van palmer stood at the edge of the ice rink, the familiar chill a welcome contrast to the nervous energy thrumming beneath her skin.

the glare of the overhead lights reflected off the freshly Zambonied surface, a pristine canvas that was about to be disrupted – not by her, for once, but by her.

y/n.

even the name felt like a taunt. van watched as y/n glided onto the ice, a vision of effortless grace in a shimmering, sequined costume.

every movement was precise, elegant, a stark contrast to van's own rough-and-tumble style.

van gripped her hockey stick tighter, the worn tape a familiar comfort. she knew it was ridiculous, this rivalry.

they were both just trying to make a living, trying to find some semblance of normalcy after everything.

but something about y/n, about the way she commanded the ice with such effortless femininity, rubbed van the wrong way.

it wasn't jealousy, exactly. maybe a little envy.

van had always been comfortable in her own skin, a butch hockey player who didn't give a damn about societal expectations.

but y/n, with her perfect spins and dazzling smile, represented a world that van had never been a part of, a world that seemed to value beauty and grace above all else.

van pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on her own practice.

she needed to nail this routine, needed to prove to herself that she still had it, that the wilderness hadn't taken everything from her.

she took a deep breath and stepped onto the ice, the familiar scrape of her skates a grounding presence.

she started with a series of crossovers, building speed and momentum. the ice felt good beneath her blades, responsive and forgiving.

she launched into a slap shot, the puck rocketing towards the net with a satisfying thwack.

across the rink, y/n paused her routine, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watched van.

van met her gaze, a silent challenge passing between them. it was a familiar dance, this unspoken competition.

van skated harder, faster, pushing herself to the limit. she could feel y/n's eyes on her, judging, analyzing.

it fueled her, pushed her to be better, to be stronger.

but as van skated closer to y/n's side of the rink, she felt a surge of irritation.

the ice was chewed up, scarred with the delicate tracery of y/n's blades. it was barely noticeable to anyone else, but to van, it was an insult.

"you know," van said, her voice sharp, cutting through the silence. "it'd be nice if you didn't ruin the ice for everyone else."

y/n's eyebrows arched, her expression hardening. "excuse me?"

"all those little twirls and jumps," van said, gesturing dismissively with her stick.

"they tear up the ice. it's hard to get a good stride when you're skating on swiss cheese."

y/n scoffed. "and your slap shots don't exactly help, van. you're always leaving puck marks everywhere. it's a hazard."

"at least i'm not prancing around like a goddamn ballerina," van retorted, her voice rising.

"and at least i'm not skating around like a caveman," y/n snapped back, her eyes flashing with anger.