Page 5 of Melt My Heart: Denver Warlords

"And not everything needs to be a museum piece to be good," I shot back. "You figure skaters are all the same…stuck in the past, afraid to try anything new."

"That's not fair," she argued, her voice gaining an edge. "Figure skating has evolved tremendously. But there are standards of excellence that…"

"That…What? Keep it old school? Predictable?" I skated closer, deliberately invading her space. "No wonder they call you the Ice Queen. Have you ever broken a rule even once in your life?"

Her cheeks flushed. "Let's focus on the routine. I thought we could start with a side-by-side section to establish the contrast in our styles, then move into…"

"Side by side?" I shook my head. "That's not a pair routine. That's two people doing their own thing on the same ice. We need to interact."

"Fine." She flipped a page in her notebook. "We can incorporate some basic pairs elements. Synchronized jumps, perhaps a simple lift…"

"A lift?" I perked up at that. "Now we're talking."

She looked wary. "A choreographed, planned lift with proper technique."

"Show me."

"What?"

"Show me this lift you have in mind." I skated toward her.

She took a step back. "We need to work up to that. Practice the approach, the timing…"

"Or we could just try it and see what works," I suggested.

"That's not how this works," she insisted, frustration coloring her voice. "These elements require precision."

"Everything with you does," I muttered. "Do you ever just...you know, skate?Feelthe ice, respond to the moment?"

"This isn't improv hour at the comedy club, Gunnar," she said stiffly. "This is a professionally choreographed exhibition."

I sighed dramatically and gave a curl of my arm as I bowed. "Alright, Your Highness. Show me your master plan."

Her eyes flashed. "Don’t call me that."

"Then stop acting so high and mighty," I challenged.

The tension between us crackled as she stared at me, clutching her notebook like a shield. "Let's just try the opening sequence I've drafted."

"Fine."

She described a series of maneuvers—crossovers into a synchronized step sequence, followed by side-by-side spins. It all sounded terribly regimented, but I nodded along, determined to at least give it a shot.

"We'll start at opposite corners," she instructed, "then mirror each other as we approach center ice."

I took my position, waiting for her count. On "three," we pushed off simultaneously. I matched her pace, watching her movements from the corner of my eye. The problem wasn't that I couldn't follow her choreography—everything felt mechanical. There was no room for impulse, for creativity.

As we approached center ice, an idea struck me. Instead of turning right as she'd instructed, I veered left, cutting directly into her path.

She barely avoided a collision, her eyes widening in shock. "What are you doing? You were supposed to turn right!"

"I felt like turning left," I shrugged. "Let's try something different."

"We had a plan," she said, her voice tight with frustration.

"Yourplan you mean. And it's boring." I circled her slowly. "This routine needs energy, Starla. Spontaneity."

"It needs structure," she countered. "Not chaos."

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