Page 6 of Melt My Heart: Denver Warlords

"Maybe it needs some of both." I stopped in front of her. "Let me show you what I mean."

Before she could protest, I took her hand and pulled her into motion. She stiffened but followed, her training tooingrained to let her falter. I increased our speed, guiding her through a series of turns that flowed naturally into one another.

"Feel that?" I asked. "No counting, no planned sequence. Just responding to the momentum."

"This isn't…" she started, but I cut her off by releasing her hand and accelerating into a series of crossovers.

"Just follow me," I called over my shoulder. "Stop thinking so much."

I heard her skates behind me, felt her presence as she kept pace. For a moment, it seemed like we might actually find a rhythm together. Then I spun around to face her, skating backwards, and extended my hands.

"Trust me," I said. "Let's try that lift."

Her eyes widened. "Absolutely not. We haven't practiced."

"We're practicing now."

"This is insane. We need to…"

I grabbed her waist before she could finish, attempting to lift her in a move I'd seen pairs skaters perform. Two things became immediately apparent: one, she was lighter than I expected, and two, she was not prepared. She gasped, her hands flying to my shoulders, her body rigid instead of flowing with the motion.

The result was disastrous. Instead of a graceful lift, we wobbled precariously. She overcompensated, throwing us off balance. I tried to correct, but it was too late. We tumbled to the ice in an undignified heap, her landing across my chest with a soft "oof."

For a moment, we just lay there, breathing hard. Then she scrambled away from me, her face flushed with anger and embarrassment.

"Are you out of your mind?" she demanded, brushing ice from her leggings. "You could have seriously injured us both!"

I sat up, wincing slightly. "That's a bit dramatic. It was just a stumble."

"Just a stumble?" She glared at me. "Pairs skaters train for years to perform lifts safely. You can't just decide on a whim to try one!"

"Fine, so it didn't work," I conceded, getting to my feet. "But at least it wasn't boring."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Is that what this is about? You're deliberately sabotaging this because you simply don’t like my style?"

"I'm trying to inject some life into this routine," I corrected. "Something beyond your clinical, by-the-numbers approach."

"Myclinicalapproach is what prevents injuries," she snapped. "What prevents embarrassment on the ice. What ensures the performance is actually worth watching."

"Does the Ice Queen ever actually smile?" I asked, deliberately goading her now. "Or are you afraid your face might crack if you show a real emotion?"

She stiffened, and I knew I'd hit a nerve. Her emerald eyes flashed with genuine anger. "This partnership is never going to work," she said, her voice cold. "We're too incompatible."

"Now who's being dramatic?" I challenged. "We had one fall. Not exactly the end of the world."

"It's not about the fall," she said, skating toward the exit. "It's about respect. For the craft, for the plan, for basic safety. Something you clearly lack."

"Starla, come on…I’m sorry.”

"I'll speak to the organizers," she cut me off. "Perhaps they can find you a partner who doesn't mind your reckless approach. Someone more like you."

I watched, half-amused and half-concerned, as she stormed off the ice, grabbed her guards, and jammed them onto her blades.

"Running away from a challenge now?" I called after her. "Doesn't seem very professional."

She whirled to face me, her cheeks flushed. "I'm not running away. I'm protecting my Olympic prospects from your impulsive stupidity."

With that parting shot, she snatched up her bag and strode toward the door, her posture rigid with anger.

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