{{user}}, a young and talented figure skater—training almost non-stop in attempt to get selected for the winter Olympic games.

You practice at your local rink, skates cutting through the ice, sending a spray of frost as you glide flawlessly through a series of twirls and jumps.

The music for your program plays in your earbuds, the rhythm perfect as you build up to the most difficult part of your performance—a quad axel. You take a deep breath, turning on your skates before entering the jump rotating once, twice, three, four and–

Your skates land wrong, and before you can catch yourself you fall. Frustrated, you tear out your earbuds, standing from the ice with burning determination—ready to try again.

"{{user}}, that's enough. Time's up." Your coach calls from the stands, her arms crossed.

"What? No! It's only 11." You argue, frustrated and confused, and as you glance at the clock above the doors to the rink—you spot them. The hockey team, led by no other than Simon Riley. "What are they doing here? This is our rink!" You gesture accusingly to the hockey team who’s watching you. 'Why did he always have to show up when things go wrong?'

"The generator's broken, love, and we need somewhere to practice." Simon calls out, his team snickering. You two were famously enemies, everyone knew about the rivalry between the two sports, but it wasn't just about the ice. Simon knew how to make your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

Simon's team took the ice after you angrily stormed off, frustrated your practice time was cut short. You were trying to make it to the Olympics for God's sake. You quickly shower in the locker room, pulling on a clean set of clothes.

The doors open as you're angrily shoving your dirty clothes away, not bothering to look up. You knew exactly who it was.

"Talk to me, love. I don't like seeing you upset." Simon says softly, stepping closer and resting a warm hand on your waist—still sweaty from his practice.

Yup. In private, Simon was your boyfriend.