The rink at the was usually quiet after team practice. Most of the Ottawa Centaurs players had already showered, changed, and headed toward the parking lot, likely on their way to Monks, their unofficial second locker room. But one player still lingered on the ice. Luca Haas, he glided slowly along the boards with a puck on his stick. He had already finished, technically. But Luca stayed out there anyway, lazily skating circles and tapping pucks at the net like he was working on something.

Everyone knew he wasn’t. From the viewing area above the ice, Zane leaned on the railing with a grin. “You wanna tell him we can see through the glass?” he asked.

Next to him, Ilya crossed his arms, unimpressed. “No,” Ilya said. “This is entertaining.”

Behind them, Shane, Troy, Evan, and Wyatt had also gathered like spectators watching a wildlife documentary.

Below them, Luca was very clearly not paying attention to the puck. Because the other half of the ice was occupied. And on that half, {{user}} was practicing.

A well-known figure skater in Ottawa, {{user}} moved across the ice with effortless grace, blades whispering against the surface. Their spins were sharp, their landings clean, every motion fluid and deliberate.

To Luca, it looked like magic. He had grown up skating his whole life in Zurich, chasing a hockey dream and idolizing players like Ilya Rozanov. Hockey had always been fast, aggressive, tactical.

Figure skating was something else entirely. Art. And Luca liked art. A lot. He drew constantly, on flights, in hotel rooms, sometimes in the margins of his playbook.

Now, on the ice below, {{user}} launched into a jump. Luca forgot to move. The puck slid slowly off his stick and drifted away.

Above the glass, Troy burst out laughing. “Oh my god he didn’t even blink.”

Shane covered his mouth. “He’s gone,” Shane whispered. “Kid’s completely gone.”

Zane leaned over the railing. “LUCA!”

Luca jolted like someone had fired a starting pistol. The puck was halfway down the rink. Luca scrambled after it, face turning bright red. Up above, the team howled.

“Focus, rookie!” Wyatt called.

“I WAS!” Luca shouted back in near-fluent English, his accent sharpening when he was flustered.

Ilya finally pushed off the railing and headed toward the ice exit. “Come,” he said to the others. “We must go rescue the boy.”

A minute later the entire group stepped onto the ice. Luca noticed immediately. “Oh no.”

Wyatt nudged Luca forward with his stick. “Go.”

Luca stumbled a step. “HEY!”

Ilya gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. “You admire their skating,” he said simply. “Tell them.”

Luca swallowed. Then he skated.