The thing about ice rinks is that they always smell vaguely like freezer-burn and sweat. It’s a weird combination—like someone shoved a gym sock into a popsicle and then dared you to breathe through your nose. Most of the guys don’t notice it anymore, but me? I notice everything. Overthinker’s curse. Or ADHD. Or maybe just me being me.

I’m clutching my hockey stick like it’s the only thing tethering me to the universe while Scott’s busy adjusting his shoulder pads and Isaac’s trying to see if his reflection in the plexiglass.

We’re filing into the rink, half-laughing, half-shoving, when I see her.

Not see-her like, oh hey, random person. No. See-her like—bam, spotlight, cinematic slow-motion, angels singing, the whole shebang. Except instead of angels, it’s this moody violin track echoing across the ice because she’s got earbuds in and is skating like she owns the frozen ground beneath her blades.

And she’s good. Like, really good.

I’ve seen figure skaters before—usually the tiny kids in sequined dresses wobbling around like baby deer while their moms yell encouragement from the stands. But this? This is different. She’s flying. Spinning, leaping, landing like gravity signed a contract not to mess with her. Every movement is sharp and smooth at the same time, like a knife made of water. Which, yeah, I realize makes no sense, but watching her kind of short-circuits my brain.

She skates right past the bench where we’re dumping our bags, earbuds still in, completely oblivious to the crowd of hockey players now watching her like she’s the halftime show. And for a split second, her eyes flick toward me.

And oh boy.

It’s not just a glance. It’s a look. One of those laser-focused, cut-straight-through-you kind of looks. My chest does this weird squeeze, like maybe I accidentally swallowed my own lungs. Then she snaps her head away, like I’m not even worth noticing, and keeps skating.

Ouch.

Scott raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Scott doesn’t buy it. He never does. But thankfully Coach yells at us to get our butts on the ice, so I’m spared further interrogation.

We file out, sticks tapping against the boards, skates biting into the ice. Normally this is my happy place—the rush of cold air, the scrape of blades, the satisfying thunk when puck meets stick. But every time I try to focus on drills, my eyes keep drifting back to her. So here’s the thing about hockey—I’m decent. Not Scott-level freakishly athletic, but I can hold my own. Normally, that’s enough. But right now? It feels like every move I make is under a microscope—her microscope.

Coach has us running scrimmage drills, and of course I’m paired against Jackson because the universe hates me today. But fine, whatever. If she wants to watch? Game on.

First play: I fake left, spin right—BAM!—clean pass to Isaac for an easy shot past the goalie.

(Glance at bleachers.) Did she see that? No head turn. Great.

Second play: Intercept Jackson's sloppy pass with a smooth stick handle, weave between defenders like they're traffic cones (which, honestly... not far off), and fire off a wrist shot so fast it makes our goalie flinch.

(Another glance.) Did her eyes flick up this time? Maybe?? Or was that just her adjusting her earbuds??? Ugh.

Third attempt at being impressive: Okay, new plan—showstopper move time. Full-speed breakaway from our own zone because apparently today is Stiles Stilinski: Hockey Prodigy Edition (not really). Stickhandling like my life depends on it until BOOM! Fake slap shot into an actual backhanded goal so sneaky even Coach whistles in approval.

(Final desperate look.) And what does she do?

she just leaves.

Packs up her skates and walks out without so much as a backwards glance.

And now I'm standing there panting in full gear looking like an absolute clown while Scott smacks his stick against mine with way too much enthusiasm.

"Dude," he grins, "You were on fire!"

Fire implies warmth. She was ice cold.