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STARLA
I started my day as always: a quick yoga flow in my uncluttered living room, where every piece of furniture had a purpose and no stray items littered the pale bamboo floor. Normally, the steady cadence of controlled breathing kept my thoughts from spiraling. Not this morning, though. My mind kept drifting to Gunnar ‘Blaze’ Hayes and our disastrous first practice.
Exhaling slowly, I tried to push him out of my head. The last thing I needed in my mental space was that cocky grin he wore when he questioned whether I, the so-called, Ice Queen, ever smiled. He was too handsome for his own good, too confident, and definitely too chaotic for me.
I dropped from warrior pose into a gentle forward fold, letting tension flow from my shoulders. Today, I had to apologize for storming off the rink. I never let my emotions get the better of me like that, and it stung to admit I’d lost control. But the clock was ticking. Neither my coach, Vivian, nor the charity event’s organizers would accept me walking away from a partnership they deemed crucial. Four weeks to craft a seamless performance—four weeks to keep the Olympic Committee’s interest. Failure wasn’t an option.
My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, jolting me. Balancing on one foot, I nearly toppled over. With a sigh, I abandoned the pose and crossed the open space to snatch up the device. Vivian’s name flashed on the screen. Of course it was her.
“Yes, Vivian?” I said, striving for a composed tone.
Her exasperation practically crackled through the line. “Starla, I’ve been leaving messages. The event managers want reassurance this pairing isn’t going to implode.”
“I know,” I replied, trying to clamp down my own frustration. “We clashed at first, but…”
“Fix it,” she cut me off in that no-nonsense voice. “The Committee expects you to prove you’re adaptable as well as technically flawless. Understand?”
I forced a breath. “I won’t let them down.”
When she ended the call, tension churned in my gut. I’d spent my entire life perfecting my discipline—now I had to show the skating world I could handle an unpredictable partner who seemed to court the limelight. Absolutely ideal. I scrolled through my notifications, grimacing at a text from an unknown number:
You deserve better partners.
A chill prickled my skin. My skate bag had been out of place lately, and once or twice I’d felt like someone was watching me at the rink. But I couldn’t jump to conclusions over a single cryptic message. Probably a misguided fan who hated the idea of me teaming with a ‘bad boy’ speed skater.
With a determined shake of my head, I blocked the number and changed into leggings and a hoodie. No time to dwell on random drama—I had a routine to salvage.
After a quick breakfast—egg whites, spinach, and perfectly measured oats—I hopped into my compact SUV and drove through brisk winter air to the Denver Ice Arena. The building rose up behind a row of leafless trees, its facade a blend of glass panels and steel beams that glinted in the pale morning sun. I inhaled the tang of crisp air as I stepped outside, a reminder that I’d always thrived in the cold—both on the ice and off.
Inside the arena, my footsteps echoed across the polished floors. Light spilled onto the rink from overhead fluorescents. I paused behind the plexiglass, scanning the expanse of meticulously resurfaced ice. That’s when I spotted Gunnar mid-sprint, carving a perfect arc with raw power in every stride. Even from afar, he radiated the kind of athleticism that turned heads.
He noticed me and let himself coast, breath fogging in the chilly air. “Morning,” he called, voice echoing across the empty rows of seats. His dark hair was slightly damp, a sure sign he’d already pushed himself hard.
Forcing calm, I walked down the aisle, my skate bag hefted over one shoulder. “I’m not one to skip practice. About yesterday...” My stomach knotted around the word apology. “I shouldn’t have walked out. We started off badly, and I let my frustration show.”
“Apology accepted,” he replied, leaning against the boards. The corners of his mouth quirked in an irrepressible smirk. “But come on, Starla…we’re total opposites. We need to figure out how to make our differences a selling point.”
I mustered a faint scowl. “Interesting or disastrous. We have four weeks to find out.”
He clapped his hands, the sound reverberating around us. “So how about we figure out a plan that won’t end in homicide?”
I tried not to let relief show on my face. “I...yes. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
Gunnar joined me, watching as I laced my boots in the team bench area. His black speed skates had shorter, sharper blades than my figure skates, and I couldn’t help eyeing them warily. Could I trust someone who specialized in speed enough to do spins with me in his arms, let alone lift me up?
We stepped onto the ice together, which was a surreal moment—two different worlds colliding on the same slick surface. The overhead lights gleamed against the freshly resurfaced rink, almost mirror-like in its sheen.
“You color-code your daily schedule, too?” Gunnar teased, side-eying my meticulously arranged phone, water bottle, and choreo notes lined on the boards.
I snorted, pressing “record” on my phone’s voice memo app. “Don’t mock it. My method works.”
“Sure, if you like living in a perfect little box,” he teased back. “But hey, maybe I could use some structure…Not.”
I shot him a look, noticing how broad his shoulders were under that tight performance jacket. He radiated heat in the chilly arena, which was irritatingly distracting. “Focus, please. We only have the rink for a couple hours before the youth hockey team arrives.”
