Page 8

GUNNAR

Dawn broke in streaks of vermilion across the Denver skyline as I prowled the perimeter of Starla's living room, checking window latches for the third time. Sleep had evaded me most of the night, my body alert beside her peaceful form. The note's ominous message echoed through my mind, transforming what would have been the exhilaration of anticipation into wary vigilance.

Starla emerged from the bedroom. She was dressed in warm-ups, but her hair was already coiled in its performance-ready bun. Even with the weight of threats hanging over us, she projected composure. Only the slight tension around her eyes betrayed her anxiety.

"You've been up for hours," she observed, crossing to the kitchen where coffee brewed. Not a question.

I shrugged, accepting the mug she offered. "Thought I'd make sure our mystery admirer didn't pay a visit."

"Any sign of trouble?"

"Nothing." I took a sip, watching her over the rim.” Santana confirmed he doubled security for today. Extra guards at all entrances, credential checks, the works."

She nodded, gathering her things methodically as she went through her checklist. Even in the face of potential danger, her organizational habits remained intact.

We arrived at the arena three hours before the event, well ahead of the other performers. The parking lot stood nearly empty. Our footsteps echoed across the asphalt still damp from overnight rain. At the staff entrance, a security guard inspected our credentials before waving us through with a nod.

Inside, the transformation was complete. What had been a standard ice arena now gleamed with theatrical lighting, the boards adorned with sponsor logos and charity insignia. Seating for Olympic Committee members had been arranged prominently, with plush chairs set where they could evaluate each nuance of our performance.

"Let's check the ice," Starla suggested, heading toward the locker rooms.

I followed, scanning each shadowy corner, each service access. Nothing seemed amiss, yet unease clung to me like a second skin. We changed quickly and claimed the freshly resurfaced rink for a brief practice run.

The ice felt different under exhibition conditions—harder, faster. We adapted instantly, our muscle memory compensating for the altered surface. Our bodies found their connection points, her delicate frame fitting against mine as if designed for these precise moments of contact.

"Perfect," she declared after we completed our final lift sequence. A rare, unguarded smile illuminated her features. "We're ready."

I wished I shared her confidence. My eyes continuously swept the perimeter, seeking movement in the shadows, unusual packages, anything that might signal danger.

We finished our abbreviated run-through as staff began filtering in—technicians adjusting spotlights, sound engineers testing levels, ushers preparing to distribute programs. Each unfamiliar face triggered my scrutiny until Santana approached, clipboard in hand.

"Perimeter secure," he reported. "We've checked all equipment, entrances restricted to authorized personnel only."

I nodded, though his assurances did little to ease my vigilance. "And the lighting rig?" The memory of darkened ice during Starla's practice remained vivid.

"Triple-checked. Everything's on separate circuits now, can't all go down at once."

We retreated to the preparation area where other performers had begun arriving—pairs skaters, hockey players performing precision drills, a troupe of synchronized skaters in matching warmups. Amid the growing bustle, I spotted two familiar figures approaching—Starla’s brother Logan McKenzie and his reporter girlfriend Emberleigh Quinn, both looking polished for the cameras sure to follow them.

"Star!" Logan embraced his sister, his expression warm beneath professional composure. "The place is packed already. Half the Olympic Committee showed up early to claim their seats."

Starla returned his hug. "No pressure or anything."

Emberleigh stepped forward, microphone conspicuously absent. "I'm off-duty until after your performance," she assured us. "Just wanted to wish you both luck." She lowered her voice, leaning closer. "Though I should mention I saw Irina Sokolov acting a bit strangely backstage. Arguing with someone on her phone, then ducking into a staff area when she noticed me watching."

Starla and I exchanged glances.

"Thanks for the heads-up," I replied, filing the information away.

Logan seemed oblivious to the undercurrent. "You two have created quite a buzz. The promo footage leaked online has everyone talking."

"We should get back to warming up," Starla interjected, clearly wrestling with competing priorities—sibling connection versus performance preparation.

