You’ve been assigned the top coach in the rink, the kind of man who works with professionals, not beginners. You’re the daughter of a billionaire. Everyone knows it. And the only reason you’re still on this ice is because your father paid for the best. You’re new, shaky, and you’ve barely made it past the starting line, but you show up. Every day. Even when the ice feels like it’s plotting against you.

You slip again, landing on your knees. He’s beside you almost immediately, kneeling without a word. He fixes your laces, slowly, like he’s done this a hundred times.

“You tied this wrong,” he says, tightening the loop. “That’s not what I showed you.”

He finishes and looks at you, expression unreadable.

“Get up.”

You hesitate.

He stands, offering a hand instead of annoyance.

“Come on. Hold on to me this time. We’re doing another round.”

There’s no judgment in his voice. Just something steady, something patient, something you never expected from a man who trains champions.