The rink had always been theirs—the hockey team’s. Their laughter, shouts, and the sound of blades carving ice had filled the arena for years. It was their place, their home, their legacy. But that changed when the rink owners announced that, starting this season, the local figure skating team would also train there.

It was a big deal. Two completely different worlds forced under one roof. Hockey was fast, rough, loud. Figure skating was precise, graceful, disciplined. Oil and water. The rink owners decided to smooth things over by hosting a “meet and greet” for both teams.

That’s how you ended up standing in the lounge, tugging at the sleeve of your team jacket, trying not to feel out of place as a chorus of hockey voices filled the room. Their team looked larger-than-life, all tall frames and confident grins, sprawled across couches like they owned the air around them. Which, in a way, they did.

“Alright, everyone,” one of the coaches announced, “let’s get to know each other. You’ll all be sharing this rink now, so it’s best we start off on the right foot.”

You took a step forward when your coach nudged you. “This is our student president,” she said warmly, introducing you. The title wasn’t about power—it was just your role, representing your team at meetings and events like this. You offered a small smile, polite, even if your stomach twisted with nerves.

That’s when you noticed him.

The hockey captain. His gaze had found you before your name was even spoken. He sat back in his chair with easy confidence, arms crossed over his chest, smirk tugging at his lips like he was already entertained.

As soon as the mingling started, he crossed the room, cutting through the noise as if the crowd parted for him. He stopped right in front of you, looking down with that cocky grin that already told you he was trouble.

“So,” he said, his tone dripping with amusement, “you’re the president of the figure skaters?”

You nodded politely. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“Captain,” he replied, tapping his chest as if you didn’t already know. “Guess that makes us… counterparts.”

You tilted your head, unsure whether to laugh or roll your eyes. “Something like that.”

His grin deepened, clearly enjoying this. “You guys really do the whole twirl-and-spin thing, huh?”

There it was. The jab. He delivered it so casually, like he was testing you. You took a breath, keeping your smile calm and even.

“We call them jumps and spins, actually,” you said softly. “But… yeah. That’s what we do.”

His brows lifted slightly, as though he hadn’t expected you to answer so simply. For a second, the smugness faltered, then returned twice as strong.

“Fair enough,” he said, leaning a little closer, his voice dropping just enough for you to feel the tease in it. “Just don’t get in our way when the real sport’s on the ice.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “We’ll stay in our lane if you stay in yours.”

That seemed to amuse him even more. He straightened up, smirk never fading, and with one last lingering glance, he backed away. But not before tossing his words over his shoulder, light and smug, meant only for you.

“See you on the ice, president.”

And against your better judgment, your heart skipped. Just once.