After they departed, tension visibly eased from her shoulders. "Logan means well, but his timing is terrible. Let's finish getting ready."

We separated to change into our costumes—Starla to the women's locker room, me to the men's. My outfit was simple—black pants with silver accents, a fitted dark blue top designed to complement Starla's crystalline costume. I changed quickly, eager to reestablish our safety perimeter.

When Starla didn't emerge after fifteen minutes, concern gnawed at me. I approached the women's locker room entrance, hovering until a young skater exited.

"Could you check on Starla McKenzie?" I asked. "Tell her Gunnar's waiting."

The girl nodded, disappearing inside. Moments later, Starla burst through the door, face drained of color.

"My skates are gone," she whispered, voice tight with controlled panic. "I left them right beside my bag when I changed, and now they're missing."

Cold dread crystallized in my chest. "You're certain they weren't moved?"

"Positive. I always place them exactly six inches from my bag. They're gone, Gunnar."

I grabbed her elbow, steering her toward the security office where Santana monitored camera feeds. "When did you last see them?"

"Twenty minutes ago, tops. I set them down, hung up my costume, then stepped into the shower area to change. When I came back, they'd vanished."

Santana mobilized his team instantly, dispatching guards to all exits while reviewing locker room footage. "No one entered carrying skates," he confirmed, "so they must still be in the building."

A systematic search commenced—storage rooms, custodial closets, equipment bins. The event's starting time crept closer, heightening our urgency. Other performers began their final preparations while we frantically combed the arena's back areas.

"Found them!" A security guard's voice crackled over the radio. "Maintenance closet near the Zamboni bay."

We raced to the location, relief flooding me at the sight of white boots nestled between cleaning supplies. Starla snatched them up, examining each inch with growing horror.

"The blades," she whispered. "Look at the edges."

Where precision-honed steel should have gleamed, dull surfaces reflected the harsh fluorescent light. Someone had deliberately dulled the edges, rendering them dangerously unpredictable for jumps or spins.

"We need new blades. Now." Her voice remained steady despite the sabotage. "There's an equipment shop on-site."

The next forty minutes passed in controlled chaos. A technician from the pro shop worked frantically to mount and hone new blades while the event began, other performers taking the ice to enthusiastic applause. Starla watched the blade mounting process with laser focus, testing the balance repeatedly.

"It'll have to do," she finally declared, lacing the boots forcefully. "We've got fifteen minutes until our slot."

We hurried toward the staging area, passing Irina Sokolov in her practice gear despite having no scheduled performance. Her icy gaze towards Starla raised hackles along my spine.

At the entrance to the performance area, I scanned the assembled crowd, immediately spotting Trevor Davis in the third row, his expression inscrutable as he tracked Starla's movements. Several sections away, Cassidy's distinctive red hair stood out against the sea of spectators, her attention also fixed on us with unsettling intensity.

"Both our prime suspects are here," I murmured to Starla, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

"So is Irina," she replied under her breath. "Coming this way."

The Russian skater approached, her smile not reaching her eyes. "Good luck, Starla. I hear the committee is very impressed already."

"Thank you," Starla responded with professional courtesy that revealed nothing of our suspicions.

As Irina moved away, I noticed her trajectory—not toward the stands, but toward the technical booth where lighting controls were housed. Santana's security team had stationed a guard there, but he'd turned to check credentials of another entrant.

"Keep an eye on her," I instructed Starla, then caught Santana's attention with a sharp gesture. "Irina Sokolov is heading for the lighting controls. She's not authorized for that area."

Santana radioed his team immediately, but the announcer's voice boomed across the arena: "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the ice, speed skating champion Gunnar 'Blaze' Hayes and figure skating star Starla McKenzie!"

No time remained. Security would have to intercept Irina without our help.

"Ready?" I asked, taking Starla's hand.

Her fingers interlaced with mine, surprisingly warm despite everything. "Born ready."

