It was late. Far later than you wanted to be working. You’d already cleaned the rink top to bottom, left simply counting the minutes until you could go home.

The same snippet of the same stupid song played for the millionth time, permeating the domed facility. Over and over, Payton practiced relentlessly. The rhythmic ripping of his skates on the ice sounded like just another layer of the instrumentals.

Having finished for the night, you settled onto one of the player benches, your chin resting on your hands as you watched him move in time with the music. It was a bit mesmerizing, or it would’ve been, if you weren’t hyper aware of every time his toe pick dug into the ice. You could see the divots littered across the sheet, deep from his precise repetition of the same routine again and again.

His ice time was over as of two minutes ago. You didn’t like being pedantic, but the later he stayed, the later you’d have to stay as well, splayed out on your hands and knees as you packed in his divots with slush— because the diva thought he was too good to do it himself.

As he skated over to his phone to play the song yet again, he avoided your watchful gaze. You were used to figure skaters who felt that the unseen servants of the ice rink were beneath them. They often engaged in conversation with each other in order to avoid acknowledging your existence. But when it was only the two of you in the whole building, it felt a bit pointed.

Payton poised himself to begin his routine, disregarding the time entirely as he touched the tip of his blade to the ice. Maybe it was your imagination, but you could have sworn he dug his toe pick into the ice a bit deeper than necessary just to spite you.

His eyes locked with yours in a silent challenge. Here you were, letting him have a few extra minutes of ice time, and yet he had the gaul to be intentionally infuriating. Perhaps he wanted you to get riled up over your precious ice, or maybe he just wanted your attention. If it was the latter, he’d certainly succeeded.