Page 13 of Melt My Heart: Denver Warlords

I met her eyes, still seeing the worry swirling behind them. “Anytime, Starla. Let me know if you need help tomorrow.”

She gave a curt nod, then slipped from the car. Her small figure disappeared through the tinted glass doors, but I lingered a moment, adrenaline from the entire episode still coursing through me.

I left after a few minutes, navigating the traffic with my own blend of agitation and concern. The memory of Trevor’s snide remarks lingered, though I had no proof he or anyone else was behind the tire-slashing. All I could do was show up for practice, keep nailing our moves, and watch her back if something else occurred. Over the past two weeks, Starla and I had grown into a reluctant team. Keeping her safe—no matter how small or strange the threat—had now become part of my priority.

Thoughts of perfect spins, crisp transitions, and the strange charge between Starla and me filled my mind. The routine had blossomed into something impressive, but our final steps together remained uncertain. I only knew I wasn’t giving up on this improbable partnership, or on a figure skater who had unexpectedly stirred instincts in me I never expected to feel.

I parked at my loft, hauling my skate bag inside. The echo of quiet walls and the flicker of overhead lights greeted me. Memories of Starla’s guarded half-smile after that perfect spin-lift clung to my thoughts, along with the unsettling sight of her ravaged tires, and I knew I’d do whatever it took not to let anyone to stand in her way—or mine.

Chapter Five

STARLA

The ice beneath my blades felt like an old friend welcoming me back. Seven days had passed since the tire-slashing incident, and I'd forced myself to file it away as a random act of vandalism. Perhaps I'd unwittingly parked in someone's unofficial spot, incurring their wrath. The car repair shop had efficiently replaced the tires, and I'd moved on—externally at least.

I spiraled into a camel spin, extending my free leg parallel to the ice, feeling the familiar centrifugal pull as I rotated. The emptiness of the rink amplified the whispering sound of my blade carving the surface. Morning sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting long rectangles across the pristine ice.

Despite my attempts to dismiss the tire incident, something nagged at me. Coincidences rarely clustered like this—the missing water bottle, the strange text, and now the slashed tires. Still, obsessing would only derail my focus. I was slated to compete in a regional competition tomorrow, and then the charity event with Gunnar was scheduled for the following week.

Gunnar.His name brought an unexpected warmth to my chest. Our partnership had evolved from contentious to something actually approaching harmony. Yesterday's practice had been our best yet—the lift sequence flowed seamlessly, our timing aligned as if we'd skated together for years rather than weeks. His speed complemented my precision in ways I hadn't imagined possible.

I transitioned into a step sequence, mentally mapping my footwork for tomorrow's competition. The Tchaikovsky piece I'd selected demanded delicate edges and nuanced expression—qualities I'd spent my life perfecting. With each glide and turn, I visualized the judges' scorecards, anticipating their critical assessment of every element.

After completing the sequence, I paused for breath, hands on hips. The arena's emptiness suddenly felt oppressive rather than liberating. I glanced at the clock mounted above the entrance—7:15 am. The maintenance staff wouldn't arrive for another forty-five minutes, giving me time for a final run-through of my long program.

Taking position at center ice, I struck my opening pose: right arm extended overhead, left curved gracefully at my waist. In my mind, the music swelled. I pushed off, gathering momentum for my first jump combination.

Suddenly, the rink plunged into total darkness.

I gasped, throwing my arms out for balance, my planned triple toe loop abandoned mid-preparation. Complete blacknessenveloped me, disorienting my sense of position. My heart hammered against my ribs as I slowed to a cautious glide, unsure of my location on the ice.

"Hello?" My voice echoed in the cavernous space. "Is anyone there?"

Silence answered. Then, a distant metallic clang—like a door closing somewhere in the building.

The realization of what could have happened sent adrenaline coursing through me. Had I launched into that triple jump, I might have landed wrong in the darkness, potentially tearing a ligament or fracturing an ankle. A serious injury now would destroy everything I'd worked for—the Olympic qualifiers, my entire career.

I fumbled for my phone, tucked into my fitted training jacket's pocket. Its screen illuminated my immediate surroundings with a bluish glow. Using it as a makeshift flashlight, I navigated carefully toward the boards, moving with the utmost caution.

After what felt like an eternity, my outstretched hand met the familiar barrier. I exhaled shakily, following the boards until I reached the exit gate. Dread settled in my stomach as I slipped on my blade guards and used my phone's light to locate the emergency exit.

Outside, the morning sun felt unnervingly bright after the pitch darkness. I dialed the arena manager, explaining the situation in a voice I fought to keep steady. He sounded confused, insisting the lighting system had been inspected just last week. Nevertheless, he promised to send an electrician immediately.

I changed quickly in the locker room, my skin still prickling with unease. The lights flickered back on just as Izipped my bag—as suddenly and inexplicably as they had gone out. The timing felt deliberate, calculated to unsettle me.

During the drive home, I cycled through potential explanations. Electrical fault. Coincidence. Bad luck.

None convinced me.

My apartment building's familiar silhouette offered little comfort as I parked in my designated spot. The doorman nodded as I passed through the lobby, and I forced a polite smile in return. Inside the elevator, I leaned against the mirrored wall, suddenly exhausted despite the early hour.

When the doors opened on my floor, I proceeded to my unit, fishing for keys in my bag. Something white caught my attention—a folded piece of paper protruding from beneath my door. Frowning, I picked it up, assuming it contained a notice about building maintenance or package delivery.

The typewritten message inside made my blood freeze:

You're making mistakes. I'm watching.

I dropped my skate bag, frantically scanning the empty hallway. Nothing seemed out of place. No strangers lurked in shadows, no security cameras had been tampered with. Yet someone had stood at my door, knowing I wouldn't be home.

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