Page 21 of Melt My Heart: Denver Warlords

"We actually did," I admitted, unable to contain my smile. "It feels..."

"Magical?" he suggested, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"I was going to say 'cohesive,' but magical works too."

He laughed, draping an arm around my shoulders as we glided toward the exit. "Only you would use a word like 'cohesive' to describe what just happened. Admit it, McKenzie—we created something special."

The warmth of his body against mine, even through our training clothes, sent a pleasant shiver down my spine. "Fine. It's special. Remarkable. Transcendent. Does that satisfy your ego?"

"Almost." His voice dropped to a murmur meant only for me. "But I can think of other ways you could satisfy me later."

Heat bloomed across my cheeks. The memory of our night together after the restaurant flooded back—his hands exploring every inch of me, the exquisite pleasure of surrendering control to someone I trusted, the surprising tenderness in his touch despite his reputation for wildness.

"Behave," I whispered back. "We're in public."

His chuckle vibrated against me. "That hasn't stopped you from having very inappropriate thoughts right now. I can tell by that blush."

Before I could formulate a suitably cutting response, Luis approached with final notes about costume adjustments and timing cues. We spent another hour refining minute details, ensuring tomorrow's performance would be flawless. By the time we finished, late afternoon shadows stretched across the ice, the maintenance crew hovering impatiently with their resurfacing equipment.

In the locker room, I changed quickly, eager to finalize preparations for tomorrow. The exhibition had taken on heightened significance beyond mere publicity or Olympic Committee approval. It represented something profound about transformation—Gunnar's, mine, and what we'd become together against all odds. Even I was at a loss to explain what had taken place—I only knew that I was grateful.

I zipped my skate bag, mentally cataloging the items I'd need to bring tomorrow. Reaching inside for my water bottle, my fingers brushed against something unfamiliar—a folded piece of paper tucked into the inner pocket where I kept spare laces. Frowning, I pulled it out, unfolding the plain white paper to reveal a message in the same generic computer font as the previous note:

YOU WON’T PERFORM TOMORROW.

Ice flooded my veins, the earlier euphoria evaporating instantly. I glanced around the empty locker room, suddenly feeling exposed despite the security measures we'd implemented after the previous incidents. Someone had accessed my belongings—again—despite my vigilance. Someone determined to derail everything I'd worked for.

I found Gunnar waiting in the lobby, scrolling through his phone. One look at my face and he straightened, instantly alert.

"What happened?" he asked, voice low as he moved toward me.

Wordlessly, I handed him the note. His expression darkened as he read the four ominous words, jaw tightening visibly.

"Where was this?"

"Inside my skate bag. In an inner pocket.” I tried to keep my voice steady despite the chill of fear now coursing through me. "Gunnar, they're getting bolder. First it was missing items, then slashed tires and sabotaged lights. Now direct threats."

He scanned the lobby, though I knew he wouldn't spot anything suspicious. Our tormentor operated in shadows, striking when we least expected. "We need to talk to security. And make a list of everyone who might want to sabotage you…us."

In the security office, Santana reviewed the locker room footage, shaking his head in frustration. "Camera angle doesn't show the lockers themselves, just the entrance. Several people went in and out during your practice."

"Who?" Gunnar demanded.

Santana consulted his notes. "Other skaters with locker access, cleaning staff, a couple of event organizers checking space for tomorrow. Nothing unusual."

I leaned against the desk, mind racing. "Let's think systematically. Who benefits from disrupting the exhibition or my skating career in general?"

Gunnar grabbed a notepad, uncapping a pen with his teeth. "Trevor Davis," he began, writing the name with forceful strokes. "Hockey player with a fixation on you. Hasmoney, connections, and an entitled attitude. Won’t take no for an answer."

I nodded reluctantly. "He doesn't handle rejection well, and he's made multiple unwanted advances."

"Irina Sokolov," Gunnar continued, adding her to the list. "Your main competition. Benefits directly if you're rattled or injured before Olympic qualifiers."

"She's ambitious enough," I acknowledged. "Though sabotage seems extreme, even for her."

"Cassidy Palmer." His expression tightened as he wrote his ex's name. "Clearly unstable, definitely jealous, publicly threatened both of us at the restaurant."

The memory of that humiliating scene made me wince. "She specifically said we'd regret our being together."

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