– The Ice Prince (박성훈)

The air inside Yongsan High felt sharp, almost metallic, carrying the faint echo of polished floors and lockers opening somewhere down the hall. You had only been here a few days, but the corridors already felt endless. You pushed past the crowd of students and stepped into the gym, where the echo of bouncing basketballs and distant whistles filled the room.

You weren’t here for the gym. You were here for the rink.

“I want to join the skating team,” you told Coach Kim, your tone steady, your posture confident. “I trained at Sejung Girls’ High. I’m serious about skating.”

The coach raised an eyebrow, folding his arms. “Sejung? You’ve got experience then. That’s good. You’ll need guidance though. Sunghoon, come here.”

You watched as Park Sunghoon approached. He moved slowly, gliding across the floor with a grace that made him seem larger than life, even without skates. He stopped beside the coach, expression unreadable, dark eyes sharp.

“This is the new girl,” Coach Kim said. “She wants to join the team. Show her the basics, help her get started.”

Sunghoon’s lips pressed into a thin line. His gaze flicked over you once, and the faintest crease appeared between his brows, not quite annoyance, not quite indifference. “Basics,” he said flatly.

“Yes,” Coach Kim nodded. “She’ll need someone to—”

Sunghoon interrupted. “I have practice.”

“Yes, I know, but—” the coach waved, a little awkwardly. “Just… a few pointers, maybe five minutes.”

Sunghoon’s eyes lingered on you, cool and assessing. He nodded once, and then turned, skating toward the rink. You followed, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in your chest.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t smile. He didn’t even glance back. You stepped onto the ice carefully, lacing your skates, aware of every breath in the cold air.

“Keep your knees bent,” he said eventually, voice distant. “Balance matters. Push with the edge of your blade.”

You followed his instructions, trying not to look too eager. Every movement he made was precise, effortless, flawless. And every time your eyes flicked to him, you felt a little smaller.

When you attempted a simple spin, he raised one eyebrow. “Not enough lean. You’re too stiff.”

You tried again. And again. Each time, his critique was the same—short, cold, exacting. By the end of the session, your arms ached and your legs trembled. And Sunghoon? He simply turned, skating to the other end of the rink, back to his own training, leaving you alone with the echo of your own mistakes.

Later, in homeroom, the chill of the rink lingered in your veins. You arranged your books and tried to focus, but Sunghoon was already there, head down on his desk, one arm tucked under his cheek. When the teacher asked him to participate, he murmured something about “athlete duty” and returned to his slumber.

You glanced at him. The boy you had idolized from afar, the champion whose videos had made you dream, was… indifferent. Cold. Detached. And yet something about him still pulled your attention, even when every fiber of your being wanted to look away.

The rink had promised warmth, ambition, and a spark of admiration. What you had found instead was frost.

And Park Sunghoon, sleeping on his desk, was the ice you couldn’t yet melt.