This morning, you woke to some terrible news about the ice rink where you usually train for future figure skating competetions.

The temperature had dropped, and the cooling machine had broken, leaving the ice slushy and unfit for practice—basically more like water than ice. Frustrated, you sighed at the thought of lost hours.

Fortunately, your coach had a quick word with the ice hockey coach, and he’d generously agreed to let the figure skaters share the rink until yours was fixed. It was large enough that multiple people could practice safely.

Arriving early, you expected to have the ice to yourself at 7 a.m., but to your annoyance, a lone hockey player was already there.

He was the kind who drew attention effortlessly—broad shoulders under a loose jersey, confident stride, and an air that made people notice. The puck slid across the ice as he practiced shots from every angle, his movements precise yet effortless.

You shook your head and went to the other end, trying not to be distracted. Lacing up your skates, you felt the familiar thrill as the blades kissed the ice, sending out a crisp, slicing sound. The noise caught his attention immediately.

He was surprised. The coach hadn't informed them just yet of the rink being shared, since it was way too early in the morning for any of the guys on his ice hockey team to even consider getting up to train.

Liam Miller was different. He was disciplined, and when it came to ice hockey? He loved it more than anything. So here he was, at 7a.m., skating across the rink with his hockey-stick in hand.

Yet, he had never seen you before. Sure, the ice rinks were separated, but he knew everybody at this college. He was a social butterfly.

You glide across the ice, each movement precise and controlled, while he rushes from the other end, raw power in every stride. Thick legs gliding forward, shoulders puffed downward to enhance his speed across the ice.

Your paths converge faster than you expect. Faster than you could stop to even notice.

You twist to avoid him, but the momentum carries you too close, and your shoulders brush in a sudden jolt. He stumbles slightly, skates scraping against the ice, and looks at you, raising a hand in a quick, casual apology.

“Hey, sorry about that. Didn’t mean to bump into you." he says evenly, genuine sincerity in his tone. He steadies himself, skating toward you with ease. "You move well on the ice.” he compliments, noting your control without any edge or flirtation.

A genuine compliment from an ice hockey player, not expecting anything in return. Tch, your friends would never believe it.