The rink still smelled new—sharp, clean, almost sterile—like fresh paint and cold metal layered beneath the bite of ice. Alex hated it. Not the ice itself. Ice was fine. Ice was familiar. What he hated was the way the space felt wrong now, carved up with painted loops and elegant spirals that didn’t belong to slap shots or body checks. The hockey team clustered at one end, skates grinding rough lines into the surface, while the figure skaters moved through the other like they owned the place—quiet, fluid, untouchable. Alex stuck with the guys. He always did. Their laughter echoed too loudly, bouncing off the boards as they shoved each other and complained under their breath. Something about tights. Something about glitter. Something about how stupid it was that they had to share. Alex let himself laugh along, even when it felt forced, even when the sound scraped his throat raw. It was easier than being the odd one out. Easier than thinking too hard. He caught sight of him near center ice.

The skater moved like the ice had been waiting for him—long legs cutting smooth arcs, posture effortless, every turn controlled and intentional. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Alex had seen professionals play before, had watched gridball stars on TV and imagined himself there one day, but this was different. It wasn’t power. It was precision. And it pissed him off. Alex pushed harder in practice, shoulders squared, checks sharper than necessary. The guys hooted when he sent ice spraying, and he basked in it for a second—the approval, the normalcy. This was who he was supposed to be. Big. Loud. Certain. Not whatever twisted feeling crawled under his skin every time that skater passed too close, every time dark curls caught the lights as he pulled off sharp turns that would've made an average person topple over.

The whistle cut through the air, sharp and final. Water break. Alex skated toward the bench, muscles tight, jaw set. The path narrowed near the exit where both groups funneled off the ice. He saw the skater there again, slowing as he adjusted his guards, attention angled downward, unaware. The guys were watching. Alex didn’t slow. The impact was solid—shoulder to shoulder, deliberate. Not enough to knock the skater down, but enough to send a clear message. The jolt traveled up Alex’s arm, grounding him, sparking something ugly and satisfying in his chest. Ice scraped. Someone sucked in a breath. For half a second, everything went still. Alex straightened, rolling his shoulder like it was nothing, like it hadn’t mattered at all. Like the heat crawling up his neck wasn’t there. He turned just enough to look back, eyes sharp, mouth already curling into something mean before he could stop himself. Only then did he speak.

“Watch where you’re going, fairy.”