Page 4
GUNNAR
I slid onto the ice at the Denver rink with my usual push of energy, enjoying the crisp air in my lungs and the smooth surface under my skates. Early morning light streamed through the high windows, illuminating the faint mist swirling at skate-level. Over the past two weeks, I had developed a routine I never anticipated: daily figure-skating practice with Starla McKenzie.
Starla arrived soon after, her hair pulled into a tight, low bun, a fitted training jacket showcasing her petite figure. For someone standing just over five feet, she carried herself with a regal air, her emerald eyes scanning the arena. She offered a curt nod in my direction. I noticed her lips relax a fraction, which seemed like her version of a warm greeting.
We began with a slow warm-up, each circling in our own patterns. She paused to stretch her calf muscles against the boards, maintaining faultless posture. I performed a few sprint laps around the perimeter, letting my thighs burn in that familiar rush I craved. We reconvened at center ice, standing a few feet apart on the freshly resurfaced surface.
“Let’s run the opening again,” she said as she brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. “I want to ensure we’ve maintained the improvements from yesterday.”
I nodded, flicking on the portable speaker she’d set up. A soft, classical tune swelled, piano notes rising over gentle violins. She glided forward, posture firm, arms unfolding in an elegant spiral. I hung back, letting her lines establish the tone before skating into my own segment of momentum-driven crossovers. The first few days we tried this, we collided or lost balance, but two weeks of daily rehearsal worked wonders. Now, her spiral transitioned seamlessly into my burst of speed, and we flowed side by side.
We repeated this sequence multiple times, each run refining small details. I watched her analyze every edge, each angle of her blade. She corrected me on subtle positioning, pointing out that a slight angle shift in my knees might avoid clipping her path. I listened for once, adjusting my stance to incorporate her suggestions. By now, I appreciated that her sharp eye led to smoother collaboration.
After ten minutes of drilling the intro, we switched to the middle portion, which combined a side-by-side spin with a quick pivot into a partial lift. I found myself focusing on each movement of her tiny form, anticipating her shifts in weight. My usual approach was to rely on instinct, but with Starla, I needed to think a step ahead. She tossed occasional reminders or short commands, but I noticed the absence of her earlier scorn. Instead, she sounded cautious but almost… encouraging.
During one spin, I placed a hand lightly on her waist to catch her at the right angle, preventing a stumble. She rewarded me with a nod that might have been gratitude, and I felt a small thrill that we were actually functioning as a team. Her entire body hummed with tension and focus, yet she no longer recoiled from my help.
At the end of our run-through, she paused, panting faintly. “That’s much better,” she remarked, gaze sweeping over me. “Your pivot was more controlled.”
I smirked. “All thanks to your brilliant guidance, right?”
She shrugged with a tiny upturn at the corner of her mouth, a reaction I rarely saw. “You do catch on quickly,” she admitted.
We repeated the spin-lift transition and nailed it without wobble or missed timing. That success made her face light up in a quick, radiant smile. My chest clenched at the sight of it. She rarely let her guard down, so glimpsing real excitement was a shock to the system. “You see that?” I teased, stepping aside so she could glide to a stop. “You actually smiled, McKenzie.”
Her lips pressed together, pink warming her cheeks. “Don’t read too much into it,” she said, voice brisk. But she didn’t deny her moment of joy.
I studied her petite build, the trim figure shaped by years of relentless discipline, and couldn’t resist a small grin of my own. “Too late. I’m reading it as a sign of progress.”
She blew out an exasperated breath, then motioned for us to try again. I let her have the last word for once, deciding not to push my luck.
We continued refining each segment until our allocated ice time drew near its end. She executed a final spin, arms extended elegantly, while I mirrored her motions in a less polished but serviceable manner. The music faded, leaving us on the ice, breathing heavily from the intensity. A flush colored her cheeks, and my pulse thudded from the exertion. When she straightened, I caught a flash of genuine satisfaction in her eyes, like a guarded curtain lifting momentarily.
