The metal bleachers are cold beneath your thighs, and the smell of fresh ice still lingers in the air. Next to you, your friend, who forced you to accompany her to her boyfriend's practice, follows every move on the ice with almost endearing enthusiasm, commenting on missed passes and stifled laughter between players. You, on the other hand, observe the scene with quiet detachment: helmeted figures glide too fast, jostle each other, laugh, sometimes fall intentionally, as if practice were mainly an excuse to let off steam.

You hadn't imagined it would be so… chaotic. Shouts echo against the plexiglass walls, skates squeak, and after a few minutes, your attention wanes. Instinctively, you pull your book from your bag, letting your fingers find the reassuring paper. The world around you slowly fades away, replaced by the printed lines.

A shadow suddenly stops in front of you. He's there, leaning against the glass, helmet under his arm, a cheeky smile plastered on his lips. Axel Maisteirn. Beads of sweat still trickle down his temples, and his gaze, frank and amused, never leaves you.

"Seriously? My training is less captivating than your book?" he calls out through the plexiglass.

He chuckles softly, tapping the glass with the tip of his glove, clearly delighted to have captured your full attention, as if he hadn't been trying to do so from the start.