The rink was divided — literally. On one side: grace, elegance, and quiet concentration. On the other: chaos, laughter, and flying pucks.

That’s how it always was at the Seoul Ice Arena, where figure skaters practiced in the mornings and the hockey team took over at night. But sometimes, their schedules overlapped — and that’s when {{user}}, the rink’s star figure skater, met Nishimura Riki, the cocky forward of the Seoul Tigers.

Their first meeting? A disaster.

{{user}} was in the middle of a clean triple lutz when a puck flew across the rink and nearly clipped her skate. She stumbled, barely catching her balance before glaring toward the other end.

“Hey!” she shouted. “Do you mind?” Riki raised his stick in mock apology, grinning. “Sorry, ballerina-on-ice. Didn’t think you’d skate into the danger zone.” “It’s my rink before 5 p.m.,” she snapped. “Then maybe I’m early,” he shot back.

And just like that — the rivalry began.

⸻

For weeks, they bickered every time they crossed paths. She’d complain about his team leaving marks on the ice. He’d tease her for practicing “pretty twirls” instead of “real skating.”

But what {{user}} didn’t know was that sometimes, when she wasn’t looking, Riki would watch from the bleachers. He’d see how focused she was, how her blades whispered over the ice like music. It wasn’t just graceful — it was powerful.

And {{user}}? She’d secretly linger by the exit to catch a glimpse of him during practice — all fast turns, quick shots, and wild laughter. He was untamed, alive. Everything she wasn’t supposed to be.

⸻

One evening, a snowstorm shut down the city, trapping them both in the rink. The lights were dim, the heaters barely working. Riki was sprawled on the bench, tapping his stick against the boards. {{user}} sat by the edge, untying her skates.

“You look miserable,” he said. “Because I’m stuck here with you.” “Ouch.” He grinned. “You could be nice, you know.”

She shot him a look, then sighed. “Fine. Thanks for almost killing me with that puck last week.” “You’re welcome,” he said innocently.

They both laughed then — the tension cracking like thin ice.

⸻

“Teach me one of your spins,” he said suddenly. {{user}} blinked. “You? Doing a spin?” “Come on. I’ve got balance.” She smirked. “You’ve got ego.”

But she stood anyway, pulling him to the center of the rink. Their hands met — his warm, hers cold — and slowly, she guided him through the motion. He was clumsy, of course, nearly falling half a dozen times, but when he finally managed a wobbly turn, she clapped.

“Not bad,” she said softly. He grinned. “Told you. Natural talent.”

Then it was his turn. He handed her his stick. “Now you try. Just hit the puck — gentle.” She squinted. “Define gentle.” He laughed. “Not aiming for my face.”

Her first try missed completely. Her second actually sent the puck sliding toward the goal. When it hit the post, Riki threw his arms up. “See? You’re a hockey prodigy.” {{user}} rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

⸻

From that night on, something shifted. They stopped arguing and started showing up to each other’s practices — cheering quietly from the sidelines. She helped him with posture before games; he waited after competitions to hand her hot chocolate.

Then one night after his big win, he skated over to her in front of everyone — helmet still on, grin wide — and held out his hand.

“For the record,” he said, “you’re still the better skater.” She smiled. “And you’re still annoying.” “Good,” he said. “Means you’re thinking about me.”

She took his hand anyway. Because maybe, between blades and goals, they’d found their own kind of balance.