When practice wrapped up, we lingered at the boards, removing skates. Her phone buzzed with a notification, but she dismissed it to focus on stowing her equipment. The overhead lights glowed on her hair, bringing out traces of gold. I wiped sweat from my forehead, deciding to act on an impulse that brewed in the back of my mind.
“You know,” I said, slipping my skates into my bag, “we’ve spent hours on the ice every day but I barely know you off the rink. What if we grabbed coffee…or tea, since I figure you’re not a caffeine fiend like me?”
She paused, one brow lifted. “I have to meet with Vivian soon.”
I leaned a forearm on the boards, trying a casual tone. “Then how about later? Even one cup would be good. We can skip practice talk unless you want it, and maybe warm up somewhere that’s not subzero.”
She appeared thoughtful, glanced at the time on her phone, and let out a small sigh. “I suppose I can spare an hour. Why not?”
I felt a sense of relief at her acceptance. She lifted her neatly packed bag onto one shoulder and headed toward the locker rooms. Our constant friction had melted into a measured civility, and I caught myself wanting to hear her discuss something besides jump sequences or foot placement.
“That’s long enough for me,” I added, shouldering my own gear. “Wherever you prefer.”
She paused at the door, glancing over her shoulder. “Fine. There’s a café near the training center that serves passable tea.” Then she slipped inside, leaving me unexpectedly eager for this brief escape from the rink.
I managed to keep my grin in check. “Lead the way, Your Highness,” I muttered under my breath. A few minutes later, we stepped out of the ice center into a crisp winter gust. The sidewalk bore a thin sheen of frost, and the chilly air prickled against my cheeks as we walked. Storefronts along this stretch ranged from yoga studios to organic groceries, with a few boutique gyms squeezed in between.
The café she mentioned occupied a narrow lot, fronted by a sage-painted wood trim and a couple of ceramic planters flanking the entrance. Inside, strings of fairy lights ran across the ceiling beams, giving the polished concrete floor a soft glow. The scent of freshly ground espresso mingled with a subtler note of herbal blends, welcoming us into a cozy, if eclectic, refuge from the cold.
We placed our orders—black coffee for me, peppermint tea for her—and chose a corner table away from the bustle of laptop-toting customers. She removed her jacket, revealing a fitted black top that accentuated her toned arms, each muscle defined from years of skating and weight training. In normal lighting, I saw fine lines of fatigue near her eyes, though her posture remained upright.
I took a sip of my coffee. “You’ve made big progress, you know. We’re actually pulling off moves I never thought possible.”
She set her teacup down. “Thank you,” she said, voice subdued. “I’ll admit, our synergy has improved more than I expected.”
“I notice you keep track of every improvement,” I said with mild curiosity. “You’re constantly making tiny notes on your phone after practice. I’d love to see that level of organization in my own regimen, but I guess I’m more of a freestyle guy.”
She exhaled, cheeks warming. “I can’t switch off my methodical side. My family always pushed me to be thorough. If I’m going to do something, I have do it fully. No shortcuts.”
“Sounds intense.” I traced my finger around the rim of my mug. “I guess that’s why you stand out on the ice. People see that discipline shining through.”
Her gaze flicked aside, considering. “To be honest, I’m not sure they even see me. They see a polished figure skater who rarely makes mistakes. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just going through the motions.”
I cocked my head. “You think you’re performing for them, rather than for yourself?”
A faint shrug lifted her shoulders. “I used to skate for myself, but the more success I had, the more it felt like a duty. My parents each had their own legacy in sports, so I inherited their expectations. I want the Olympic Committee’s validation, but some days I wonder whose dream I’m really chasing.”
I listened to her words, noticing the flicker of uncertainty in her beautiful green eyes. I set down my coffee, leaning forward. “Ever consider that your own dream might align with theirs, but in your own way? You’re too determined to settle for half measures, right?”
Her lips parted, then closed. “That’s how I’ve always lived, never half measure. It’s...complicated.”
I nodded, deciding not to pry further. My own upbringing was the opposite, but I understood how pressures could shape a person. “Well, from where I stand, your drive is a good thing. You keep me from screwing up with my spontaneous stunts.”
