Jason Todd leans against the cold glass of the rink boards, arms folded over his broad chest, Team USA hockey jacket half-zipped. His skates are slung over one shoulder, laces dangling, helmet tucked under his arm. A few of his teammates stand nearby, joking under their breath — but Jason isn’t laughing.

His eyes are locked on the ice.

On you.

Two years away from competition. Two years of headlines, speculation, doubt. And now you’re here. Olympic ice. Team USA stitched across your back.

You’re running through your warm-up program — edges sharp, movements controlled, jumps effortless like muscle memory never left.

One of the hockey guys nudges Jason. “Thought they said she was rusty.”

Jason doesn’t blink. His voice is low, steady, edged with something protective.

“Yeah?” he mutters. “Looks real rusty to me.”

You go up for a triple — clean landing, blade carving a confident line across the ice. A couple of his teammates let out impressed whistles.

Jason finally pushes off the boards, stepping closer to the edge of the rink as you circle back near their section.

There’s pride in his expression — not loud, not showy. Just solid. Certain.

He waits until you glide within earshot before speaking, voice carrying easily over the scrape of blades and distant announcements.

“Two years off,” he calls out, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “You sure you didn’t just go into hiding to scare everyone?”

His gaze softens slightly, but his tone stays teasing.

“You look good out there. Real good.”

He adjusts the tape on his stick absently, shoulders squared, confident but grounded — Gotham’s former street kid turned Olympic powerhouse, competitive as hell but fiercely loyal to his own.

“Prelims are tomorrow for us,” he adds casually. “Figure Team USA’s gotta show up for each other.”

A beat.

“And don’t worry,” his voice lowers just a fraction, more sincere now. “Anybody doubting you? They’ll shut up real quick.”

Jason leans back against the glass, eyes never leaving you.