Page 7

STARLA

Morning light spilled across the polished surface of the Denver Ice Arena, illuminating microscopic crystals that sparkled like diamond dust. I glided through my warm-up routine, feeling a lightness in my movements that had nothing to do with physical conditioning and everything to do with the dark-haired speed skater practicing power crossovers along the perimeter. Every few laps, Gunnar's eyes would find mine, his smile igniting a flutter beneath my ribs that I'd stopped trying to suppress.

Six weeks ago, I would have scoffed at the notion of developing feelings for someone like him—impulsive, boundary-pushing, deliberately provocative. Now I couldn't imagine my days without his challenging presence, his unexpected tenderness, the way he'd somehow slipped past defenses I'd spent a lifetime constructing.

"Focus, Starla," Vivian called from the sidelines, clipboard clutched to her chest. "Your free leg is dropping on the spiral sequence."

I corrected immediately, extending through my instep, chin lifted. The charity event loomed less than twenty-four hours away, our final dress rehearsal a culmination of weeks of relentless practice and gradual transformation. What had begun as a publicity obligation had evolved into something extraordinary—a routine that showcased both our strengths while transcending our individual styles.

Gunnar completed his circuit and slowed near me, spraying a fine mist of ice as he stopped. "Ready for the run-through? Luis wants to check the lighting cues with the full performance."

Luis Ruiz, the production’s choreographer, stood with the technical director near the sound booth, gesturing animatedly about spotlight positioning. The arena had been transformed for tomorrow's gala—elegant banners suspended from the rafters, a specially constructed platform for the Olympic Committee members and sponsors, and professional lighting that would elevate our exhibition beyond typical practice conditions.

I nodded, taking a deep breath to center myself. "Let's show them what fire and ice can do together."

His grin widened, that familiar spark of mischief dancing in his eyes. "That's my girl."

My girl. The casual endearment sent a ridiculous thrill through me. After our night together following the restaurant disaster with Cassidy, something fundamental had shifted between us. We hadn't discussed labels or future plans—both of us were too focused on the immediate challenges of the exhibition and the mysterious threats—but the intimacy lingering in his touch, his gaze, spoke volumes.

We took our starting positions as Luis signaled the sound technician. The opening notes filled the arena—haunting piano giving way to a driving beat that somehow captured our contrasting energies. Muscle memory took over as I flowed through the choreography, each movement precise yet infused with newfound emotional depth.

Gunnar and I circled each other, our paths intertwining in a dance of approach and retreat, tension and release. When his hands clasped my waist for our first lift, I trusted him completely, surrendering to the momentum as he raised me overhead. My body arced into a perfect position, arms extended, before he lowered me in a controlled descent that transitioned seamlessly into side-by-side spins.

Throughout the routine, I remained acutely aware of him—his power, his presence, the extraordinary way he'd adapted his speed skating techniques to complement my classically trained movements. The program built to a crescendo as we executed a death spiral, my body hovering inches above the ice as he anchored me, our joined hands the only connection preventing me from falling.

For our finale, we merged into a paired spin that evolved from cautious synchronicity to breathtaking speed, breaking apart at the last moment to strike mirror-image ending poses—his aggressive and powerful, mine elegant and precise, yet somehow creating perfect harmony together.

Silence hung in the air for three heartbeats before Luis erupted into enthusiastic applause, joined by the small crew of technicians and arena staff who'd paused their preparations to watch.

"Magnificent!" Luis exclaimed, hurrying onto the ice. "The technical complexity infused with the dance of the heart—it's exactly what I envisioned!"

Vivian's approval came in the form of a single nod, though I detected the slightest softening around her eyes. "The transitions in the middle section have improved significantly. The committee will be impressed."

Hank Wells, Gunnar's coach, offered a gruff thumbs-up from his position near the boards. I'd come to recognize this as his equivalent of ecstatic praise.

Gunnar skated to my side, his breathing slightly elevated from exertion. "Told you we'd nail it."

"We actually did," I admitted, unable to contain my smile. "It feels..."

"Magical?" he suggested, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"I was going to say 'cohesive,' but magical works too."

He laughed, draping an arm around my shoulders as we glided toward the exit. "Only you would use a word like 'cohesive' to describe what just happened. Admit it, McKenzie—we created something special."

The warmth of his body against mine, even through our training clothes, sent a pleasant shiver down my spine. "Fine. It's special. Remarkable. Transcendent. Does that satisfy your ego?"

"Almost." His voice dropped to a murmur meant only for me. "But I can think of other ways you could satisfy me later."