We began by mapping out a rough routine. I insisted on an opening spiral to showcase classical lines—the sort of thing the Olympic Committee appreciated. Gunnar demanded an explosive segment that emphasized speed and power. We agreed on weaving them together, creating a push-pull effect as we navigated from graceful to high-intensity.
“Think of it like a story,” I explained. “We start with elegance, then your wilder energy bursts in, eventually merging into a final demonstration of synergy.”
He arched a brow. “Synergy, huh? That’s a fancy word for ‘look, we’re not killing each other.’ ”
“Synergy sounds better,” I said dryly.
We set up a portable speaker on the boards and loaded a track that started with mellow piano and built into a dynamic beat. I took my place at center ice, arms lifted into position, while Gunnar lingered at the far left, knees bent as if about to explode forward.
On my signal, the music began. I moved into a slow, extended spiral, left leg outstretched behind me, chest lifted. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Gunnar powering around me in a fluid arc that contrasted my precision with his unstoppable velocity. The combination felt jolting at first—like blending two entirely different routines. But just as I turned a pivot into a side-by-side spin, he matched me. Our timing wavered, but we didn’t crash.
When the music hit a deeper pulse, Gunnar shot off in a mini race around the perimeter, leaving me to transition into a spin sequence. Then I reached out for him, and we joined in a short side-by-side footwork pattern. By the time the track faded, we stood, breathing hard, with wide-eyed surprise.
“That was rough,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “But not a total train wreck.”
My cheeks heated. “We need to refine transitions…some spots felt jarring. But the concept...might actually impress people.”
We ran it twice more, recording each attempt on my phone to spot flaws. The second pass ended with me stumbling out of a spin, nearly colliding with Gunnar’s broad chest. His reflexes saved me—he braced my shoulders just in time.
“Easy there,” he murmured. “I know I’m irresistible, but no need to throw yourself at me.”
I scowled, stepping back. “You wish. My skate caught a rut in the ice.”
He smirked. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Ice Queen.”
“Stop calling me that,” I grumbled. But the warmth in my cheeks betrayed me, and I hated how he seemed to notice.
We tried it again, this time nailing the side-by-side spin with fewer wobbles. When we finished, I halted near the boards, breath coming in quick bursts.
“How do you feel?” Gunnar asked, eyes scanning my face.
I shrugged. “Better than I expected. You actually can follow a plan.”
“Don’t act so shocked,” he teased. “I do more than fling myself around a track.”
After an hour of stops and starts, we decided to pause before tackling lifts. I was sweaty under my jacket, hair frizzing around my forehead, while Gunnar seemed merely warmed up. Our gaze locked for an awkward moment—just enough to make me hyperaware of his strong jawline and the way he managed to look unfairly good even peppered with spots of sweat.
I sidestepped, focusing on my phone. “We’ll keep building from here. The second half needs a big moment…maybe a quick lift or a synchronized jump.”
He cocked his head. “Alright, as long as you’re sure. You know I’m game. But let’s not break your neck on day two. My arms are strong, but we gotta train the technique properly like you said.”
“Agreed,” I said. “We’ll go step by step. No sense rushing a major stunt.”
“And here I thought you liked living dangerously,” he teased, eyes gleaming.
I almost snorted. “You have me pegged wrong. I like living safely and winning gold.”
He laughed, a surprisingly rich sound that made the empty arena feel warmer. “Whatever floats your boat, Tiger. Let’s watch our playback.”
We gathered by the bench, huddling around my phone as the video replayed. The overhead lights highlighted the fresh lines in the ice, and our uncertain dance came to life on the screen. Gunnar’s speed overshadowed my lines at times, while my measured grace kept him from spinning off into chaos.
“It’s...not terrible,” I observed. “We’re obviously out of sync in spots, but some transitions flow well.”
“Not terrible. High praise from you,” he said wryly. “I’ll take it.”
I eyed him. “Don’t get smug. We have a long way to go.”
He grinned. “You do realize you’re dangerously close to giving me a compliment, right?”
“Dangerously close,” I echoed, feigning seriousness. “I’d better stop before you get a big head. Oops, too late…you already have one.”
He opened his mouth to retort, but I grabbed my phone, swiftly ending the conversation. The banter with him was weirdly fun—definitely dangerous, but fun. I needed to keep my guard up, or I’d risk letting him distract me from my real goal—Winning Olympic gold. It was everything I ever wanted, what Mom and Dad wanted for me. What they expected as the daughter of a professional hockey coach and Olympic medalist in downhill skiing, not to mention the younger sister of Logan McKenzie.
As we wrapped up, Gunnar headed to retrieve his duffel from the opposite side of the rink. I reached for my water bottle, the one with a pink top, a minor detail that helped me track it. My brow furrowed: it wasn’t where I’d left it on the bench. Glancing around, I saw no sign of it. For a moment, annoyance flared.
“Lose something?” Gunnar asked, returning in time to see me checking under the bench.
“My water bottle,” I muttered. “Second day it’s vanished. I probably left it in the locker room.”
