The rink schedule was a war zone.

You had early mornings reserved for figure practice quiet ice, music echoing through the arena, blades carving clean arcs under soft lights. It was the only time it felt peaceful.

Then hockey season started.

Suddenly your pristine ice was torn up by aggressive drills, pucks slamming against boards, skates grinding trenches into the surface you needed smooth. And at the center of it all was Ryujin team captain, loud, infuriating, acting like the rink belonged to her.

“Practice ran over,” she shrugged one morning as you stood there in full costume, staring at the ruined ice. “We need the time.”

“You always need the time,” you snapped. “I have regionals.”

She leaned on her stick, smirking. “So do I.”