Page 9

STARLA

Spring sunlight filtered through new leaves outside my apartment window, casting dancing patterns across the hardwood floor. Three months had passed since the charity event—three months of transformation more profound than anything I could have imagined.

I sipped my morning tea, scrolling through yet another news article about our death-defying performance . The video had gone viral within hours—our fluid routine, the dramatic spotlight crash, and our defiant completion capturing millions of views across social media platforms. Sponsors had flooded both our inboxes with partnership opportunities, while the press labeled us ice's most compelling couple , a moniker that made Gunnar laugh every time he heard it.

The Olympic Committee's response had exceeded my wildest expectations. Rather than seeing the disruption as a detraction, they'd praised our extraordinary composure under pressure and undeniable artistic connection . The representatives who approached us afterward spoke not of Irina's sabotage but of our seamless recovery, our ability to communicate without words, and the innovative way we'd melded figure skating precision with speed skating power.

The memory brought a smile to my face as I set down my phone. Outside, April sunshine warmed Denver's streets, coaxing crocuses and daffodils from winter-hardened soil. New beginnings seemed to be the theme of the season.

My phone buzzed with a text from Gunnar: Still on for 2 pm? Got the whole rink to ourselves.

I typed back: Wouldn't miss it. Meeting with the events company until 1:30, then heading straight there.

His response came instantly: Break a leg. Not literally. Already did that once this year saving yours.

The teasing reference to his heroic spotlight rescue made me smile. In the weeks following the event, as media attention intensified and Irina faced criminal charges, Gunnar had become my anchor. His support gave me the courage to make decisions I'd once considered unthinkable.

The hardest had been the phone call to my parents, explaining my decision to withdraw from Olympic qualifying competitions. I'd expected disappointment, arguments, perhaps even ultimatums. Instead, after a moment of stunned silence, my father had asked a question that revealed how little we'd truly communicated over the years:

"Is this what you want, Starla?"

The simple inquiry—so foreign from the man who'd charted my scores and proudly displayed my medals since childhood—had unlocked something within me. For the first time, I'd spoken honestly about my ambitions, my fears, and the realization that I'd been chasing their dream rather than identifying my own.

To my shock, they'd listened. Really listened. And while I couldn't undo decades of complex family dynamics with a single conversation, it felt like the first genuine exchange we'd had since I was a child, before skating became the center of our relationship.

I finished my tea and gathered my portfolio for today's meeting with Elevation Events, a company specializing in sports exhibitions and charitable initiatives. They'd approached me after the viral performance, intrigued by my background and fresh perspective. The position they'd offered—creative director for ice shows and skating events—combined my organizational skills with newfound creativity Gunnar had helped me discover.

The meeting went even better than expected. By the time I arrived at the Denver Ice Arena, my steps felt buoyant with excitement about new possibilities. The familiar chill greeted me as I pushed through the double doors, the scent of refrigerated air and faint equipment cleaner triggering memories of countless hours spent pursuing the ever-elusive dream of perfection.

Gunnar sat on a bench near the boards, already laced into his speed skates. He looked up at my entrance, his face breaking into that crooked grin that still made my heart skip.

"There she is," he called, rising to his feet. "How'd it go?"

"They loved the proposal for the youth showcase," I replied, setting down my bag to retrieve my skates. "We're moving forward with the four-city tour, integrating skaters from different disciplines and backgrounds."

"Told you they would." He watched as I laced my boots with practiced precision. "You're a natural at this event planning stuff."

"Says the man who just accepted a coaching position for Denver's elite development program." I straightened, admiring how his athletic frame filled out his casual training clothes. "The next generation of speed skaters won't know what hit them."

He laughed, extending his hand to help me onto the ice. "Gotta put all this chaotic energy to constructive use, right? Besides, the schedule gives me afternoons for the community outreach program."

Pride warmed my chest as he mentioned his newest initiative—skating clinics for foster children and at-risk youth. Using his platform to create opportunities for kids who reminded him of himself showed a depth of character that had nothing to do with his bad-boy public image.

We pushed off together, warming up with lazy circles around the empty rink. Without performance pressure or watchful eyes, our movements felt luxuriously free, guided by simple joy rather than technical requirements.

