Page 24 of Melt My Heart: Denver Warlords

Starla and I exchanged glances.

"Thanks for the heads-up," I replied, filing the information away.

Logan seemed oblivious to the undercurrent. "You two have created quite a buzz. The promo footage leaked online has everyone talking."

"We should get back to warming up," Starla interjected, clearly wrestling with competing priorities—sibling connection versus performance preparation.

After they departed, tension visibly eased from her shoulders. "Logan means well, but his timing is terrible. Let's finish getting ready."

We separated to change into our costumes—Starla to the women's locker room, me to the men's. My outfit was simple—black pants with silver accents, a fitted dark blue top designed to complement Starla's crystalline costume. I changed quickly, eager to reestablish our safety perimeter.

When Starla didn't emerge after fifteen minutes, concern gnawed at me. I approached the women's locker room entrance, hovering until a young skater exited.

"Could you check on Starla McKenzie?" I asked. "Tell her Gunnar's waiting."

The girl nodded, disappearing inside. Moments later, Starla burst through the door, face drained of color.

"My skates are gone," she whispered, voice tight with controlled panic. "I left them right beside my bag when I changed, and now they're missing."

Cold dread crystallized in my chest. "You're certain they weren't moved?"

"Positive. I always place them exactly six inches from my bag. They're gone, Gunnar."

I grabbed her elbow, steering her toward the security office where Santana monitored camera feeds. "When did you last see them?"

"Twenty minutes ago, tops. I set them down, hung up my costume, then stepped into the shower area to change. When I came back, they'd vanished."

Santana mobilized his team instantly, dispatching guards to all exits while reviewing locker room footage. "No one entered carrying skates," he confirmed, "so they must still be in the building."

A systematic search commenced—storage rooms, custodial closets, equipment bins. The event's starting time crept closer, heightening our urgency. Other performers began their final preparations while we frantically combed the arena's back areas.

"Found them!" A security guard's voice crackled over the radio. "Maintenance closet near the Zamboni bay."

We raced to the location, relief flooding me at the sight of white boots nestled between cleaning supplies. Starla snatched them up, examining each inch with growing horror.

"The blades," she whispered. "Look at the edges."

Where precision-honed steel should have gleamed, dull surfaces reflected the harsh fluorescent light. Someone had deliberately dulled the edges, rendering them dangerously unpredictable for jumps or spins.

"We need new blades. Now." Her voice remained steady despite the sabotage. "There's an equipment shop on-site."

The next forty minutes passed in controlled chaos. A technician from the pro shop worked frantically to mount and hone new blades while the event began, other performers taking the ice to enthusiastic applause. Starla watched the blade mounting process with laser focus, testing the balance repeatedly.

"It'll have to do," she finally declared, lacing the boots forcefully. "We've got fifteen minutes until our slot."

We hurried toward the staging area, passing Irina Sokolov in her practice gear despite having no scheduled performance. Her icy gaze towards Starla raised hackles along my spine.

At the entrance to the performance area, I scanned the assembled crowd, immediately spotting Trevor Davis in the third row, his expression inscrutable as he tracked Starla's movements. Several sections away, Cassidy's distinctive red hair stood out against the sea of spectators, her attention also fixed on us with unsettling intensity.

"Both our prime suspects are here," I murmured to Starla, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

"So is Irina," she replied under her breath. "Coming this way."

The Russian skater approached, her smile not reaching her eyes. "Good luck, Starla. I hear the committee is very impressed already."

"Thank you," Starla responded with professional courtesy that revealed nothing of our suspicions.

As Irina moved away, I noticed her trajectory—not toward the stands, but toward the technical booth where lighting controls were housed. Santana's security team had stationed a guard there, but he'd turned to check credentials of another entrant.

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