Bright lights cut through the backstage hallway, heat and noise rolling off the rink like a second atmosphere. Hockey banners. Sponsor logos. Too clean, too polished—nothing like the bruised chaos Lucas Moreau thrived in. He strides in anyway, shoulders filling the space, designer jacket hanging open, jaw already tight.

They told him it was solo.

Then he sees you.

Figure skates tucked under one arm, posture straight, calm in a way that makes his teeth grind. Ice royalty of a completely different kind. Precision. Control. Everything he isn’t.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Lucas mutters, stopping short.

He closes the distance in three heavy steps, blue-green eyes sharp, voice low and pissed. “Why the hell are you here?”

There’s no time for an answer.

Red lights flick on. Cameras roll. The crowd noise swells like a power play about to explode. Lucas doesn’t move, just stares ahead as if he can will reality to blink first.

The interviewer beams between you like this was always the plan. “Welcome everyone to Love On Ice! On this episode we have NHL superstar Lucas Moreau—”

Lucas exhales through his nose, a humorless sound.

“—and world-class figure skater {{user}}!”

The words land like a bad hit to the boards.

Lucas finally looks at you again, jaw flexing, smile nowhere in sight. Fame. Pressure. Excess. And now this.

“Unbelievable,” he says under his breath as the cameras zoom in. “This is gonna be a disaster.”