"Any word from Cassidy?" I asked, referencing his ex-girlfriend who'd been cleared of involvement in Irina's sabotage scheme but remained a complicated footnote in our story.

"She called to apologize for the restaurant scene," he replied, matching his pace to mine. "Apparently she's in some wellness retreat in Arizona, 'finding herself' or whatever."

"And Trevor?"

Gunnar's eyebrows rose. "Logan mentioned he's been traded to Seattle. Looks like your brother was able to pull some strings after learning about his unwanted advances."

I smiled, touched by this evidence of Logan's protective instincts, so similar to Gunnar's despite their different expressions. My relationship with my brother had grown stronger since the charity event as well, breaking through years of competitive tension. Looking back, I realized it was because both of us were striving for our parents’ attention, to be seen as worthy in their eyes.

Gunnar and I skated side by side, comfortable silence stretching between us. This empty rink had become our sanctuary over recent months—a place where we could simply be without expectations or obligations.

"Remember that first death spiral?" Gunnar asked suddenly, slowing his pace. "When you were convinced I'd drop you?"

"I wasn't convinced," I protested, though my smile belied the objection. "Just reasonably concerned about trusting my safety to someone who thought 'careful planning' was a communicable disease."

He laughed, extending his hand in invitation. "Shall we see if we've still got it?"

Without hesitation, I placed my hand in his, our fingers interlocking as naturally as breathing. We gained momentum together, finding the perfect speed before transitioning into position—my body parallel to the ice, his strength anchoring me as I rotated in a perfect circle around him.

The position was technically demanding, requiring absolute trust between partners. As we executed it flawlessly, I marveled at how far we'd come—from reluctant collaborators to something profoundly more significant.

We transitioned out of the spiral into an impromptu dance, elements of our charity routine blending with new, spontaneous movements. Without judges or audience, we created something that was solely ours.

When we finally slowed, breathing hard from exertion, he pulled me into his arms at center ice. "I've been thinking," he said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

"Always dangerous," I teased.

His smile softened. "I've spent my life chasing the next rush, the next competition, the next achievement. Running from place to place, relationship to relationship, never stopping long enough to feel the emptiness I was trying to escape."

I rested my hands against his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath my palms. "And now?"

"Now I want roots," he said simply. "I'm tired of running from my past, from commitment, from the possibility of loss. I want to build something lasting—these youth programs, my coaching career, a life that matters beyond medals and rankings."

His hands framed my face with unexpected tenderness. "Most of all, I want to build it with you, Starla. If that's what you want too."

The vulnerability in his expression took my breath away. This man who lived for risk and adrenaline was offering the most courageous proposal of all—permanence, commitment, a shared future.

"It's funny," I whispered, covering his hands with mine. "I spent years believing Olympic gold would validate my existence. That winning was the only path to worth. But it was never really my dream, just one I inherited."

"And now?" he echoed my earlier question.

"Now I know what actually matters." I met his gaze directly, allowing him to see everything I felt. "Creating something meaningful. Helping others find their passion for skating without the crushing pressure I experienced. Building a life that's balanced, not just perfect by someone else's standards."

I rose on my toe picks, bringing our faces closer. "And doing it with someone who sees me…really sees me…beyond the ice."

His smile illuminated his entire face. "Is that a yes, McKenzie?"

"That's a yes, Hayes."

When our lips met, there was no audience to impress, no judges to evaluate our technique. Just two people who had discovered something extraordinary in each other. And that something was love.

As we broke apart, laughing breathlessly, spring sunshine streamed through the arena's high windows, casting golden light across the ice. The symbolism wasn't lost on me—new growth, fresh beginnings, life emerging from winter's grip.

"So what's next for us?" I asked, my arms looped around his neck.

His eyes crinkled at the corners, that mischievous spark I'd grown to love dancing in their depths. "Something tells me our best performances are still ahead."

And as he pulled me into another kiss, I knew with absolute certainty that he was right. The path we'd create together—whether on the ice or beyond it—would be more fulfilling than any solo journey I could have imagined.

Sometimes the most unexpected partnerships created the most beautiful patterns. And ours was just beginning to unfold.