He shrugged. “Check later. The kids’ hockey team is about to roll in.” Indeed, distant chatter and footsteps reached us from the hallway. “We can’t hog the ice much longer.”
I forced a neutral nod. A single missing bottle was no reason to panic, but two days in a row? Combined with that text…maybe it was coincidence. I had no proof otherwise. Let it go, Starla. Real sabotage would be bigger than some random pranks, right?
Outside the arena, morning had shifted to early afternoon. Sunlight gleamed against the freshly fallen snow on the sidewalks. I zipped my jacket, relishing the crisp air. Gunnar walked with me to the parking lot, matching my pace.
“You heading straight home or got more training?” he asked lightly.
“Home,” I replied, adjusting my skate bag. “I have off-ice conditioning to squeeze in, then a meeting with my coach.”
“Busy,” he noted, no judgment in his tone. “Well, same time tomorrow?”
“Same time,” I confirmed. “We’ll try to integrate that partial lift. And maybe refine the footwork for the midsection.”
He inclined his head, a hint of a smile curving his lips. “Looking forward to it, Ice Que…Starla.”
I rolled my eyes, but a tiny grin betrayed me. “Watch it. I might change my mind about working together if you keep pushing your luck.”
He merely chuckled and waved as he strode away, casual confidence in every step. I couldn’t help noticing how his broad shoulders moved under his coat, nor how a stray breeze teased a lock of dark hair across his brow. Why did a guy this annoying have to be so ridiculously attractive?
Once he disappeared behind a row of parked cars, I sighed. Despite my best intentions, Gunnar Hayes had wormed his way under my skin. We’d managed a day without hurling insults or stomping off. Instead, we found a tentative rhythm that might produce a show-stopping performance. The thought both excited and rattled me.
I glanced around the parking lot for my usual sense of security. A couple of parents ushered their kids inside, hockey sticks in tow. A maintenance worker swept the walkway near the main entrance. All normal, no shady figure lurking. Yet the memory of that text lurked in my mind. How had whoever sent it gotten my number? A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature prickled my skin.
But I wouldn’t let small mysteries consume me. So far, it was a single weird message and a missing water bottle. Even if someone didn’t approve of Gunnar, they’d have to do more than petty pranks to scare me off. I’d come too far to let minor inconveniences sabotage my shot at impressing the Committee.
I reached my car and slid behind the wheel, tossing my skate bag into the passenger seat. The tension in my shoulders loosened as I pulled out of the lot. Gunnar and I had found a fragile compromise—if we played it right, we might catch the eye of both sponsors and the Olympic Committee. We’d keep building on it, day by day, routine by routine, until it was perfect. I was determined. As long as we could avoid strangling each other, we might actually pull off something spectacular.
The drive home flew by in a blur of city streets and midday traffic. My mind churned with ideas for adding transitional footwork, refining the spin timing, and selecting just the right music. Despite the swirl of details, a small bubble of excitement found its way to the surface. Maybe I didn’t have to dread working with Gunnar. Maybe I could relish the challenge of bringing order to his chaos—if only he didn’t rattle me whenever he came close enough for me to smell his spicy aftershave.
I parked at my apartment complex, a modern high-rise with sleek glass balconies. As I trudged upstairs, the faint hum of city life offered me a comforting backdrop. Inside my unit, sunlight cascaded through floor-to-ceiling windows onto pale hardwood floors. It was minimalist, calm—my sanctuary.
Dropping my bag by the door, I paused to stretch my arms overhead, letting a slow grin ease across my face. Who would’ve thought I’d find a glimmer of anticipation about tomorrow’s practice after the fiasco that was day one?
I took a quick shower, letting the hot water untangle my muscles. Images of our half-synchronized spins flickered behind my eyelids, reminding me we still had a long road ahead. But we’d started to shape something new, something that might stand out from any other routine I’d done.
By the time I’d dressed in comfy sweats and brewed a small pot of tea, late afternoon sunlight cast warm rectangles across the living room floor. I settled on my couch with my tablet, intending to re-watch the footage. But my thoughts kept drifting to Gunnar’s crooked grin and the way his breath fogged in the icy rink air, the subtle brush of his torso against mine when we nearly collided.
I shook my head, swallowing down the flutter of heat in my belly. This was about the performance, I reminded myself. The routine, the Olympic Committee, the potential sponsors. Not some crazy flirtation with a speed skater who specialized in pushing boundaries. Right?
A soft sigh escaped me. Maybe he was a risk. But skating at this level had always been about taking calculated risks—leaps, spins, the pursuit of more perfect lines. In a strange way, letting Gunnar in might be my boldest move yet. If that turned into gold, then it would all be worth it.
My phone stayed mercifully silent—no more unknown texts. I’d count that as a win. Draining the last of my tea, I rose and turned on a lamp as dusk settled outside the window. Another day done, and I still had my sanity. The real test loomed ahead, though: refining this routine and surviving Gunnar’s unstoppable energy. For all my love of order, a small thrill at that challenge danced through me.
And maybe that meant I was already thawing—if only a fraction—under his high-octane charm.