A glimmer of amusement tugged her mouth. “I guess you do benefit from structure. And I suppose I’ve learned something about letting go…just a little.”
We shared a brief, genuine smile. I liked hearing that I’d chipped away at her rigid approach. Was she chipping away at my walls, too? I didn’t know if I was ready for it if so, but at this point I still had enough of my guard up to keep things in check.
Starla sipped her tea, crossing her legs under the table. “You never told me how you got into speed skating. Not in detail.”
I set my coffee down, deciding I might as well return the favor by sharing the basics. “I found speed skating later than most. Moved through various foster homes after my parents died when I was eight. Some coach spotted me messing around on a rink, realized I had the right balance of muscle and stamina. At first, I just liked going fast. Then I realized I could do it competitively. I guess my rebellious streak found a legit outlet.”
Her expression softened. “I remember hearing your story somewhere now…probably the news. I’m so sorry you lost your parents that young.”
“Made me independent earlier, I guess,” I said, shrugging as the usual ache surfaced. “Speed skating gave me direction. Otherwise, I might’ve ended up bouncing between random unskilled, low-paying jobs, never committing to anything. Instead, I latched onto the thrill of racing.”
She offered a quiet nod. “Hearing that helps me understand your approach: pushing boundaries, living in the moment. It suits you.”
I let out a small laugh. “And you? You prefer to measure each boundary before crossing it.”
Her mouth curved slightly. “Yes. That’s probably the difference in a nutshell.”
We spoke a bit more about personal histories, training regimens, her early attempts at landing triple jumps. I found myself oddly captivated by the details of her daily routine, from the macro counting of jump rotations to the micro attention to blade edges. It reminded me that speed skating and figure skating, while both on ice, demanded unique mindsets. She came across as a thorough scientist of the sport, while I was more like a test pilot.
The café door swung open mid-conversation, drawing my attention to a tall guy with dark blonde hair and a self-important stride. I sensed Starla’s demeanor sharpen the instant she saw him. Trevor Davis, a forward recently traded to the Denver Warlords—her brother Logan’s team—walked straight to our table, a grin on his face that didn't mask the superiority in his gaze.
“Starla,” he greeted, ignoring my existence entirely. “Didn’t think you took time for coffee.”
She placed her teacup on the saucer, tone polite but unyielding. “We just finished practice. Did you need something, Trevor?”
He shrugged, broad shoulders flexing beneath a stylish athletic jacket. “Needed a drink between workouts. Didn’t realize you’d be here with... him .”
I gave him a nod, tilting my chair back slightly. “Gunnar Hayes. Her partner for the charity event.”
Trevor barely flicked a glance my way before zeroing in on Starla. “You never answered my texts. I asked about meeting up, yet you always dodge me.”
Her expression cooled. “I’ve told you before: I’m not interested.”
His jaw twitched, gaze sliding over me before returning to her. “Now you’re out with a speed skater? Thought you’d aim higher.”
I tensed. If the guy was looking for a fight, he was about to get one. However, Starla interjected first, exhaling pointedly. “We’re discussing our routine, and I’d appreciate some privacy.”
Trevor mustered a shrug, face souring. “Whatever. Have fun with your practice buddy. You’re missing out, Star.”
Then he spun on his heel and strode out. Starla watched his retreat, her fingers tightening around the teacup’s handle.
I studied her rigid posture. “He’s persistent.”
She blew out a frustrated breath. “I’ve told him no a hundred times. He doesn’t listen.”
I suppressed a spike of protectiveness, not wanting to overstep. “You need me to say anything, or is it better if I back off?”
Her shoulders eased. “I can handle him. He’s just annoying. Let’s forget it.” She eyed the door where Trevor had disappeared. “We should wrap up here soon. I have a meeting with my coach.”
“All right,” I agreed, finishing the last of my coffee. “Let me walk you back to your car.”
She nodded, though her gaze lingered on the spot where Trevor had stood. A taut energy surrounded her, and I recognized how much she disliked that intrusion.
