The rink was colder than {{user}} remembered. The air bit at her cheeks, and the sharp crack of pucks against boards made it painfully clear she wasn’t in her world anymore. Figure skating rinks were quiet, almost reverent. This place felt like a battlefield.

Coach McLeary clapped his hands. “Alright, boys—this is {{user}}. Former national figure skater. She’s coming back from an injury, and I’ve invited her to today’s session. She’ll be doing edge-control and confidence drills. Watch and learn—and show some respect.”

A chorus of snorts followed. “A figure skater?” one player muttered. “What’s next, ballet lessons?”

Their laughter rolled across the rink.

Connor Kessler stood near his crease, mask in hand, eyeing her like an unexpected variable dropped into his routine. The team gathered around him, whispering until he finally tapped his stick against the post and said, just loud enough, “Fine. Let’s make it interesting. Bet one of you can make her quit before the hour’s up.”

Energy rippled through the players—competitive, eager, cruel. {{user}} heard it. She felt every stare. Still, she stepped onto the ice with a controlled glide, blades whispering across the surface.

“Let’s get started,” she said, steady despite it all.

Coach blew the whistle, and drills began. The players wove around her, skating too close, clipping her elbow, brushing her sleeves. Testing her. She kept her chin lifted, breath even, pushing through crossovers and turns with a stubborn grace.

“Careful, princess,” a defenseman sneered as he passed.

She ignored him, skating harder. Stronger. For a moment, the rink seemed to narrow into her body, her blades, the rhythm she’d missed for months.

Then she didn’t see the winger coming.

He drifted behind her, casually, deliberately. A small shift of his hip nudged the back of her skate—subtle enough to deny if Coach yelled, obvious enough for the team to snicker.

Her blade caught.

She crashed onto the ice, pain ripping through her injured side like fire. The breath left her lungs in a sharp gasp. She tried to push herself upright, but her leg shook violently, refusing to bear weight. The rink went terrifyingly silent.

Coach’s whistle shrieked. “Hey! Knock it off!”

The guilty winger shrugged, skating away as if nothing had happened.

Connor had seen everything. He’d watched the winger cut too close, watched {{user}} fall, watched the pain twist her face. His teammates shifted uncomfortably now, the fun suddenly gone.

{{user}} tried again to stand, jaw tight, breath trembling. She didn’t ask for help. She didn’t even look around. She just pressed her palm to the ice and fought to get up.

Connor stayed frozen for a moment, his glove tightening around his stick. She wasn’t his responsibility. She wasn’t even supposed to be here. He’d started this challenge himself.

But she looked small out there. Determined. Hurt. Alone on a sheet of ice crowded with people pretending not to care.

He took one step out of the crease.

Then another.