fall," she said, skating toward the exit. "It's about respect. For the craft, for the plan, for basic safety. Something you clearly lack."

"Starla, come on…I’m sorry.”

"I'll speak to the organizers," she cut me off. "Perhaps they can find you a partner who doesn't mind your reckless approach. Someone more like you."

I watched, half-amused and half-concerned, as she stormed off the ice, grabbed her guards, and jammed them onto her blades.

"Running away from a challenge now?" I called after her. "Doesn't seem very professional."

She whirled to face me, her cheeks flushed. "I'm not running away. I'm protecting my Olympic prospects from your impulsive stupidity."

With that parting shot, she snatched up her bag and strode toward the door, her posture rigid with anger.

I should have been relieved. This charity nonsense was an inconvenience anyway, a PR stunt I'd been forced into. But as I watched her leave, all I felt was a strange disappointment and...intrigue.

Starla McKenzie wasn't what I expected. Underneath that perfect, controlled exterior was fire—real passion and determination. I'd caught a glimpse of it in her anger, and now I wanted to see more. There was something captivating about the way her eyes flashed, the way her voice gained an edge when challenged. I saw the color rise to her cheeks, and I liked knowing that I was the one who put it there.

And something told me she wouldn't actually quit. She had too much pride, too much determination. She'd be back, if only to prove she could handle anything I threw at her.

I skated lazy circles on the empty ice, replaying our disastrous first session. Fire and ice. Maybe Hank was right—the contrast could make for one hell of a show. If we didn't kill each other first.

A slow smile spread across my face. One thing was certain: working with Starla McKenzie wouldn't be boring. And if there was one thing I couldn't stand, it was boredom.

Tomorrow would be interesting. Now I just had to hope she showed up.