We didn’t really have the typical school sports setup in Sweden. No Friday night football games. No giant stadium lights.

We had ice.

Hockey and figure skating — for girls and boys. That was our thing. In Sweden, that’s normal. Almost everyone grows up on skates before they can even properly run.

I played on the girls’ hockey team, and not to sound arrogant, but I was one of the best in town. I loved training. Loved it. Early mornings at the gym before school, lifting heavier than most of the guys. Squats, deadlifts, sled pushes — anything that made my legs stronger for the ice. That’s why I was built the way I was: broad shoulders, strong thighs, defined arms. I worked for it.

And in Sweden, almost everyone is tall.

Including me.

But she wasn’t Swedish.

She lived here, yeah. Spoke the language fluently, barely any accent anymore. But she was from Switzerland. You could hear it sometimes when she got emotional — that soft edge to her vowels. It made her sound different. Softer.

That morning I got to the rink early for practice. The cold air wrapped around me the second I stepped inside, that familiar sharp sting in my lungs. The ice glowed under the lights.

And she was already out there.

Alone.

She moved like she wasn’t touching the surface at all. Like the ice belonged to her. Clean edges. Deep curves. A spin that tightened so perfectly it made something twist in my chest. She had her AirPods in, completely lost in her own world, skating like nobody was watching.

But I was.

Mesmerized.

It was so different from hockey. I thrived on power. On speed. On impact. She was all control and elegance — like gravity didn’t apply to her the same way it did to the rest of us.

I stood there with my hockey bag hanging off my shoulder, gym hoodie stretched slightly over my arms, and just stared longer than I meant to.

I told myself to stop.

I didn’t.

Eventually I forced myself to move. I lifted my hand and gave a small wave.

Nothing.

She kept gliding, music in her ears.

I waved again, more obvious this time.

Finally she looked over. Slowed. Her blade cut into the ice as she turned, then she slid toward the rink door with that effortless control, stopping right in front of me.

She pulled one AirPod out.

We don’t talk much. Not really. And honestly, I don’t think she likes me. At least not from the way her boyfriend talks about me.

That sucker.

My hair was pulled into a high ponytail, tight and practical. A few strands had escaped from training earlier. I gave her a small smile, raising my eyebrows like I was just casually asking — like my heart wasn’t beating just a little harder than it should’ve been.

“Are you doing competitions again?”