Page 15 of Melt My Heart: Denver Warlords

"What about my costume for tomorrow?" I asked suddenly. "It's in the locker reserved for competitors. Could someone have accessed it?"

Santana frowned. "Those lockers have combination locks. If someone knew your combination..."

"I need to check it," I insisted, rising from my chair.

The women's locker room smelled of chlorine and commercial cleaner. My assigned locker stood in the far corner, its metal surface unmarked. I spun the dial through the familiar sequence—my birthday, rearranged—and retrieved the garment bag containing my competition costume.

With Gunnar waiting outside, I unzipped the bag and carefully examined the crystal-studded blue costume I'd selected with Vivian for tomorrow's event. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss. I turned it inside out, checking each seam.

That's when I noticed it—a small, neat slice along the side seam, precisely where the fabric would strain during a spiral.Had I performed without noticing, the costume would have split open at the most inopportune moment.

I slumped onto the wooden bench, costume clutched to my chest. This was beyond mere harassment; it was intended to humiliate me publicly. To shake my confidence just when I needed it most.

After showing Santana the damaged costume and filing an incident report, Gunnar insisted on driving me home. We rode in silence for several minutes, the gravity of the situation settling between us.

"Have you considered withdrawing from tomorrow's competition?" he finally asked, his dark eyes fixed on the road.

"I can't do that," I replied automatically. "Regional standings matter for Olympic qualification points."

He glanced over, concern etched across his features. "Starla, someone is actively trying to sabotage you. This isn't just petty rivalry anymore."

"Which is exactly why I can't withdraw." I straightened in my seat. "I've spent my entire life working toward the Olympics. I won't let some coward in a ski mask derail that."

Gunnar sighed, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "Then what's your plan?"

"I've safety-pinned the costume. I'll go back later with a needle and thread and stitch the seam back together. And I'll skate better than I ever have, just to spite whoever is doing this." Determination hardened my voice. "I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me fall."

He nodded slowly. "Then I'll be there. Front row."

"You don't have to…"

"I want to." His tone left no room for argument. "Both as moral support and to keep an eye out for anything suspicious."

The intensity in his dark eyes made my chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear. When had Gunnar Hayes begun to care so much about my wellbeing? And when had I started to welcome it?

The next morning dawned clear and cold. Despite having slept poorly, I felt a strange calm as I prepared for competition. My routine was so ingrained it required minimal conscious thought—hair secured in a perfect bun, makeup precise but understated, warm-up timed to the minute.

The Denver Invitational wasn't a major competition, but it attracted talented skaters from across the Rocky Mountain region. As I entered the arena, I spotted my primary rival, Irina Sokolov, stretching near the practice rink. Her sleek dark hair was pulled into a severe bun identical to mine, her lithe body clad in a crimson practice outfit that complemented her olive complexion.

Her gaze locked with mine momentarily, her expression unreadable. The press had manufactured a fierce rivalry between us, though in reality, we'd rarely exchanged more than perfunctory greetings. Whether her cold demeanor was genuine or fabricated for publicity, I couldn't say.

During warm-up, I executed each element flawlessly, blocking out all distractions. My repaired costume held together perfectly, the last-minute stitching holding up beneath crystalline embellishments. When my name was announced, I took center ice with absolute focus, channeling every uncertainty into the performance.

The world narrowed to music and movement. Each jump landed cleanly, each spin centered, each footwork sequence precise. As I struck my final pose, arm extended toward the ceiling in triumph, the audience erupted in applause. I allowed myself a genuine smile, scanning the crowd instinctively.

Gunnar sat in the front row, exactly where he'd promised. His warm grin and subtle thumbs-up sent an unexpected flutter through my stomach. Several rows behind him, I noticed Trevor Davis. His gaze met mine and he lifted his hand in a wave, but I quickly averted my gaze, instead gliding toward the exit.

My score placed me firmly in first, ahead of Irina by a narrow margin. She accepted second place with a tight smile that didn't reach her eyes, her handshake brittle when we shared the podium. The photographers captured our strained congeniality, no doubt feeding tomorrow's headlines about our supposed bitter rivalry.

Afterward, I changed quickly, eager to escape the press and competitors. As I navigated the corridor toward the parking area, a familiar voice called my name.

"Starla! Wait up."

Gunnar jogged toward me, effortlessly weaving through the crowd, his dark hair curling slightly at the temples.

"You were amazing out there," he said, falling into step beside me. "Like you were born on ice."

"Thank you for coming," I replied, genuinely touched by his presence. "Did you notice anything suspicious?"

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