Page 17 of Melt My Heart: Denver Warlords

"Years of practice," she replied, though I detected a hint of pride in her voice. "My body knows the movements so well I could probably land them in my sleep."

"That's the difference between a good athlete and a great one," I observed. "When technique becomes so ingrained it looks like instinct."

She tilted her head, studying me. "Yet you're known for skating by instinct rather than technique."

"Different approaches to the same goal," I shrugged. "You plan every movement. I feel the ice and respond in the moment. We both win medals."

"True." She swirled her wine thoughtfully. "Though your approach gives coaches heart attacks."

I laughed. "Hank's gone completely gray since taking me on. Claims it's genetics, but we both know better."

Our appetizers arrived—an artfully arranged plate of prosciutto, melon, and aged parmesan. Starla selected a piece of the salty ham, spearing it with the delicate silver tines of her fork.

"How did you end up with Hank as your coach?" she asked. "He has a reputation for being selective."

I chewed my bite of cheese slowly, considering how much to share. Something about the softly lit restaurant and her genuine interest made me want to lower my usual defenses.

"After my parents died, I bounced between foster homes, as you know. Some were okay, some..." I paused, memories of locked refrigerators and basement ‘bedrooms’ flashing through my mind. "Not so good. At one placement, there was this school field trip to an ice rink. First time I'd ever been on the ice."

"And you fell in love with it," she guessed.

"Not exactly." I smiled at the memory. "I was pissed off about being moved again, so I tried to race the other kids. Ended up faceplanting spectacularly in front of everyone."

Her eyes widened. "That doesn't sound like a love story."

"The humiliation should have ended it, but I couldn't let it go. Kept begging my foster parents to take me back. I wanted to prove I could do it." I took a sip of wine. "Eventually, this rec center coach noticed I had decent balance and a lot of stubbornness. He introduced me to Hank, who saw...something worth developing."

"Raw talent," she offered.

I shook my head. "Determination. Talent came later, after thousands of hours of training. Hank became the closest thing to family I had. Still is."

Our main courses arrived, steam rising from the perfectly plated dishes. Starla cut into her pasta with the same precision she applied to her skating, while I savored the tender veal that fell effortlessly from the bone.

"What about you?" I asked. "How does it feel to be following in the family footsteps?"

She tensed almost imperceptibly. "Well, I suppose that’s true. My mother was a downhill skier, Olympic silver medalist. Dad coached hockey before joining the Olympic Committee. Logan was the hockey prodigy. I was just looking for my own niche, I guess."

"Just looking for your niche…" I repeated skeptically. "And ended up one of the top-ranked figure skaters in the country…That's some niche."

She laughed softly. "Okay, fine. I was competitive from the start. My first coach said I had the most determined scowl she'd ever seen on a five-year-old."

I could picture it easily—tiny Starla, brow furrowed in concentration, refusing to leave the ice until she mastered a skill. Not so different from the woman before me now.

"Your parents must be proud," I said carefully, noting how she spoke of them with a mixture of reverence and tension.

"They are," she replied, though something in her voice suggested complication. "In their way. Dad charts my scores like stock market performance. Mom critiques my artistic expression. They mean well."

"But?" I prompted gently.

She hesitated. "Sometimes I wonder if they really know me. Or would care as much about me if I stopped skating.”

The raw honesty in her admission struck a chord. Here was Starla McKenzie—poised, perfect, perpetually composed—revealing a vulnerability few were privileged to see.

"Their loss," I said simply. "Because you're pretty remarkable, medal or no medal."

Color brushed her cheeks as she looked down at her plate. "You barely know me."

"I know enough," I insisted. "I've seen how you push through fear after someone tried to sabotage you. How you've tolerated my chaos without strangling me, which shows incredible restraint."

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