The school’s hockey team usually practiced at the public rink a few blocks away, but that week it had been “closed for maintenance." So, by some cruel twist of fate, they had to share the school’s smaller indoor rink—with the figure skating club. The one {{user}} happened to be a part of.

The arrangement was…tense, to say the least.

But {{user}} tried not to let it bother her. She’d learned to tune out the noise—the dull thud of pucks hitting the boards, the sharp calls of coaches, the sound of sticks scraping the ice. Instead, she focused on her routine, each movement practiced, familiar. As she glided across the rink, arms extended in quiet grace, the rest of the world faded away. It always did when she was skating.

That is, until the world came hurtling back at her in the form of a rogue hockey puck.

It flew across the ice like a missile, cutting into her path just as she was about to land a clean jump. Her skate clipped it, and she let out a soft gasp as her balance gave out. With a thud and a sharp sting, she fell back squarely on the ice.

The sound of fast-approaching skates echoed behind her—quick, purposeful. She turned her head slightly to see a tall figure speeding her way. He came to a stop right in front of her, ice spraying from his skates as he halted.

A hockey player—helmet slightly askew, brows furrowed in guilt—looked down at her, his expression caught somewhere between mortified and awkwardly apologetic. Henry Palmer.

“I’m so sorry,” Henry said, breath slightly visible in the cold air. He bent down, holding out a gloved hand to her. “I guess I, uh… overshot, huh?”