Page 5

STARLA

The ice beneath my blades felt like an old friend welcoming me back. Seven days had passed since the tire-slashing incident, and I'd forced myself to file it away as a random act of vandalism. Perhaps I'd unwittingly parked in someone's unofficial spot, incurring their wrath. The car repair shop had efficiently replaced the tires, and I'd moved on—externally at least.

I spiraled into a camel spin, extending my free leg parallel to the ice, feeling the familiar centrifugal pull as I rotated. The emptiness of the rink amplified the whispering sound of my blade carving the surface. Morning sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting long rectangles across the pristine ice.

Despite my attempts to dismiss the tire incident, something nagged at me. Coincidences rarely clustered like this—the missing water bottle, the strange text, and now the slashed tires. Still, obsessing would only derail my focus. I was slated to compete in a regional competition tomorrow, and then the charity event with Gunnar was scheduled for the following week.

Gunnar. His name brought an unexpected warmth to my chest. Our partnership had evolved from contentious to something actually approaching harmony. Yesterday's practice had been our best yet—the lift sequence flowed seamlessly, our timing aligned as if we'd skated together for years rather than weeks. His speed complemented my precision in ways I hadn't imagined possible.

I transitioned into a step sequence, mentally mapping my footwork for tomorrow's competition. The Tchaikovsky piece I'd selected demanded delicate edges and nuanced expression—qualities I'd spent my life perfecting. With each glide and turn, I visualized the judges' scorecards, anticipating their critical assessment of every element.

After completing the sequence, I paused for breath, hands on hips. The arena's emptiness suddenly felt oppressive rather than liberating. I glanced at the clock mounted above the entrance—7:15 am. The maintenance staff wouldn't arrive for another forty-five minutes, giving me time for a final run-through of my long program.

Taking position at center ice, I struck my opening pose: right arm extended overhead, left curved gracefully at my waist. In my mind, the music swelled. I pushed off, gathering momentum for my first jump combination.

Suddenly, the rink plunged into total darkness.

I gasped, throwing my arms out for balance, my planned triple toe loop abandoned mid-preparation. Complete blackness enveloped me, disorienting my sense of position. My heart hammered against my ribs as I slowed to a cautious glide, unsure of my location on the ice.

"Hello?" My voice echoed in the cavernous space. "Is anyone there?"

Silence answered. Then, a distant metallic clang—like a door closing somewhere in the building.

The realization of what could have happened sent adrenaline coursing through me. Had I launched into that triple jump, I might have landed wrong in the darkness, potentially tearing a ligament or fracturing an ankle. A serious injury now would destroy everything I'd worked for—the Olympic qualifiers, my entire career.

I fumbled for my phone, tucked into my fitted training jacket's pocket. Its screen illuminated my immediate surroundings with a bluish glow. Using it as a makeshift flashlight, I navigated carefully toward the boards, moving with the utmost caution.

After what felt like an eternity, my outstretched hand met the familiar barrier. I exhaled shakily, following the boards until I reached the exit gate. Dread settled in my stomach as I slipped on my blade guards and used my phone's light to locate the emergency exit.

Outside, the morning sun felt unnervingly bright after the pitch darkness. I dialed the arena manager, explaining the situation in a voice I fought to keep steady. He sounded confused, insisting the lighting system had been inspected just last week. Nevertheless, he promised to send an electrician immediately.

I changed quickly in the locker room, my skin still prickling with unease. The lights flickered back on just as I zipped my bag—as suddenly and inexplicably as they had gone out. The timing felt deliberate, calculated to unsettle me.

During the drive home, I cycled through potential explanations. Electrical fault. Coincidence. Bad luck.

None convinced me.

My apartment building's familiar silhouette offered little comfort as I parked in my designated spot. The doorman nodded as I passed through the lobby, and I forced a polite smile in return. Inside the elevator, I leaned against the mirrored wall, suddenly exhausted despite the early hour.

When the doors opened on my floor, I proceeded to my unit, fishing for keys in my bag. Something white caught my attention—a folded piece of paper protruding from beneath my door. Frowning, I picked it up, assuming it contained a notice about building maintenance or package delivery.

The typewritten message inside made my blood freeze:

You're making mistakes. I'm watching.

I dropped my skate bag, frantically scanning the empty hallway. Nothing seemed out of place. No strangers lurked in shadows, no security cameras had been tampered with. Yet someone had stood at my door, knowing I wouldn't be home.

