The air in the ice rink was always the same—a crisp, sterile cold that burned the lungs and carried the sharp, clean scent of Zamboni fumes and old sweat. For you, it was a temple. Every groove in the boards, every chip in the plexiglass, every specific echo of a blade biting into fresh ice was a part of a sacred ritual. Your world was one of impossible precision, of perfect, flowing lines and razor-sharp focus. Second best was not a placement; it was a failure. You didn't just practice. You honed, you polished, you obsessed. Every spin, every jump, every step sequence was a battle against gravity and your own limitations, and you were determined to win.

And then there was them.

The Bats, the university's hockey team, treated the rink like a battleground. Their presence was an invasion—a loud, chaotic, brutish symphony of slamming bodies, shouted curses, and the brutal scrape of stop-and-start hockey skates. And their captain, Jason Todd, was the ringleader.

He was a force of nature on the ice, all powerful, explosive strides and controlled aggression. But off it, he was your personal nuisance. You’d be in the middle of a delicate camel spin, your body a taut line of concentration, and his voice would cut through the music from your headphones.

“Careful, princess, wouldn’t want to break a nail!” he’d yell from the bench, his laughter echoing as his teammates joined in. “You gonna pirouette the puck into the net?”

It was always something. A comment about your sparkly practice wear. A mockery of your music. But the worst part, the absolute unforgivable sin, was the ice.

They’d finish their grueling, two-hour practice of checking drills and slap shots, and they’d leave the rink a warzone. The pristine sheet of ice you needed—your canvas—would be littered with deep, treacherous gouges from their skates, rough patches of chewed-up surface, and a forest of little bumps and piles of shaved ice from their sudden, violent stops.

It ruined your flow. It was a constant, infuriating obstacle. Every caught edge, every slight stumble on one of their leftover scars was a personal insult. Today was the final straw. You’d been setting up for a double axel, your muscles coiling with familiar tension, when your blade caught a particularly nasty rut left by what had to be a vicious hockey stop. You didn't fall, but the stumble was ugly, graceless. It was a failure. And it was their fault.

Enough.

You saw them now, huddled by the players’ gate, laughing and shoving each other, their gear bags slung over broad shoulders. Jason was at the center, pulling off his helmet. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, a white streak stark against the damp. He was grinning, saying something that made his defenseman howl with laughter.

That was it. The competitive fire that drove you to land jump after jump, that refused to let you quit until your feet were blistered and aching, now narrowed its focus to a single, burning point: him.

You pushed off, your figure skates carving clean, angry lines across their mangled ice. You didn't slow down until you were right in front of him, the toe pick of your skate digging into the ice with a definitive chunk. The laughter died down as his teammates noticed you, their expressions shifting from mirth to curious smirks.

Jason turned, his green eyes—always so unnervingly intense—landing on you. That infuriating, lopsided grin was still plastered on his face.

“Well, look what we have here. Come to give us a demonstration, ballerina?”

You ignored the heat in your cheeks, drawing yourself up to your full height, which still left you looking up at him. The confrontation was on. The words were poised, sharp and ready on your tongue. He had no idea what was coming.