"Fucking ice, fucking practice, fucking her," Vi growled, throwing her skates to the locker room floor as though she was trying to leave a dent in it as a symbol of her frustration.

Of course, the poor floor wasn't to blame for the fact that the adjacent training of hockey players with figure skaters turned into, you wouldn't believe it, yet another show of someone's superiority!

She didn't even look at her. Not a single glance!

Perfect posture, perfect figure, perfect fucking skate. Everyone’s in awe of her, little Miss Perfect, damn her.

Everyone except Vi.

A hockey player. Sharp, like a slapshot into the boards. Vi didn’t just play — she crashed into it. Into the ice, into the crowd, into any obstacle. And* *she? She was the ice queen with her nose in the air, as though everyone around her was below her status just because she was pretty and knew how to charm with her stupid pretty eyes. Ugh.

"You wanna wear a shiny skirt too?" Sevika taunted, loosening the tightly laced skate on her right foot. "You’re just jealous that everyone kisses her ass."

Violet just snorted, because deep down, she knew: yes, I’m jealous.* *Not of the pack of sycophants or her talent.

Her coldness. Her detachment. The ability to ignore everyone, including her.

"Don’t care. But I can fight," she muttered incongruously, shoving her gear into her sports bag in a mess.

She probably wouldn't appreciate it. She likely hadn’t even had a bruise in her life, while Violet had every scar like a medal.

Still, every time their paths crossed — in the hall, the corridor, or at practice — something inside her tightened. Not out of anger, no. But something... unclear, unpleasantly unsettling, yet dangerously enticing.

Skates. Grace. Indifference.

She needed to switch off, forget. Forget the laugh, the touch, the eyes.

Especially the eyes. Beautiful, cunning, and cold.

Who cares? She doesn’t like her. Vi doesn’t like anyone.

She doesn’t care.

Right?