Heat bloomed across my cheeks. The memory of our night together after the restaurant flooded back—his hands exploring every inch of me, the exquisite pleasure of surrendering control to someone I trusted, the surprising tenderness in his touch despite his reputation for wildness.

"Behave," I whispered back. "We're in public."

His chuckle vibrated against me. "That hasn't stopped you from having very inappropriate thoughts right now. I can tell by that blush."

Before I could formulate a suitably cutting response, Luis approached with final notes about costume adjustments and timing cues. We spent another hour refining minute details, ensuring tomorrow's performance would be flawless. By the time we finished, late afternoon shadows stretched across the ice, the maintenance crew hovering impatiently with their resurfacing equipment.

In the locker room, I changed quickly, eager to finalize preparations for tomorrow. The exhibition had taken on heightened significance beyond mere publicity or Olympic Committee approval. It represented something profound about transformation—Gunnar's, mine, and what we'd become together against all odds. Even I was at a loss to explain what had taken place—I only knew that I was grateful.

I zipped my skate bag, mentally cataloging the items I'd need to bring tomorrow. Reaching inside for my water bottle, my fingers brushed against something unfamiliar—a folded piece of paper tucked into the inner pocket where I kept spare laces. Frowning, I pulled it out, unfolding the plain white paper to reveal a message in the same generic computer font as the previous note:

YOU WON’T PERFORM TOMORROW.

Ice flooded my veins, the earlier euphoria evaporating instantly. I glanced around the empty locker room, suddenly feeling exposed despite the security measures we'd implemented after the previous incidents. Someone had accessed my belongings—again—despite my vigilance. Someone determined to derail everything I'd worked for.

I found Gunnar waiting in the lobby, scrolling through his phone. One look at my face and he straightened, instantly alert.

"What happened?" he asked, voice low as he moved toward me.

Wordlessly, I handed him the note. His expression darkened as he read the four ominous words, jaw tightening visibly.

"Where was this?"

"Inside my skate bag. In an inner pocket.” I tried to keep my voice steady despite the chill of fear now coursing through me. "Gunnar, they're getting bolder. First it was missing items, then slashed tires and sabotaged lights. Now direct threats."

He scanned the lobby, though I knew he wouldn't spot anything suspicious. Our tormentor operated in shadows, striking when we least expected. "We need to talk to security. And make a list of everyone who might want to sabotage you…us."

In the security office, Santana reviewed the locker room footage, shaking his head in frustration. "Camera angle doesn't show the lockers themselves, just the entrance. Several people went in and out during your practice."

"Who?" Gunnar demanded.

Santana consulted his notes. "Other skaters with locker access, cleaning staff, a couple of event organizers checking space for tomorrow. Nothing unusual."

I leaned against the desk, mind racing. "Let's think systematically. Who benefits from disrupting the exhibition or my skating career in general?"

Gunnar grabbed a notepad, uncapping a pen with his teeth. "Trevor Davis," he began, writing the name with forceful strokes. "Hockey player with a fixation on you. Has money, connections, and an entitled attitude. Won’t take no for an answer."

I nodded reluctantly. "He doesn't handle rejection well, and he's made multiple unwanted advances."

"Irina Sokolov," Gunnar continued, adding her to the list. "Your main competition. Benefits directly if you're rattled or injured before Olympic qualifiers."

"She's ambitious enough," I acknowledged. "Though sabotage seems extreme, even for her."

"Cassidy Palmer." His expression tightened as he wrote his ex's name. "Clearly unstable, definitely jealous, publicly threatened both of us at the restaurant."

The memory of that humiliating scene made me wince. "She specifically said we'd regret our being together."

"And finally, unknown obsessive fan." He tapped the pen against the paper. "Someone who may be deluded into thinking they have a relationship with you, and therefore feels unusually possessive, possibly threatened by your partnership with me."

Santana collected the list, promising to review security footage with these suspects in mind. "In the meantime, I'll assign additional security for tomorrow's event. And I strongly suggest you both use extreme caution."

Outside, twilight had descended, streetlights flickering on as we walked to Gunnar's Range Rover. Neither of us spoke until we were safely inside, doors locked.

"Please stay with me tonight?" I asked with urgency tingeing my tone. The words emerged before I could analyze them, pure instinct overriding my usual self-reliance.

His hand found mine across the console. "I was going to suggest the same thing. Besides, I have three days' worth of dirty dishes in my sink and hockey equipment drying in my bathtub."

A laugh escaped me despite the tension. "How romantic."

At my apartment, we ordered takeout from a nearby Thai restaurant, spreading containers across my usually pristine coffee table. As we ate, we discussed security measures for tomorrow, potential warning signs to watch for, contingency plans. The practical conversation helped calm my nerves, transforming abstract fear into manageable precautions.