With trembling fingers, I unlocked my apartment, checking each room before allowing myself to breathe. Everything appeared untouched—my minimalist furniture arranged precisely as I'd left it, kitchen counters immaculate, bedroom undisturbed.

I sank onto my sofa, note clutched in my hand. This wasn't random. Someone was targeting me specifically, escalating from minor annoyances to potentially dangerous sabotage. The timing—right before my competition and the charity event—couldn't be coincidental.

My first instinct was to call my brother, but my finger hovered over the call button. Logan would only worry, and he had enough to deal with right now with coaching the Warlords. Vivian would lecture me about focus and perseverance without addressing the actual threat. That left one person who had witnessed part of this strange pattern, someone who might actually believe me.

I pressed Gunnar's contact, surprised by how quickly he'd earned a spot in my phone's favorites list.

He answered on the second ring. "Morning, Highness. You summoned?"

The familiar teasing tone steadied me. "Someone cut the lights while I was practicing." The words tumbled out before I could manage a greeting. "And now there's a note under my door saying they're watching me."

His voice instantly sharpened. "Are you safe? Where are you now?"

"In my apartment. I'm fine, just..." I swallowed hard. "Unsettled."

"I'm coming over." Not a question, but a statement.

"You don't have to…"

"I'm already grabbing my keys, Starla." His tone brooked no argument.

Twenty minutes later, my doorbell rang. Through the peephole, I saw Gunnar shifting impatiently, his dark hair slightly tousled as if he'd run his hand through it repeatedly. When I opened the door, his gaze swept over me, assessing.

"Are you okay?" he asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

I nodded, suddenly self-conscious in my casual clothing—leggings and an oversized University of Denver sweatshirt that had once belonged to Logan. "I'm fine. Just...concerned."

He scanned my apartment, taking in the pristine white furniture, the uncluttered surfaces, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of downtown Denver. "Nice place. Very you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I crossed my arms defensively.

"Organized. Elegant. Controlled." His gaze softened. "It's not a criticism, Starla. I mean that sincerely."

I led him to the kitchen island, where I'd placed the note in a plastic bag. "This was under my door when I got home."

He examined it without touching, eyes narrowing. "Generic printer paper. Generic font. Nothing distinguishing."

"Hardly amateur hour," I remarked dryly.

"And you said the lights went out while you were practicing?" He looked up, expression grim. "Were you alone in the building?"

"The security guard was at the front entrance, but otherwise, yes. The maintenance crew doesn't arrive until eight." I shivered involuntarily. "If I'd been mid-jump when the darkness hit..."

Gunnar's jaw tightened. "We need to check the security footage. Both at the rink and your building."

"My building has cameras in the lobby and elevators, but not the hallways," I explained. "Privacy policy for the residents."

"The rink should have better coverage." He pulled out his phone. "Let me make a call."

Two hours later, we sat in the small security office of the Denver Ice Arena, reviewing grainy footage with the security chief, a retired police officer named Pablo Santana. The camera covering the electrical room showed a figure in dark clothing and a ski mask accessing the area shortly after seven o'clock.

"Can you zoom in?" Gunnar asked, leaning forward.

Santana adjusted the controls, but the image only grew blurrier. "Sorry, that's as clear as it gets. Our system's due for an upgrade next quarter."

I studied the indistinct figure. "Height? Build? Anything helpful?"

"Medium height, slim build. Could be anyone," Santana admitted. "They knew how to avoid showing their face to the cameras. Probably familiar with the building layout too."

"What about my costume for tomorrow?" I asked suddenly. "It's in the locker reserved for competitors. Could someone have accessed it?"

Santana frowned. "Those lockers have combination locks. If someone knew your combination..."

"I need to check it," I insisted, rising from my chair.

The women's locker room smelled of chlorine and commercial cleaner. My assigned locker stood in the far corner, its metal surface unmarked. I spun the dial through the familiar sequence—my birthday, rearranged—and retrieved the garment bag containing my competition costume.

With Gunnar waiting outside, I unzipped the bag and carefully examined the crystal-studded blue costume I'd selected with Vivian for tomorrow's event. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss. I turned it inside out, checking each seam.

That's when I noticed it—a small, neat slice along the side seam, precisely where the fabric would strain during a spiral. Had I performed without noticing, the costume would have split open at the most inopportune moment.

I slumped onto the wooden bench, costume clutched to my chest. This was beyond mere harassment; it was intended to humiliate me publicly. To shake my confidence just when I needed it most.

After showing Santana the damaged costume and filing an incident report, Gunnar insisted on driving me home. We rode in silence for several minutes, the gravity of the situation settling between us.

