Page 23 of Melt My Heart: Denver Warlords

His eyes softened at the unspoken declaration. "What's that?"

I touched his face, allowing myself rare vulnerability. "Our future. Whatever that might be."

He pulled me into a tender kiss that sealed our agreement. When we separated, he pressed his forehead against mine. "For the record, I'm falling for you too, McKenzie. Hard."

The simple statement unlocked something within me—permission to acknowledge what I'd been fighting for weeks. I'd constructed my entire life around independence,control, and solitary pursuit of perfection. Yet somehow, this chaos-embracing speed skater had become essential to my happiness, on and off the ice.

As we settled back into bed, his arms encircling me protectively, I allowed myself a moment of hope. Tomorrow we would dazzle the world with our performance. And perhaps the authorities would finally identify whoever threatened our fragile new beginning.

Sleep claimed me gradually, my last conscious thought a prayer that our intertwined bodies, breathing in perfect rhythm, symbolized a future neither of us had anticipated but both now desperately wanted to protect.

Chapter Eight

GUNNAR

Dawn broke in streaks of vermilion across the Denver skyline as I prowled the perimeter of Starla's living room, checking window latches for the third time. Sleep had evaded me most of the night, my body alert beside her peaceful form. The note's ominous message echoed through my mind, transforming what would have been the exhilaration of anticipation into wary vigilance.

Starla emerged from the bedroom. She was dressed in warm-ups, but her hair was already coiled in its performance-ready bun. Even with the weight of threatshanging over us, she projected composure. Only the slight tension around her eyes betrayed her anxiety.

"You've been up for hours," she observed, crossing to the kitchen where coffee brewed. Not a question.

I shrugged, accepting the mug she offered. "Thought I'd make sure our mystery admirer didn't pay a visit."

"Any sign of trouble?"

"Nothing." I took a sip, watching her over the rim.” Santana confirmed he doubled security for today. Extra guards at all entrances, credential checks, the works."

She nodded, gathering her things methodically as she went through her checklist. Even in the face of potential danger, her organizational habits remained intact.

We arrived at the arena three hours before the event, well ahead of the other performers. The parking lot stood nearly empty. Our footsteps echoed across the asphalt still damp from overnight rain. At the staff entrance, a security guard inspected our credentials before waving us through with a nod.

Inside, the transformation was complete. What had been a standard ice arena now gleamed with theatrical lighting, the boards adorned with sponsor logos and charity insignia. Seating for Olympic Committee members had been arranged prominently, with plush chairs set where they could evaluate each nuance of our performance.

"Let's check the ice," Starla suggested, heading toward the locker rooms.

I followed, scanning each shadowy corner, each service access. Nothing seemed amiss, yet unease clung tome like a second skin. We changed quickly and claimed the freshly resurfaced rink for a brief practice run.

The ice felt different under exhibition conditions—harder, faster. We adapted instantly, our muscle memory compensating for the altered surface. Our bodies found their connection points, her delicate frame fitting against mine as if designed for these precise moments of contact.

"Perfect," she declared after we completed our final lift sequence. A rare, unguarded smile illuminated her features. "We're ready."

I wished I shared her confidence. My eyes continuously swept the perimeter, seeking movement in the shadows, unusual packages, anything that might signal danger.

We finished our abbreviated run-through as staff began filtering in—technicians adjusting spotlights, sound engineers testing levels, ushers preparing to distribute programs. Each unfamiliar face triggered my scrutiny until Santana approached, clipboard in hand.

"Perimeter secure," he reported. "We've checked all equipment, entrances restricted to authorized personnel only."

I nodded, though his assurances did little to ease my vigilance. "And the lighting rig?" The memory of darkened ice during Starla's practice remained vivid.

"Triple-checked. Everything's on separate circuits now, can't all go down at once."

We retreated to the preparation area where other performers had begun arriving—pairs skaters,hockey players performing precision drills, a troupe of synchronized skaters in matching warmups. Amid the growing bustle, I spotted two familiar figures approaching—Starla’s brother Logan McKenzie and his reporter girlfriend Emberleigh Quinn, both looking polished for the cameras sure to follow them.

"Star!" Logan embraced his sister, his expression warm beneath professional composure. "The place is packed already. Half the Olympic Committee showed up early to claim their seats."

Starla returned his hug. "No pressure or anything."

Emberleigh stepped forward, microphone conspicuously absent. "I'm off-duty until after your performance," she assured us. "Just wanted to wish you both luck." She lowered her voice, leaning closer. "Though I should mention I saw Irina Sokolov acting a bit strangely backstage. Arguing with someone on her phone, then ducking into a staff area when she noticed me watching."

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