Page 3 of Melt My Heart: Denver Warlords

"For the Olympic committee," I corrected. "Not for you."

"Whatever works. Love you, sis."

"Love you too," I said automatically before hanging up.

Fifteen minutes later, I was dressed in my street clothes—slim black pants, a gray cashmere sweater, and ankle boots—with my hair released from its tight bun to fall in loose mousy-blonde waves down my back. As I reached for my skate bag, I paused, frowning.

It wasn't where I'd left it. I always placed it on the bench to my right, zipped and ready to go. Now it sat on the floor, slightly open, as if someone had rummaged through it.

A flutter of unease passed through me. I checked inside—skates, guards, towel, extra laces, all there. Nothing missing. I must have been more distracted by Vivian's news than I'd realized.

I zipped it carefully and slung it over my shoulder, shaking off the strange feeling. I had bigger problems to worry about. Like how to survive four weeks of skating with Gunnar Hayes without strangling him—or worse, ruining my Olympic preparation in the process.

As I pushed through the exit doors into the crisp January air, I mentally recalculated my schedule. Two hours with Hayes every day meant less time for strength training. I'd have to condense my evening workouts, maybe cut fifteen minutes from my yoga routine. Every minute counted in an Olympic year, and I'd been planning this season down to the second since I'd narrowly missed qualifying for the last Games.

No distractions, I reminded myself. Hayes was a temporary inconvenience, nothing more. I'd do the charity event, smile for the cameras, and get back to what really mattered.

What I didn't know then—couldn't have known—was that Gunnar ‘Blaze’ Hayes would prove to be far more than an inconvenience. He would become the most beautiful disruption my carefully controlled life had ever known.

And the most dangerous.

Chapter Two

GUNNAR

I lived for this—the whisper of steel against ice, the rush of air slicing past my face, the raw speed that made the world blur at the edges. Early mornings at the Denver Ice Arena belonged to me, the wide oval empty except for my lone figure cutting through the silence.

With my legs burning pleasantly and my chest heaving, I leaned into the turn, dropping low enough that my fingertips grazed the ice. Perfectly balanced on the edge of control and chaos, just how I liked it. I raced into the straightaway, pushing harder, faster, chasing that sweet spot where my mind cleared and there was nothing but rhythm and velocity.

"Hayes! Dialing it back today?" Coach Hank Wells shouted from the boards, his stopwatch in hand.

I grinned, pushing harder. Hank knew exactly which buttons to push to get me to accelerate. Another lap, another turn, my body an arrow piercing the cold. When I finally slowed, skating lazy circles to cool down, Hank nodded once—his version of high praise.

"32.4 seconds," he said, showing me the time. "Not bad for a lazy Sunday skate."

I cocked an eyebrow, grabbing my water bottle from the boards. "Lazy? I was flying."

"You were holding back on the turns." Hank crossed both arms over his broad chest. At forty-five, my coach still had the solid build of a former champion speed skater, though his full beard now showed streaks of gray. "Saving yourself for something?"

I took a long drink, avoiding his gaze. "Just pacing myself."

"Bullshit," he said, not unkindly. "You're distracted. Thinking about this charity thing?"

I rolled my shoulders, uncomfortable with how easily he read me. "It's a waste of my time. I should be training for World Cup qualifiers, not playing exhibition games."

Hank's expression turned shrewd. "You need this after that stunt with the reporter. Your sponsors weren't happy, kid."

I winced at the memory. Two months ago, a sports journalist had ambushed me after a disappointing race, asking if my ‘unorthodox style’ was finally catching up with me. I'd responded with a colorful suggestion about where he could shove his microphone, punctuated with a raised middle finger. The gesture had been caught on camera, turning into yet anotherviral moment in the ongoing saga ofBlaze Hayes: Bad Boy of Speed Skating.

"It wasn't that bad," I muttered.

"It was worse," Hank countered. "The sport needs personalities, Gunnar, not assholes. This charity event is your chance to show the sponsors you can play nice."

"By skating with the ice princess?" I pulled off my gloves, tossing them into my bag. "She's going to hate every second of it, and honestly, so will I."

"Starla McKenzie?" Hank's eyebrows rose. "She's damn good…Certain Olympic material."

"She's a fucking robot," I countered. "Have you seen her skate? Like someone programmed a computer and stuck it on blades."

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