We glided onto the ice to thunderous applause, taking our positions beneath spotlights that bathed the surface in ethereal blue. As the music's first notes filled the arena, we launched into our choreography, bodies syncing intuitively. The audience faded to background noise, my awareness narrowing to Starla's movements, the feeling of ice beneath my blades, the certainty of our synchronized elements.

The routine progressed flawlessly through its early stages. I could hear spectators gasping at our first lift, Starla’s body extended overhead as I rotated, then lowered her in a controlled descent that showcased her beautiful flexibility and my strength.

We then entered the death spiral with Starla's body horizontal above the ice, my anchor point steady as she rotated. That's when I glimpsed movement in my peripheral vision—a spotlight housing detaching from its mounting above the ice surface, directly in Starla's trajectory.

No time for subtlety. I yanked her from position with brutal force, propelling us both toward the boards as the massive metal fixture crashed onto the exact spot where she'd been suspended a heartbeat earlier. Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by stunned silence.

Starla regained her balance instantly, her professional instincts overriding shock. Without missing a beat, she improvised a transition into our next element, eyes conveying a clear message: We finish this.

When the final notes sounded, we struck our ending pose—my arm protectively around her waist, her hand raised in triumph—to deafening applause that shook the rafters.

Backstage erupted into chaos. Security personnel swarmed the technical areas while medical staff insisted on examining us despite our protests. Through the confusion, I caught sight of Irina being escorted from the lighting booth, her face twisted in fury, hands secured behind her back.

"She tried to override the lighting system," Santana explained when he reached us. "The bolts on that spotlight had been deliberately loosened. If you hadn't moved when you did..."

He left the sentence unfinished, its implications hanging in the air.

Starla stared at her rival, comprehension dawning. "It was Irina all along? The notes, the sabotage?"

"She's confessed to everything," Santana confirmed. "Apparently she's been obsessed with eliminating you as competition. Claims you've always been given preferential treatment, that you don't deserve your ranking."

Irina's gaze locked with Starla's across the crowded area, hatred radiating from her posture. Rather than shrinking from the confrontation, Starla approached her former competitor, stopping a cautious distance away.

"Why?" she asked simply. "We could have pushed each other to be better. Rivalry doesn't have to mean destruction."

Irina's laugh held no humor. "Easy for you to say—perfect Starla McKenzie with her perfect family connections and her perfect technique. Some of us had to fight for every opportunity." Her voice cracked slightly, revealing unexpected vulnerability beneath the venom. "You never even saw me as real competition."

"That's not true," Starla countered quietly. "I've always respected your artistry, your dedication. You could have been great without trying to destroy me."

"Save your pity," Irina spat as security began leading her away. "This changes nothing. You'll always have everything handed to you."

"No," Starla replied, her tone surprisingly gentle. "I work for everything I have. Just like you. That's what makes this so senseless."

As Irina disappeared through the exit, Starla's composure wavered. I moved to her side, my hand finding the small of her back, steadying her without words.

"You're showing her more compassion than she deserves," I murmured.

She leaned against me almost imperceptibly. "Hatred destroyed her career. I refuse to let it touch mine." Her gaze lifted to mine. "Besides, I have more important things to think about now."

Around us, the event continued—other performers taking their turns, audience buzzing with excitement over our dramatic performance and its aftermath. Olympic Committee members approached with congratulations, sponsors expressed interest, reporters hovered at the perimeter waiting for statements.

But none of it mattered compared to the woman beside me, who had faced sabotage, threats, and literal falling spotlights without surrendering her dignity. I wanted to worship at her feet.

"Ready to get out of here?" I asked quietly. "I think we've given them enough of a show for one day."

Her smile held exhaustion, relief, and something that looked remarkably like happiness. "Take me home, Hayes."

As we left the arena, reporters shouting questions we weren't ready to answer, I kept her tucked against my side. The mystery had been solved, the danger neutralized, but my protective instincts remained fully engaged. Some things, once awakened, couldn't be switched off again.

And my need to be part of Starla's life—on and off the ice—had become as essential as breathing.