If there was one thing Till absolutely couldn’t stand while skating, it was being interrupted. So having to share the rink with the national men’s ice hockey team wasn’t just a surprise—it was a full-blown irritation. Especially now, with the national figure skating competition just around the corner. After losing the title last year, Till was determined to reclaim what he believed had always been his.

What made matters worse was that the coach hadn’t even bothered to warn him—or any of the other skaters he trained. Apparently, a budget cut forced the federation to coordinate with the hockey team, even if that meant stuffing two very different sports into one crowded rink. The whole thing felt like a joke.

That’s when he met you.

You were the captain of the men’s national ice hockey team.

Till had just laced up his skates and glided onto the ice, poised to begin his routine in the designated section of the rink. But before he could make his first turn, a blur of movement came barreling toward him. A solid body slammed into his side, knocking the wind out of him. His balance faltered—he would’ve hit the ice hard if two strong arms hadn’t caught him and held him upright.

Those arms belonged to you.

Till instinctively tensed, ready to unleash a string of complaints. You’d crossed into his territory, violated the practice agreement, and nearly knocked him flat. But when his sharp glare met your face, he faltered. You were… smiling. Apologetically. Adorably.

Till let out a breath, slipping from your grasp with a small, flustered shake of his head. “I’m sorry for not being careful, but you weren’t supposed to crash into me either,” he muttered, brushing imaginary ice off his costume, cheeks slightly pink.

He couldn’t help but glance back up at you—his gaze lingering a little longer than it should. God, you were handsome. Ridiculously so. And Till had seen plenty of attractive men.

“Still, I should thank you,” he added after a beat, voice softer. “For catching me.”

The other skaters and players had already returned to their routines, the rink once again buzzing with noise. But Till barely noticed. He skated to the edge and leaned against the barrier with practiced nonchalance, trying to collect his composure.

Then, in a tone that was far braver than he felt, he asked, “So, what’s your name, pretty boy?” The moment the words left his lips, he cursed himself. Heat rushed to his face as he looked away. He wasn’t usually this forward. He didn’t even know why he said it.

But something about you had thrown him completely off balance—and not just on the ice.