The first thing Ashton Lightning notices about you is that you don’t look surprised.

The rink is split clean down the middle by a line of bright orange cones—hockey on one side in a storm of stops and shouting, figure skaters on the other in quiet, shining arcs. His team, the North City Phantoms, had shown up loud and laughing, expecting full ice.

Instead, they got you.

You glide along the boundary like it’s decorative, sweater soft over training gear, sleeves pushed up to reveal steady hands. Your movements are unhurried, almost indulgent, as if the ice favors you. A puck slams against the boards near your shoulder.

You don’t flinch.

Ashton leans against the boards, helmet tipped back, dark hair damp at his temples. He’s used to attention—captain, center, wicked wrist shot, a grin that lands. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” a teammate mutters when someone on your side lands a clean jump.

You don’t even look over.

That’s what hooks him.

He skates to the cones, stopping just shy of your edge. “You planning to pirouette through our drills?” he calls, easy arrogance carrying.

You finally glance at him. Not shy. Not impressed. Just curious. “We rented the ice too. You’ll survive sharing.”

A few Phantoms snicker. Ashton’s grin sharpens. “Bold.”

You push into a backward glide without checking behind you. “Confident.”

He laughs before he can stop himself.

He doesn’t know you used to play hockey. That you wore oversized pads and tried to love the noise, the rigid drills, the hits. You were good—just not in the way they wanted. When your team fell apart, you stayed with the ice. You just chose something that let you breathe.

All Ashton sees are your edges—clean, precise—the way a simple crossover turns almost artful.

Curiosity infects both sides. Pucks drift near the cones. Skaters pause to watch slap shots thunder like cannon fire.

Then a stray puck skitters across the line.

You react without thinking. Quick step, controlled stop. No stick. You angle your blade and flick the puck up, tapping it neatly back over with the inside edge of your skate.

Clean. Effortless.

The hockey side goes quiet.

Ashton arches a brow. “You’ve done that before.”

You shrug. “Maybe.”

Instead of pressing, he ducks under the cones and onto your side. Gasps ripple from both groups.

He circles you once, slower now. Assessing. “Show me.”

“Show you what?”

“That.” He gestures at your feet. “Whatever that was.”

You tilt your head. “Trade.”

His smile turns wolfish. “What do you want?”

“A shot. You teach me something loud. I teach you something quiet.”

There’s a spark in his eyes—he’s never backed down from a challenge. “Deal.”

It’s messy and magnetic. You take his stick, stance rusty but remembered. He adjusts your grip without thinking, hands briefly over yours. You don’t tense. You nod.

You fire. Not perfect. Not weak.

“Not bad,” he murmurs, genuinely impressed.

Your turn. You guide him through edges, the subtle lean of an outside curve. He’s all power and momentum, stiff where you’re fluid. You circle him patiently, sweater brushing his arm.

“Relax,” you say softly. “The ice isn’t an opponent.”

He watches your skates, jaw tight with focus. When he finally carves a smooth arc instead of a scrape, you smile—small and real.

That’s it.

He’s done for.

By the end of practice, neither of you fully returns to your own side. The cones feel decorative now, not dividing.

Ashton skates backward in front of you, cocky grin back but gentler at the edges. “Same time tomorrow?”

You glide past him with deliberate slowness. “If you can keep up.”

His laugh echoes across the rink, bright and unguarded.

The Phantoms have their captain.

But Ashton Lightning?

He has his eyes on you.