After dinner, Gunnar insisted on checking the entire apartment—testing window locks, examining the door frame for signs of tampering, confirming the balcony access was secure. His protectiveness might have felt stifling coming from anyone else, but from him, it felt like a natural extension of the bond forming between us.

"All clear," he announced, returning to the living room where I'd cleaned up our dinner remains. "Though I should probably sleep with one eye open, just in case."

I approached him slowly, sliding my arms around his waist. "Or you could stay awake doing something more enjoyable than security patrol."

His eyebrows rose, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Ms. McKenzie, are you propositioning me?"

"Absolutely." I rose on tiptoes, brushing my lips against his. "Any objections?"

His response came in the form of strong arms lifting me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carried me toward the bedroom. "Only that you're still wearing too many clothes."

What followed transcended our first night together, each touch deepened by growing familiarity yet exciting in its exploration. Gunnar laid me gently on the bed, his body covering mine as his mouth traced a burning path down my neck. I arched against him, fingers threading through his hair, guiding him lower.

He took his time undressing me, treating each newly exposed inch of skin to attention. When he finally slid inside me, our bodies joined in perfect synchronicity, I felt boundaries dissolving that went beyond the physical. The control I clung to in every other aspect of my life melted away under his touch, replaced by liberating surrender that heightened every sensation.

"Let go baby," he whispered against my ear, sensing my approaching climax. "I've got you."

And I did—completely, utterly, gloriously—falling apart in his arms with an abandon I'd never allowed myself before. He followed moments later, my name on his lips, his body trembling against mine.

Afterward, we lay tangled in sheets and each other, his fingers tracing lazy patterns across my bare shoulder. The comfortable silence between us felt as intimate as our lovemaking, requiring no words to fill the space.

Eventually, however, Gunnar broke the quiet. "Starla." His voice had acquired a serious edge I rarely heard. "What's worth more…winning gold or your life?"

The question hung between us, weighted with implications. I propped myself up on one elbow, studying his troubled expression. "That's not a fair comparison."

"It is if someone's willing to hurt you to stop your performance." His hand stilled against my skin. "Maybe we should withdraw from tomorrow's exhibition. Give the cops more time to identify whoever's behind this."

Panic fluttered in my chest at the suggestion. "We can't quit now. Not when we've created something extraordinary, not when the Olympic Committee will be watching."

"The committee will have other opportunities to see you skate," he argued gently. "If you're alive and uninjured."

"And if we back out, whoever's doing this wins." I sat up, pulling the sheet around me. "They'll see it worked, that threats can make Starla McKenzie run scared."

"This isn't about fear. It's about sensible precaution." Frustration edged into his voice. "I've watched you push through injuries, exhaustion, and setbacks. I admire your determination. But this is different."

I felt trapped between impossible choices—my lifelong Olympic dream, my parents' expectations, Vivian's investment in my career, and now this unexpected connection with Gunnar that had become precious to me. "I don't want to let anyone down," I whispered. "Not you, not my coaches, not my parents, not myself."

"You could never let me down." He sat up beside me, cupping my face in his hands. "But you need to consider what happens after tomorrow. If we haven't identified who's doing this…"

“I know." I leaned into his touch. "Please, Gunnar. Give me tomorrow. Let me…let us…show the world what we've created together. After that, if the authorities haven't caught whoever's responsible, I'll seriously consider withdrawing from competitions until they do."

He studied me for a long moment, conflict evident in his expression. "Promise me you'll be careful. That you won't take unnecessary risks."

"I promise." Relief flooded through me. "It's not just about medals anymore. I have something else worth protecting now."

His eyes softened at the unspoken declaration. "What's that?"

I touched his face, allowing myself rare vulnerability. "Our future. Whatever that might be."

He pulled me into a tender kiss that sealed our agreement. When we separated, he pressed his forehead against mine. "For the record, I'm falling for you too, McKenzie. Hard."

The simple statement unlocked something within me—permission to acknowledge what I'd been fighting for weeks. I'd constructed my entire life around independence, control, and solitary pursuit of perfection. Yet somehow, this chaos-embracing speed skater had become essential to my happiness, on and off the ice.

As we settled back into bed, his arms encircling me protectively, I allowed myself a moment of hope. Tomorrow we would dazzle the world with our performance. And perhaps the authorities would finally identify whoever threatened our fragile new beginning.

Sleep claimed me gradually, my last conscious thought a prayer that our intertwined bodies, breathing in perfect rhythm, symbolized a future neither of us had anticipated but both now desperately wanted to protect.