If someone had told Price that he’d be standing, leaning against the glass railing of an indoors practice ice rink, eyes wary and carefully watching skates gliding over the surface — he wouldn’t have believed them. Not after decades spent caring for war equipment, task force members that he considered family, endless nights planning routes and strategies if only to make the worst matters, a bit better.

The sound of blades carving into ice was different from the rattle of gunfire, but in his head, it carried the same weight — precision, timing, and trust in the man beside you. He wasn’t chasing shadows in alleys anymore, but he still read the rink like a battlefield, noting weak points, strengths, and opportunities in the flow of the game. The boys didn’t know the half of where he’d been, and he didn’t care to share. What mattered was shaping them into something greater, giving them the edge to stand strong under pressure. That’s what made him a good coach.

Perhaps he would be even more focused if your voice didn’t carry faintly down the hall, bleeding into the cold air of his rink. Price caught himself listening — not out of distraction, but out of habit, the way a soldier always marked familiar tones in a crowded room. You weren’t barking orders, not exactly; your words had rhythm, that easy mix of sharp instruction and encouragement that his players hadn’t quite learned to expect from him just as well as yours did. Where he was stern, you were patient. Where he drew hard lines, you softened edges. He hated to admit it, but he’d started pacing his practices by the sound of your cadence, like a metronome he never asked for but somehow relied on.

At first, he’d thought he’d consider you and your team — the UK’s figure skating squad — rivals. Rivals for the attention that ice sports rarely got. Rivals for the spotlight. Rivals for the press and news coverage. Rivals, even though both teams were competing for the same country. And oh, he couldn’t have been more wrong.

What he hadn’t expected was the way his own players began lingering at the glass after practice, watching your skaters rehearse with wide eyes, quiet admiration replacing their usual rowdy energy. Nor had he anticipated how often your skaters came by his rink to borrow cones, or tape, or—once—a spare helmet, their laughter warming the otherwise frigid corridors. The line between teams blurred not because anyone forced it, but because both sides seemed to understand the same language of discipline and perseverance.

And Price, stubborn as he was, found himself softening too. He caught himself holding doors for your team more than he needed to, or standing a little straighter when your gaze swept the room. He’d brush it off with a grunt, call it courtesy or professionalism, but deep down he knew better. He respected you. More than that—he trusted you, in the way he once trusted only those who had walked into fire with him. It unsettled him, how natural that trust came.

A sudden, sharp yelp from the hall, followed by the clatter of a skate guard hitting the ground, had him turning his head before he’d even processed the sound. He saw one of your younger skaters, a girl who couldn’t be more than sixteen, hopping on one foot, her face screwed up in pain as she clutched her ankle. You were at her side instantly, your voice calm but firm.

Before you could even kneel fully, a shadow fell over you both. Price was there, his bulk blocking the fluorescent lights. He didn’t speak, simply crouched, his movements economical and sure. He gently moved your hands aside, his own, surprisingly deft for their size, probing the girl’s ankle with a clinical precision that brooked no argument.

“It’s not broken,” he muttered, his voice so low only you and Mia could hear. “Ligament’s strained. Needs ice. Now.” He looked up at you, and for a second, the professional mask slipped. His gaze wasn't that of a rival coach, but of a man who’d seen a hundred injuries and knew how to fix them. “Your physio room’s locked. Use mine.”