Page 10 of Melt My Heart: Denver Warlords

A soft sigh escaped me. Maybe he was a risk. But skating at this level had always been about taking calculated risks—leaps, spins, the pursuit of more perfect lines. In a strange way, letting Gunnar in might be my boldest move yet. If that turned into gold, then it would all be worth it.

My phone stayed mercifully silent—no more unknown texts. I’d count that as a win. Draining the last of my tea, I rose and turned on a lamp as dusk settled outside the window. Another day done, and I still had my sanity. The real test loomed ahead, though: refining this routine and surviving Gunnar’s unstoppable energy. For all my love of order, a small thrill at that challenge danced through me.

And maybe that meant I was already thawing—if only a fraction—under his high-octane charm.

Chapter Four

GUNNAR

I slid onto the ice at the Denver rink with my usual push of energy, enjoying the crisp air in my lungs and the smooth surface under my skates. Early morning light streamed through the high windows, illuminating the faint mist swirling at skate-level. Over the past two weeks, I had developed a routine I never anticipated: daily figure-skating practice with Starla McKenzie.

Starla arrived soon after, her hair pulled into a tight, low bun, a fitted training jacket showcasing her petite figure. For someone standing just over five feet, she carried herself with a regal air, her emerald eyes scanning the arena. She offered a curtnod in my direction. I noticed her lips relax a fraction, which seemed like her version of a warm greeting.

We began with a slow warm-up, each circling in our own patterns. She paused to stretch her calf muscles against the boards, maintaining faultless posture. I performed a few sprint laps around the perimeter, letting my thighs burn in that familiar rush I craved. We reconvened at center ice, standing a few feet apart on the freshly resurfaced surface.

“Let’s run the opening again,” she said as she brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. “I want to ensure we’ve maintained the improvements from yesterday.”

I nodded, flicking on the portable speaker she’d set up. A soft, classical tune swelled, piano notes rising over gentle violins. She glided forward, posture firm, arms unfolding in an elegant spiral. I hung back, letting her lines establish the tone before skating into my own segment of momentum-driven crossovers. The first few days we tried this, we collided or lost balance, but two weeks of daily rehearsal worked wonders. Now, her spiral transitioned seamlessly into my burst of speed, and we flowed side by side.

We repeated this sequence multiple times, each run refining small details. I watched her analyze every edge, each angle of her blade. She corrected me on subtle positioning, pointing out that a slight angle shift in my knees might avoid clipping her path. I listened for once, adjusting my stance to incorporate her suggestions. By now, I appreciated that her sharp eye led to smoother collaboration.

After ten minutes of drilling the intro, we switched to the middle portion, which combined a side-by-side spin with a quick pivot into a partial lift. I found myself focusing on each movement of her tiny form, anticipating her shifts in weight. My usual approach was to rely on instinct, but with Starla, I neededto think a step ahead. She tossed occasional reminders or short commands, but I noticed the absence of her earlier scorn. Instead, she sounded cautious but almost… encouraging.

During one spin, I placed a hand lightly on her waist to catch her at the right angle, preventing a stumble. She rewarded me with a nod that might have been gratitude, and I felt a small thrill that we were actually functioning as a team. Her entire body hummed with tension and focus, yet she no longer recoiled from my help.

At the end of our run-through, she paused, panting faintly. “That’s much better,” she remarked, gaze sweeping over me. “Your pivot was more controlled.”

I smirked. “All thanks to your brilliant guidance, right?”

She shrugged with a tiny upturn at the corner of her mouth, a reaction I rarely saw. “You do catch on quickly,” she admitted.

We repeated the spin-lift transition and nailed it without wobble or missed timing. That success made her face light up in a quick, radiant smile. My chest clenched at the sight of it. She rarely let her guard down, so glimpsing real excitement was a shock to the system. “You see that?” I teased, stepping aside so she could glide to a stop. “You actually smiled, McKenzie.”

Her lips pressed together, pink warming her cheeks. “Don’t read too much into it,” she said, voice brisk. But she didn’t deny her moment of joy.

I studied her petite build, the trim figure shaped by years of relentless discipline, and couldn’t resist a small grin of my own. “Too late. I’m reading it as a sign of progress.”

She blew out an exasperated breath, then motioned for us to try again. I let her have the last word for once, deciding not to push my luck.

We continued refining each segment until our allocated ice time drew near its end. She executed a final spin, arms extended elegantly, while I mirrored her motions in a less polished but serviceable manner. The music faded, leaving us on the ice, breathing heavily from the intensity. A flush colored her cheeks, and my pulse thudded from the exertion. When she straightened, I caught a flash of genuine satisfaction in her eyes, like a guarded curtain lifting momentarily.

When practice wrapped up, we lingered at the boards, removing skates. Her phone buzzed with a notification, but she dismissed it to focus on stowing her equipment. The overhead lights glowed on her hair, bringing out traces of gold. I wiped sweat from my forehead, deciding to act on an impulse that brewed in the back of my mind.

“You know,” I said, slipping my skates into my bag, “we’ve spent hours on the ice every day but I barely know you off the rink. What if we grabbed coffee…or tea, since I figure you’re not a caffeine fiend like me?”

She paused, one brow lifted. “I have to meet with Vivian soon.”

I leaned a forearm on the boards, trying a casual tone. “Then how about later? Even one cup would be good. We can skip practice talk unless you want it, and maybe warm up somewhere that’s not subzero.”

She appeared thoughtful, glanced at the time on her phone, and let out a small sigh. “I suppose I can spare an hour. Why not?”

I felt a sense of relief at her acceptance. She lifted her neatly packed bag onto one shoulder and headed toward the locker rooms. Our constant friction had melted into a measured civility, and I caught myself wanting to hear her discuss something besides jump sequences or foot placement.

“That’s long enough for me,” I added, shouldering my own gear. “Wherever you prefer.”

She paused at the door, glancing over her shoulder. “Fine. There’s a café near the training center that serves passable tea.” Then she slipped inside, leaving me unexpectedly eager for this brief escape from the rink.

I managed to keep my grin in check. “Lead the way, Your Highness,” I muttered under my breath. A few minutes later, we stepped out of the ice center into a crisp winter gust. The sidewalk bore a thin sheen of frost, and the chilly air prickled against my cheeks as we walked. Storefronts along this stretch ranged from yoga studios to organic groceries, with a few boutique gyms squeezed in between.

---