Page 9 of Melt My Heart: Denver Warlords

We gathered by the bench, huddling around my phone as the video replayed. The overhead lights highlighted the fresh lines in the ice, and our uncertain dance came to life on the screen. Gunnar’s speed overshadowed my lines at times, while my measured grace kept him from spinning off into chaos.

“It’s...not terrible,” I observed. “We’re obviously out of sync in spots, but some transitions flow well.”

“Not terrible. High praise from you,” he said wryly. “I’ll take it.”

I eyed him. “Don’t get smug. We have a long way to go.”

He grinned. “You do realize you’re dangerously close to giving me a compliment, right?”

“Dangerously close,” I echoed, feigning seriousness. “I’d better stop before you get a big head. Oops, too late…you already have one.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but I grabbed my phone, swiftly ending the conversation. The banter with him was weirdly fun—definitely dangerous, but fun. I needed to keep my guard up, or I’d risk letting him distract me from my real goal—Winning Olympic gold. It was everything I ever wanted, what Mom and Dad wanted for me. What they expected as the daughter of a professional hockey coach and Olympic medalist in downhill skiing, not to mention the younger sister of Logan McKenzie.

As we wrapped up, Gunnar headed to retrieve his duffel from the opposite side of the rink. I reached for my water bottle, the one with a pink top, a minor detail that helped me track it. My brow furrowed: it wasn’t where I’d left it on the bench. Glancing around, I saw no sign of it. For a moment, annoyance flared.

“Lose something?” Gunnar asked, returning in time to see me checking under the bench.

“My water bottle,” I muttered. “Second day it’s vanished. I probably left it in the locker room.”

He shrugged. “Check later. The kids’ hockey team is about to roll in.” Indeed, distant chatter and footsteps reached us from the hallway. “We can’t hog the ice much longer.”

I forced a neutral nod. A single missing bottle was no reason to panic, but two days in a row? Combined with that text…maybe it was coincidence. I had no proof otherwise.Let it go, Starla.Real sabotage would be bigger than some random pranks, right?

Outside the arena, morning had shifted to early afternoon. Sunlight gleamed against the freshly fallen snow on the sidewalks. I zipped my jacket, relishing the crisp air. Gunnar walked with me to the parking lot, matching my pace.

“You heading straight home or got more training?” he asked lightly.

“Home,” I replied, adjusting my skate bag. “I have off-ice conditioning to squeeze in, then a meeting with my coach.”

“Busy,” he noted, no judgment in his tone. “Well, same time tomorrow?”

“Same time,” I confirmed. “We’ll try to integrate that partial lift. And maybe refine the footwork for the midsection.”

He inclined his head, a hint of a smile curving his lips. “Looking forward to it, Ice Que…Starla.”

I rolled my eyes, but a tiny grin betrayed me. “Watch it. I might change my mind about working together if you keep pushing your luck.”

He merely chuckled and waved as he strode away, casual confidence in every step. I couldn’t help noticing how his broad shoulders moved under his coat, nor how a stray breeze teased a lock of dark hair across his brow. Why did a guy this annoying have to be so ridiculously attractive?

Once he disappeared behind a row of parked cars, I sighed. Despite my best intentions, Gunnar Hayes had wormed his way under my skin. We’d managed a day without hurling insults or stomping off. Instead, we found a tentative rhythm that might produce a show-stopping performance. The thought both excited and rattled me.

I glanced around the parking lot for my usual sense of security. A couple of parents ushered their kids inside, hockey sticks in tow. A maintenance worker swept the walkway near the main entrance. All normal, no shady figure lurking. Yet the memory of that text lurked in my mind. How had whoever sent it gotten my number? A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature prickled my skin.

But I wouldn’t let small mysteries consume me. So far, it was a single weird message and a missing water bottle. Even if someone didn’t approve of Gunnar, they’d have to do more than petty pranks to scare me off. I’d come too far to let minor inconveniences sabotage my shot at impressing the Committee.

I reached my car and slid behind the wheel, tossing my skate bag into the passenger seat. The tension in my shoulders loosened as I pulled out of the lot. Gunnar and I had found a fragile compromise—if we played it right, we might catch the eye of both sponsors and the Olympic Committee. We’d keep building on it, day by day, routine by routine, until it was perfect. I was determined. As long as we could avoid strangling each other, we might actually pull off something spectacular.

The drive home flew by in a blur of city streets and midday traffic. My mind churned with ideas for adding transitional footwork, refining the spin timing, and selecting just the right music. Despite the swirl of details, a small bubble of excitement found its way to the surface. Maybe I didn’t have to dread working with Gunnar. Maybe I could relish the challenge of bringing order to his chaos—if only he didn’t rattle me whenever he came close enough for me to smell his spicy aftershave.

I parked at my apartment complex, a modern high-rise with sleek glass balconies. As I trudged upstairs, the faint hum of city life offered me a comforting backdrop. Inside my unit, sunlight cascaded through floor-to-ceiling windows onto pale hardwood floors. It was minimalist, calm—my sanctuary.

Dropping my bag by the door, I paused to stretch my arms overhead, letting a slow grin ease across my face. Who would’ve thought I’d find a glimmer of anticipation about tomorrow’s practice after the fiasco that was day one?

I took a quick shower, letting the hot water untangle my muscles. Images of our half-synchronized spins flickered behindmy eyelids, reminding me we still had a long road ahead. But we’d started to shape something new, something that might stand out from any other routine I’d done.

By the time I’d dressed in comfy sweats and brewed a small pot of tea, late afternoon sunlight cast warm rectangles across the living room floor. I settled on my couch with my tablet, intending to re-watch the footage. But my thoughts kept drifting to Gunnar’s crooked grin and the way his breath fogged in the icy rink air, the subtle brush of his torso against mine when we nearly collided.

I shook my head, swallowing down the flutter of heat in my belly. This was about the performance, I reminded myself. The routine, the Olympic Committee, the potential sponsors. Not some crazy flirtation with a speed skater who specialized in pushing boundaries. Right?

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