I glide across the slick surface of the ice, my breath coming out in frosty puffs that mimic the steam engine rhythm of our practice. The Titans are a whir of coordination and power, their skates carving precision lines into the rink as they execute drill after drill. Sweat beads on foreheads, determination etched into every grimace and focused gaze. I call out maneuvers from the center of the rink, watching the players weave around me like planets orbiting a sun.
“Pivot, then transition into stretch, back and forth, let’s see it!” My voice cuts through the cold air, assertive and clear. Nathan nods from across the ice, his movements fluid and certain, a reflection of the dedication he brings off the ice as well. The others follow suit, but among them, one figure stands out, pushing himself harder, faster—Alex “Iceman” Winters. His powerful frame moves with an intensity that commands attention, his skates slicing the ice in aggressive bursts of speed.
“Keep the tempo, Titans! Push through!” I urge, skating alongside them, feeling the burn in my own muscles. This is where we build champions, where sweat and steel forge victory.
The intensity of the session crescendos, and I sense rather than see Alex’s competitive fire sparking against mine. He challenges every limit, including my patience. I’m drawn to his charisma, even as his unruliness grates on me, a friction that heats the space between us with something other than exertion.
“Alex, hold your position three beats longer before you go in for the kill,” I instruct, trying to channel my focus into constructive criticism.
“Doesn’t feel right,” he retorts, his icy eyes locking onto mine as he comes to a stop inches away. “Holding back doesn’t win games.”
“Discipline wins games,” I counter, my voice steady despite the quickening of my pulse. “Control on the ice is what sets us apart.”
“Maybe for some,” he says, a rebellious smirk playing on his lips. “But some of us prefer to break the ice, not just dance on it.”
Our argument simmers with a heat that rivals the exertion of the practice session. Alex’s body language speaks volumes; he looms over me, an imposing figure made of muscle and sheer willpower. His hands rest on his hips, a silent challenge emanating from his stance.
“Try it,” I insist, my tone sharper than I intend. “For the team.”
“Fine.” He pushes off, gets the puck, and heads down the ice. When he tries to evade the defenseman this time, performing the maneuver with exaggerated precision, he easily skirts around the other players, and shoots. The puck sails past the goalie and finds the goal.
I pump my fist. “There it is.”
Then I glance at Alex. The tension in his body betrays his annoyance. His performance is flawless, yet somehow, it feels like a defeat. Something about his compliance irks me more than his resistance ever could.
“See? Perfect,” I say, though the word tastes like ash in my mouth.
“Perfection’s overrated,” Alex shoots back, coming to another abrupt halt that sends a spray of ice crystals into the air. “It’s passion that makes the game.”
“Passion without discipline is chaos on the ice,” I argue, my words slicing between us as sharply as our skates cut the rink.
“Then maybe it’s time for a little chaos,” he replies, the challenge in his gaze unwavering as we stand there, locked in a battle of wills amidst the chill of the arena.
The last of the Titans shuffle off the ice, their laughter and chatter echoing in the otherwise hollow space. Only the sound of Alex’s blades carving into the rink breaks the quiet. Before he can leave the ice, I skate over to him, determined.
“Alex, stay back a minute, will you?” My voice carries over the ice, clear and authoritative.
His teammates don’t miss a beat, ribbing him as they pass. “Ooh, teacher’s pet!” one of them calls out, slapping Alex on the shoulder.
“Careful, Iceman, you might actually learn something,” another teases with a grin before disappearing into the locker room.
He rolls his eyes, but I catch the tightness in his jaw. He’s not amused as he pulls off his gloves and helmet, shaking the sweat from his hair.
“Look, I just want to go over that last sequence with you,” I say once we’re alone, my skates crunching softly against the cold surface. “You need to—”
“Need to what?” he interrupts, bristling. “I did it exactly like you said.”
“Your execution was fine,” I concede, trying to keep my voice level. “It’s your attitude that needs work.”
“Is that right?” His tone is acidic, and he crosses his arms, skates edging closer to mine. “And you think you can fix me?”
“I—” I freeze, lost in his eyes. This man is perfection. There is nothing about him that needs fixing at all. Wait. What was I talking about?
The smirk is back. “Face it. You just wanted me to hang back because you want to get me to yourself. All you had to do is ask.”
If anyone else said that to me, I'd have denied it outright. But it feels like a lie. I've spent too much of my time watching him on the ice, trying to decode him. So yes, I did call him to hang back here with me, so I could further unravel the mystery that is Alex Winters. Thaw the Iceman. And he knows it. I'm sure many others have tried. And I'm also sure that cocky attitude of his has gotten him exactly what he wants, many times before.
