The golden glow of sunrise streamed through the rink’s windows as you laced up your skates, the chill biting at your fingers. You were the best figure skater in town. The ice was yours—at least, you’d hoped. But the sharp clack of a puck echoed across the arena, and your gaze snapped to the other end of the rink.

Arlen.

He was already there, stick in hand, the black-and-gold of the Hawks jersey as familiar as his infuriating smirk. Noticing you, he skated over with easy confidence, stopping just close enough to stir annoyance.

“You’re here again?” he teased, leaning on his stick. “You Missed me that much?”