"Have you considered withdrawing from tomorrow's competition?" he finally asked, his dark eyes fixed on the road.

"I can't do that," I replied automatically. "Regional standings matter for Olympic qualification points."

He glanced over, concern etched across his features. "Starla, someone is actively trying to sabotage you. This isn't just petty rivalry anymore."

"Which is exactly why I can't withdraw." I straightened in my seat. "I've spent my entire life working toward the Olympics. I won't let some coward in a ski mask derail that."

Gunnar sighed, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "Then what's your plan?"

"I've safety-pinned the costume. I'll go back later with a needle and thread and stitch the seam back together. And I'll skate better than I ever have, just to spite whoever is doing this." Determination hardened my voice. "I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me fall."

He nodded slowly. "Then I'll be there. Front row."

"You don't have to…"

"I want to." His tone left no room for argument. "Both as moral support and to keep an eye out for anything suspicious."

The intensity in his dark eyes made my chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear. When had Gunnar Hayes begun to care so much about my wellbeing? And when had I started to welcome it?

The next morning dawned clear and cold. Despite having slept poorly, I felt a strange calm as I prepared for competition. My routine was so ingrained it required minimal conscious thought—hair secured in a perfect bun, makeup precise but understated, warm-up timed to the minute.

The Denver Invitational wasn't a major competition, but it attracted talented skaters from across the Rocky Mountain region. As I entered the arena, I spotted my primary rival, Irina Sokolov, stretching near the practice rink. Her sleek dark hair was pulled into a severe bun identical to mine, her lithe body clad in a crimson practice outfit that complemented her olive complexion.

Her gaze locked with mine momentarily, her expression unreadable. The press had manufactured a fierce rivalry between us, though in reality, we'd rarely exchanged more than perfunctory greetings. Whether her cold demeanor was genuine or fabricated for publicity, I couldn't say.

During warm-up, I executed each element flawlessly, blocking out all distractions. My repaired costume held together perfectly, the last-minute stitching holding up beneath crystalline embellishments. When my name was announced, I took center ice with absolute focus, channeling every uncertainty into the performance.

The world narrowed to music and movement. Each jump landed cleanly, each spin centered, each footwork sequence precise. As I struck my final pose, arm extended toward the ceiling in triumph, the audience erupted in applause. I allowed myself a genuine smile, scanning the crowd instinctively.

Gunnar sat in the front row, exactly where he'd promised. His warm grin and subtle thumbs-up sent an unexpected flutter through my stomach. Several rows behind him, I noticed Trevor Davis. His gaze met mine and he lifted his hand in a wave, but I quickly averted my gaze, instead gliding toward the exit.

My score placed me firmly in first, ahead of Irina by a narrow margin. She accepted second place with a tight smile that didn't reach her eyes, her handshake brittle when we shared the podium. The photographers captured our strained congeniality, no doubt feeding tomorrow's headlines about our supposed bitter rivalry.

Afterward, I changed quickly, eager to escape the press and competitors. As I navigated the corridor toward the parking area, a familiar voice called my name.

"Starla! Wait up."

Gunnar jogged toward me, effortlessly weaving through the crowd, his dark hair curling slightly at the temples.

"You were amazing out there," he said, falling into step beside me. "Like you were born on ice."

"Thank you for coming," I replied, genuinely touched by his presence. "Did you notice anything suspicious?"

His expression sobered. "Nothing concrete. Trevor Davis was watching you like a hawk, but that could be his usual creepy interest. Irina seemed pretty intensely focused on you too, but that's normal for competitors."

I nodded, pondering the possibilities. "The timing of everything—right before regionals and our charity event—can't be coincidental. Someone wants to throw me off my game."

"The question is, who benefits from that?" Gunnar mused. "And how far are they willing to go?"

We paused at the exit doors, snow visible through the glass panels.

"Have dinner with me," he said suddenly. "To celebrate your win."

The invitation caught me off guard. "I don't usually celebrate mid-season. There's always more work to do."

"All the more reason to take one night off." His smile held a challenge. "Live dangerously, McKenzie. Eat something that isn't pre-measured for optimal protein content."

A laugh escaped me, surprising us both. "When you put it like that, how can I refuse?"

His eyes brightened. "Is that a yes?"

I nodded, a strange lightness replacing the tension that had gripped me for days. "That's a yes."

As we stepped into the gentle snowfall, I realized that amidst the mystery and threat, something unexpected was emerging between us—and I was surprised to find that I welcomed it.