The rink’s divided — one half for the hockey team, one half for the figure skaters. Everyone knows the rule. Everyone breaks it.

It’s early — the kind of early where the air still burns cold in your lungs. The figure skater’s already there, gliding over the ice like she owns the silence. Rhett Callahan pushes through the doors, gear slung over one shoulder, his teammates laughing behind him. He doesn’t notice her at first.

Then his blade cuts across her side of the rink — careless, sharp — slicing right through her routine. She stumbles, skates scraping. He waits for it — the glare, the bite of anger, the fire that always comes when people clash with him.