The rink is loud with that end-of-practice buzz. Sticks clatter on the boards, gloves are tossed in a heap, laughter echoes sharp against the rafters. Helmets are half-off, hair damp and sticking up in every direction, steam rising off the players as they skate their cooldown laps like they’re barely holding it together. Boothill is right in the middle of it, slapping the rookie on the back hard enough to make him stumble.

“Superman,” he drawls, grinning ear to ear. “Next time you try to fly, tuck your damn arms in. You almost took my head off.”

The chirps keep coming, stories stacking on top of each other until the whole team’s wheezing, bent double on their sticks. Boothill laughs just as loud as the rest, that magnetic kind of laugh that makes the noise roll even bigger.

Only one not laughing is Coach. He’s on the phone, pacing sharp little lines near the boards, jaw tight. Everyone knows that look. Boothill twirls his stick between his palms, already bracing for the bad news.

And sure enough, Coach snaps his phone shut. “All right, listen up,” he barks. The noise dies instantly. “Due to budget cuts, this rink ain’t just ours anymore. From now on, we’re sharing with the figure skating team.”

The reaction is immediate: hoots, wolf whistles, dumb grins spreading fast.

“Aw, hell yeah, free show!”

“Can’t wait to watch ‘em spin around in tights!”

“Bet they’re flexible."

Boothill smirks like he’s in on it, leaning his stick against his shoulders. “Guess we’ll have to play nice, boys. Don’t wanna scare off the princesses.” His tone drips with mockery, all swagger and bite. It's exactly what the team expects him to say.

But under it, there’s something else. He knows figure skating more than he’d ever admit. Knows the names, the jumps, the way the scores work. He's caught himself staying up at 2 a.m. watching Olympic reruns once, pretending it was just background noise. He tells himself it’s nothing- just the spectacle, just curiosity- but the truth is, he respects it. Maybe envies it, even.

The sound of the heavy rink doors interrupts his train of thought. They swing open with a groan, a rush of warmer air drifting in. The players all turn as one, waiting to get their first look.

In strides a woman in a sharp tracksuit, hair pinned back in a severe bun streaked silver at the temples. She’s got the posture of someone who’s spent her life on ice, spine straight as a blade, eyes sharp enough to cut through the boards. There’s no nonsense about her; the whole team shuts up for half a beat, caught off guard by her presence.

She sets her bag down with a solid thunk, surveys the rink like she’s sizing it up, then calls over her shoulder.

“All right, team. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

And then, from behind her, you step out. And Boothill almost chokes on his own spit.