“Alex,” I sigh, exasperated. “It’s not about fixing. Your technique is flawless, clearly. It’s about being part of a team. You could be great if you’d stop trying to prove how much you don’t care.”
“Maybe I just don’t believe in prancing around the ice,” he retorts, leaning in so that our faces are mere inches apart. The chill from the ice does nothing to cool the heat rising between us.
“Figure skating techniques improve agility and control. You know this.” I press my point, my eyes locked on his. “But you’ve got to let yourself—”
"Let me what?" he challenges, a smirk playing on his lips despite the anger in his eyes.
“Be vulnerable,” I whisper, the truth of it hitting me just as it escapes my mouth.
“Vulnerable?” His laugh is bitter, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something raw and unguarded in his icy gaze before it hardens again. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
“Then explain it to me,” I dare him, my own breaths short and uneven.
“Fine,” he says, and there’s a sudden shift in the air as his hands reach out, gripping my arms with surprising gentleness.
I’m unprepared for the contact. The world narrows down to the points where his fingers dig into my skin, the intensity of his stare, and the quickening pulse at the base of my throat.
“Being vulnerable means opening up to someone,” he murmurs, voice low and unexpectedly tender. “Means maybe wanting... this.”
And then his lips crash against mine.
In that instant, the argument evaporates. There’s no more bickering or icy retorts, only the heat of his mouth moving against mine. I gasp, part surprise, part surrender, and the sound is swallowed by the urgency of his kiss. My mind blanks, every thought scorched away by the searing touch of Alex’s lips.
His hands slide up to cradle my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks as if to memorize the shape of them. I’m lost in the sensation, the way my body seems to melt against his, the way my heart hammers a frenzied rhythm that drowns out all reason.
We kiss like we argue—fiercely, passionately, with a ferocity that consumes us both. And for those precious seconds, nothing else exists—no ice, no team, no looming love triangle.
Just Lila and Alex, and the startling vulnerability of a kiss that threatens to change everything.
The kiss breaks—a fracture in time, a crack in the foundation of everything I thought I understood. We stumble apart, gasping for air as if we’ve just resurfaced from the depths of some turbulent sea.
Alex’s eyes blaze with the same fiery ice that earned him his nickname, but there’s also something else—something unguarded and raw that I’ve never seen before. But it isn’t long before the smirk is back.
“That was good,” he breathes, raking a hand through his tousled hair.
Embarrassment trickles in, and it isn’t long before I’m angry at myself for letting it get that far. I can’t fall for Alex Winters. I turn and skate away, refusing to look back.
“Remember, Mercer, there’s plenty more where that came from.” His voice is a gruff murmur, undercut with the ghost of the heat we both felt.
My heart is still cartwheeling in my chest, and something within me recoils. How can he say something so flippant after... that? It’s like he’s already boxing up the moment, compartmentalizing it as another conquest or challenge. And yet, part of me wonders if it’s bravado, a defense mechanism against what just happened between us.
“That will never happen again,” I manage to call back to him, my voice sounding small and distant even to my own ears. I’m desperate to escape, to put as much distance between us as I can—to find a space where I can think, where I can breathe.
Because I can't, right now. It's like his kiss breathed life into me, and now that I'm away from him, I'm struggling for air. My breath comes out in ragged plumes, mingling with the lingering chill of the rink. I shove open the door, the sound echoing hollowly behind me, and step off the ice, leaving behind the warmth of Alex's touch still burning on my lips.
As I peel off my skates, my mind races, thoughts tangling and twisting into knots. Nathan—the vision of him flashes through my mind, with his big blue puppy-dog eyes. He’s safe, stable, the kind of guy you build a life with. The contrast between him and Alex couldn’t be starker. Nathan has always been the calm to Alex’s storm, the strategy to his impulse, the quiet understanding to his challenging smirk.
What does it mean that Alex’s fire draws me in, even as Nathan’s steadiness has been my anchor? Why does my heart race for the danger of the tempest when I’ve always found solace in the harbor? These questions chase me, hounding my steps as I leave the arena behind, the sound of my blade guards clicking against the concrete floor marking the rhythm of my confusion.
Nathan would have talked things out, would have held me with a gentle assurance that promised everything was going to be okay. But Alex, with his unyielding intensity, had pulled me into a maelstrom with just one kiss. There’s a pull to Alex that’s undeniable, an allure in the very things that make him maddening. Is it the thrill of the unknown, the excitement of the challenge, or something deeper, something real?
With every step away from the rink, I feel like I’m abandoning a piece of myself on the ice. The clarity I seek remains elusive, shrouded in a fog of emotions too complex to unravel. Doubt creeps in, whispering that perhaps I don’t really know what—or who—I want.
But one thing is certain: nothing can stay the same after today.