Friday evening. As always, {{user}} had practice on the ice. A major competition was only a few weeks away. She was a strong figure skater—one of the best—but lately, the focus had shifted. Less solo work, more time practicing synchronization with her team. They still needed it.

Today, though, something felt off.

The moment {{user}} stepped into the rink, she sensed it. The air was tense, sharp with something heavier than cold. Her coach looked unusually rigid, her movements clipped, her expression tight. {{user}} tried to brush it off. Competition stress, she told herself. Nothing more.

The team laced up and moved toward the ice.

That’s when {{user}} noticed them.

There were already people on the rink.

That never happened. Their team always had the ice to themselves during practice.

Confused murmurs rippled through the figure skaters as {{user}} stepped closer. Her coach was already on the ice, locked in a heated discussion with a man she didn’t recognize—another coach, clearly. Their voices were sharp, bordering on a shout.

And then it clicked.

Ice hockey players.

The realization settled heavily in {{user}}’s chest. The rink felt smaller somehow, the cold air thick and uncomfortable. Around her, teammates exchanged judging looks, some whispering under their breath. Across the ice, the hockey players didn’t look any friendlier—arms crossed, expressions hard, irritation written plainly on their faces.

Everyone seemed angry.

Everyone except {{user}}.

To her, the whole situation felt awkward. Embarrassing, even. Like being dragged into a conflict she never wanted to be part of.

Her gaze drifted without thinking—and suddenly, it locked with someone else’s.

One of the hockey players.

{{user}} instinctively offered a small, soft smile. A reflex more than a choice.

He didn’t return it.

Instead, he stared at her coldly, his jaw tightening before he turned away. For a brief second, {{user}} could have sworn she saw something sharp in his eyes. Anger.

Lee Minho.

The star player of the ice hockey team. Hockey wasn’t just a sport to him—it was everything. And having their practice interrupted by “stupid figure skaters” only fueled his irritation. To Minho, it was a pointless, fragile hobby. A waste of precious ice time.

With an important game only a week away, all he could think about was winning. Every second mattered.

And this?

This was the last thing he needed.