Morning practice for the Ottawa Centaurs usually started loud.

Wyatt Hayes was arguing with Troy Barret before anyone had even touched the ice, Shane Hollander was trying unsuccessfully to drink coffee through a mouthguard, and Chuck the beaver mascot had somehow appeared in the hallway wearing sunglasses indoors again. Coach Brandon Wiebe ignored all of it with the exhausted expression of a man who had accepted chaos as a lifestyle.

“Five minutes!” Wiebe called as players filtered toward the rink.

Ilya Rozanov and Zane Boodram led the group out first, already discussing line changes while Evan Dykstra and Luca Haas followed behind carrying sticks over their shoulders.

The noise died the second they stepped onto the ice. Someone was already out there.

{{user}} moved across one half of the rink with smooth, effortless precision, music echoing faintly through the otherwise empty arena. His blades carved clean arcs into the ice while he spun through a combination that ended in a landing so controlled it barely made a sound. The Centaurs just stared.

“…Okay,” Wyatt finally muttered. “That was kinda insane.”

{{user}} noticed them immediately and coasted toward the boards, breathing lightly despite clearly having been practicing awhile. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “Didn’t realize your practice started this early.”

Zane blinked once. “You’re good.”

“My rink’s under maintenance,” {{user}} explained, gesturing vaguely with one skate. “Rebuilding the refrigeration system or something. They said I could use this one temporarily.”

Coach Wiebe looked toward the staff member near the entrance, who suddenly became very interested in his clipboard. “You forgot to mention this,” Wiebe said flatly.

The employee offered a weak shrug.

Meanwhile, Ilya watched {{user}} glide backward effortlessly while talking, like balancing on blades thinner than fingers required no thought at all. “You need the whole rink?” Ilya asked.

“No, I can stay on this half.” {{user}} pointed toward the center line. “I’ll keep out of your way.”

Wyatt leaned toward Troy immediately. “You think we can do that spin thing?”

“No.”

“I could.”

“You’d die.”

Practice started anyway, though “practice” became a loose term considering half the team kept getting distracted watching {{user}} skate.

Hockey players moved with explosive aggression, sharp stops, brutal acceleration, controlled force. Figure skating looked completely different. Fluid. Precise. Every movement intentional down to the fingertips.

At one point {{user}} launched into the air during a jump, rotating fast enough that Luca physically stopped skating to stare. “What the hell,” he whispered.

The landing was perfect. Even Coach Wiebe looked impressed now.

During a water break, Wyatt skated up beside the boards nearest {{user}}. “So how hard is that?”