Page 11 of Melt My Heart: Denver Warlords

The café she mentioned occupied a narrow lot, fronted by a sage-painted wood trim and a couple of ceramic planters flanking the entrance. Inside, strings of fairy lights ran across the ceiling beams, giving the polished concrete floor a soft glow. The scent of freshly ground espresso mingled with a subtler note of herbal blends, welcoming us into a cozy, if eclectic, refuge from the cold.

We placed our orders—black coffee for me, peppermint tea for her—and chose a corner table away from the bustle of laptop-toting customers. She removed her jacket, revealing a fitted black top that accentuated her toned arms, each muscle defined from years of skating and weight training. In normal lighting, I saw fine lines of fatigue near her eyes, though her posture remained upright.

I took a sip of my coffee. “You’ve made big progress, you know. We’re actually pulling off moves I never thought possible.”

She set her teacup down. “Thank you,” she said, voice subdued. “I’ll admit, our synergy has improved more than I expected.”

“I notice you keep track of every improvement,” I said with mild curiosity. “You’re constantly making tiny notes on your phone after practice. I’d love to see that level of organization in my own regimen, but I guess I’m more of a freestyle guy.”

She exhaled, cheeks warming. “I can’t switch off my methodical side. My family always pushed me to be thorough. If I’m going to do something, I have do it fully. No shortcuts.”

“Sounds intense.” I traced my finger around the rim of my mug. “I guess that’s why you stand out on the ice. People see that discipline shining through.”

Her gaze flicked aside, considering. “To be honest, I’m not sure they even see me. They see a polished figure skater who rarely makes mistakes. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just going through the motions.”

I cocked my head. “You think you’re performing for them, rather than for yourself?”

A faint shrug lifted her shoulders. “I used to skate for myself, but the more success I had, the more it felt like a duty. My parents each had their own legacy in sports, so I inherited their expectations. I want the Olympic Committee’s validation, but some days I wonder whose dream I’m really chasing.”

I listened to her words, noticing the flicker of uncertainty in her beautiful green eyes. I set down my coffee, leaning forward. “Ever consider that your own dream might align with theirs, but in your own way? You’re too determined to settle for half measures, right?”

Her lips parted, then closed. “That’s how I’ve always lived, never half measure. It’s...complicated.”

I nodded, deciding not to pry further. My own upbringing was the opposite, but I understood how pressures could shape a person. “Well, from where I stand, your drive is a good thing. You keep me from screwing up with my spontaneous stunts.”

A glimmer of amusement tugged her mouth. “I guess you do benefit from structure. And I suppose I’ve learned something about letting go…just a little.”

We shared a brief, genuine smile. I liked hearing that I’d chipped away at her rigid approach. Was she chipping away at my walls, too? I didn’t know if I was ready for it if so, but at this point I still had enough of my guard up to keep things in check.

Starla sipped her tea, crossing her legs under the table. “You never told me how you got into speed skating. Not in detail.”

I set my coffee down, deciding I might as well return the favor by sharing the basics. “I found speed skating later than most. Moved through various foster homes after my parents died when I was eight. Some coach spotted me messing around on a rink, realized I had the right balance of muscle and stamina. At first, I just liked going fast. Then I realized I could do it competitively. I guess my rebellious streak found a legit outlet.”

Her expression softened. “I remember hearing your story somewhere now…probably the news. I’m so sorry you lost your parents that young.”

“Made me independent earlier, I guess,” I said, shrugging as the usual ache surfaced. “Speed skating gave me direction. Otherwise, I might’ve ended up bouncing between random unskilled, low-paying jobs, never committing to anything. Instead, I latched onto the thrill of racing.”

She offered a quiet nod. “Hearing that helps me understand your approach: pushing boundaries, living in the moment. It suits you.”

I let out a small laugh. “And you? You prefer to measure each boundary before crossing it.”

Her mouth curved slightly. “Yes. That’s probably the difference in a nutshell.”

We spoke a bit more about personal histories, training regimens, her early attempts at landing triple jumps. I found myself oddly captivated by the details of her daily routine, from the macro counting of jump rotations to the micro attention to blade edges. It reminded me that speed skating and figure skating, while both on ice, demanded unique mindsets. She came across as a thorough scientist of the sport, while I was more like a test pilot.

The café door swung open mid-conversation, drawing my attention to a tall guy with dark blonde hair and a self-important stride. I sensed Starla’s demeanor sharpen the instant she saw him. Trevor Davis, a forward recently traded to the Denver Warlords—her brother Logan’s team—walked straight to our table, a grin on his face that didn't mask the superiority in his gaze.

“Starla,” he greeted, ignoring my existence entirely. “Didn’t think you took time for coffee.”

She placed her teacup on the saucer, tone polite but unyielding. “We just finished practice. Did you need something, Trevor?”

He shrugged, broad shoulders flexing beneath a stylish athletic jacket. “Needed a drink between workouts. Didn’t realize you’d be here with...him.”

I gave him a nod, tilting my chair back slightly. “Gunnar Hayes. Her partner for the charity event.”

Trevor barely flicked a glance my way before zeroing in on Starla. “You never answered my texts. I asked about meeting up, yet you always dodge me.”

Her expression cooled. “I’ve told you before: I’m not interested.”

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