We left the café and stepped back out to the wintry sidewalk. Cars lined the street, leaves drifted across the pavement, and the scent of fresh bread wafted from a nearby bakery. Starla led the way, pausing at her white SUV parked a block over. She rummaged in her purse for keys, her shoulders still tense.
Then she halted abruptly. I looked down, noticing the front tire sagging with a jagged slash near the rim. The rear tire on the same side showed an identical cut. My jaw tightened in anger. “That’s not a nail or broken glass.”
Her eyes widened, composure flickering. “Oh my God. Someone...did this?”
I crouched, running my hand over the ripped rubber. “No question. Both tires are trashed.”
She swallowed, color draining from her cheeks. “Unbelievable.”
I stood, scanning the empty sidewalk. “Could be random vandalism,” I said, mind spinning. “But…”
She inhaled, pressing her lips together. “I can’t deal with speculation right now. I just need my car fixed. I have a full schedule tomorrow. I’m supposed to meet with Vivian in 15 minutes.”
I pulled out my phone, flipping through my contact list. “I know a tow service that’s pretty quick. Let me call them.”
She nodded, arms wrapped around her petite frame as a gust of wind lifted the ends of her scarf.
“Why slash my tires?” she muttered, frustration lacing her words.
I didn’t answer, keeping my focus on the call. After a brief exchange, the tow service promised a forty-five to sixty-minute arrival window. It was the best they could do.
I took a step closer to her, lowering my voice. “Why don’t you call Vivian and explain what happened. Let me stick around until the tow arrives, and then I’ll drive you home, all right? Go back and wait in the café where it’s warm. I’ll text you when they show up.”
She nodded reluctantly. “Okay. Thank you.”
The tow truck came, the driver examined the tires with a concerned frown, and Starla signed the paperwork with a hasty scrawl. Once her car was secure for transport, I led her to my Range Rover, parked a short walk away. She slid into the passenger seat, hugging herself to fight the chill.
I started the engine, feeling unresolved anger twist in my gut at the idea of someone targeting her property. She stared out the window, slender fingers tapping the door restlessly.
“You all right?” I asked quietly, pulling away from the curb.
Her voice came out stiff. “I hate not knowing why this happened. Hate that I have to scramble for a ride.”
I pressed my foot on the gas, merging into traffic. “We’ll figure out your transportation. The important part is you’re safe.”
She nodded but kept her gaze on the cityscape passing by in a blur of buildings and trees barren of leaves. I let her be. My thoughts churned with frustration at the sabotage, yet I tried not to let it show. The brief silence between us felt heavy, though not entirely uncomfortable—like we were both processing the situation in our own way.
When we reached her block, she pointed out the modern high-rise apartment building where she lived, and I pulled up to the curb. She unbuckled, exhaling before turning to me. “Thank you for the ride. And for not making this a bigger ordeal.”
I met her eyes, still seeing the worry swirling behind them. “Anytime, Starla. Let me know if you need help tomorrow.”
She gave a curt nod, then slipped from the car. Her small figure disappeared through the tinted glass doors, but I lingered a moment, adrenaline from the entire episode still coursing through me.
I left after a few minutes, navigating the traffic with my own blend of agitation and concern. The memory of Trevor’s snide remarks lingered, though I had no proof he or anyone else was behind the tire-slashing. All I could do was show up for practice, keep nailing our moves, and watch her back if something else occurred. Over the past two weeks, Starla and I had grown into a reluctant team. Keeping her safe—no matter how small or strange the threat—had now become part of my priority.
Thoughts of perfect spins, crisp transitions, and the strange charge between Starla and me filled my mind. The routine had blossomed into something impressive, but our final steps together remained uncertain. I only knew I wasn’t giving up on this improbable partnership, or on a figure skater who had unexpectedly stirred instincts in me I never expected to feel.
I parked at my loft, hauling my skate bag inside. The echo of quiet walls and the flicker of overhead lights greeted me. Memories of Starla’s guarded half-smile after that perfect spin-lift clung to my thoughts, along with the unsettling sight of her ravaged tires, and I knew I’d do whatever it took not to let anyone to stand in her way—or mine.