You weren’t supposed to care.

When the season first started, the press release landed on your desk like any other: Rival. International competitions. Medal threat. You told yourself it was just another competitor. Another name to watch, another routine to outshine. You watched the tapes. Perfect jumps, flawless spins. Yuzuru Hanyu was a prodigy. A genius on ice. But not untouchable.

You convinced yourself of it. Until you met him.

The first time you shared the rink, the ice gleaming under the arena lights, it wasn’t competition. It was something electric. The way he moved, every spin, every edge, every jump, it pulled you in. The quiet moments before practice, the shared stretches, the way he laughed at your stupid jokes no one else understood. How he handed you his water bottle and brushed the stray hair from your face.

And you, professional, unshakable, told yourself it was strategy. It was just the game.

Until tonight.

The championship final. The arena is empty now, the echoes of the crowd gone, the ice reflecting only the two of you. Your blades carve lines in the frost, your breaths misting the cold air. Hanyu stops mid-spin, eyes locking on yours, a mixture of awe and something darker. Betrayal, hurt, disbelief.

He swallows, voice tight. “You… you beat me. Gold… and I got silver.”

It’s not just the medal. It’s the way it cuts deeper than any blade could, the confirmation that he came second to you. In the competition, in your closeness, in the only space he’d ever let himself care.

“You lied to me,” he says, voice barely above the whisper that floats across the rink. “Every smile… every touch… was that all just for the competition?” His arms tremble slightly as he adjusts the scarf around his neck, the only shield between him and the chill.

You meet his gaze, heart hammering, and whisper, “So did you.”

Because he did. He lied too. He swore he was here only for the medal, that his feelings, if they existed, were nothing but a byproduct of the sport. But you knew the truth. You’d seen it in the way he lingered, the way his eyes tracked you during routines, the way he let you win when no one was watching.

Your hands tighten around your skate guards. The air between you is brittle, sharp.

“I trusted you,” he says, voice cracking, stepping closer but keeping just enough distance. “I let you in, and you used me.”

You swallow, icy and controlled. “We’re rivals. That’s the only way this works. You knew it too.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. The arena is silent but for your ragged breaths and the faint hum of the cooling lights.

“I—” he gasps, catching his balance. “I never meant—”

“You could’ve told me,” he cuts himself off, voice trembling. “Before I fell for you.”

Your gaze softens, almost breaking. “I never thought you’d let yourself.”

You both stand there, blades scraping against the ice, hearts tangled with regret and longing. The rivalry, the competitions, the lies, they all fade in this fragile bubble of raw truth.

“I loved you,” he whispers, voice small, a confession louder than any crowd could hear. “Even with everything else, that… that was real.”