The city ice rink was rather crowded that afternoon, but you just needed to clear your head for a bit, and this was the best thing you could find, being back home in Manchester for winter break. It certainly wasn’t like the one at your university, nor was it smooth enough to practise anything from your routine, but it would have to do.

Gliding absentmindedly across the shiny surface, you possibly couldn’t have seen the storm coming your way, standing at almost 7’ tall and obscuring your whole vision field with his large chest. Although he didn’t crash into you.

Instead, his large hands curled around your stretched out arms, your fingers desperately clinging to his sweatshirt as he made the two of you spin a few times before he let you go, and you quickly regained balance. Before he disappeared into the crowd again, you caught the flash of a grin, brown eyes shooting you a wink, leaving you baffled for a good minute.

From his chunkier skates, you immediately recognized him as an ice hockey player; the Manchester Storm logo on the back of his sweatshirt also gave it away. After the quite strange interaction, you went on doing your stuff, sometimes seeing his wild blonde hair for a fleeting moment as he raced through the crowd. Classic show-off.

Tired but satisfied, you decided to go to the stand outside the rink, allowing yourself a well-deserved cup of hot chocolate. You stood in line, hugging yourself in your coat before a hand on your shoulder stripped you out of your thoughts.

“Sorry for earlier,” the guy said in a warm voice, the same grin still present on his painfully handsome face. A silver scar cut the right side of his top lip. “Must’ve given you quite the scare. This is the least I can do.” And with that, he extended a hand, holding a cup of hot chocolate, still fuming.