Page 25 of Melt My Heart: Denver Warlords

"Keep an eye on her," I instructed Starla, then caught Santana's attention with a sharp gesture. "Irina Sokolov isheading for the lighting controls. She's not authorized for that area."

Santana radioed his team immediately, but the announcer's voice boomed across the arena: "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the ice, speed skating champion Gunnar 'Blaze' Hayes and figure skating star Starla McKenzie!"

No time remained. Security would have to intercept Irina without our help.

"Ready?" I asked, taking Starla's hand.

Her fingers interlaced with mine, surprisingly warm despite everything. "Born ready."

We glided onto the ice to thunderous applause, taking our positions beneath spotlights that bathed the surface in ethereal blue. As the music's first notes filled the arena, we launched into our choreography, bodies syncing intuitively. The audience faded to background noise, my awareness narrowing to Starla's movements, the feeling of ice beneath my blades, the certainty of our synchronized elements.

The routine progressed flawlessly through its early stages. I could hear spectators gasping at our first lift, Starla’s body extended overhead as I rotated, then lowered her in a controlled descent that showcased her beautiful flexibility and my strength.

We then entered the death spiral with Starla's body horizontal above the ice, my anchor point steady as she rotated. That's when I glimpsed movement in my peripheral vision—a spotlight housing detaching fromits mounting above the ice surface, directly in Starla's trajectory.

No time for subtlety. I yanked her from position with brutal force, propelling us both toward the boards as the massive metal fixture crashed onto the exact spot where she'd been suspended a heartbeat earlier. Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by stunned silence.

Starla regained her balance instantly, her professional instincts overriding shock. Without missing a beat, she improvised a transition into our next element, eyes conveying a clear message:We finish this.

When the final notes sounded, we struck our ending pose—my arm protectively around her waist, her hand raised in triumph—to deafening applause that shook the rafters.

Backstage erupted into chaos. Security personnel swarmed the technical areas while medical staff insisted on examining us despite our protests. Through the confusion, I caught sight of Irina being escorted from the lighting booth, her face twisted in fury, hands secured behind her back.

"She tried to override the lighting system," Santana explained when he reached us. "The bolts on that spotlight had been deliberately loosened. If you hadn't moved when you did..."

He left the sentence unfinished, its implications hanging in the air.

Starla stared at her rival, comprehension dawning. "It was Irina all along? The notes, the sabotage?"

"She's confessed to everything," Santana confirmed. "Apparently she's been obsessed with eliminating you as competition. Claims you've always been given preferential treatment, that you don't deserve your ranking."

Irina's gaze locked with Starla's across the crowded area, hatred radiating from her posture. Rather than shrinking from the confrontation, Starla approached her former competitor, stopping a cautious distance away.

"Why?" she asked simply. "We could have pushed each other to be better. Rivalry doesn't have to mean destruction."

Irina's laugh held no humor. "Easy for you to say—perfect Starla McKenzie with her perfect family connections and her perfect technique. Some of us had to fight for every opportunity." Her voice cracked slightly, revealing unexpected vulnerability beneath the venom. "You never even saw me as real competition."

"That's not true," Starla countered quietly. "I've always respected your artistry, your dedication. You could have been great without trying to destroy me."

"Save your pity," Irina spat as security began leading her away. "This changes nothing. You'll always have everything handed to you."

"No," Starla replied, her tone surprisingly gentle. "I work for everything I have. Just like you. That's what makes this so senseless."

As Irina disappeared through the exit, Starla's composure wavered. I moved to her side, my hand finding the small of her back, steadying her without words.

"You're showing her more compassion than she deserves," I murmured.

She leaned against me almost imperceptibly. "Hatred destroyed her career. I refuse to let it touch mine." Her gaze lifted to mine. "Besides, I have more important things to think about now."

Around us, the event continued—other performers taking their turns, audience buzzing with excitement over our dramatic performance and its aftermath. Olympic Committee members approached with congratulations, sponsors expressed interest, reporters hovered at the perimeter waiting for statements.

But none of it mattered compared to the woman beside me, who had faced sabotage, threats, and literal falling spotlights without surrendering her dignity. I wanted to worship at her feet.

"Ready to get out of here?" I asked quietly. "I think we've given them enough of a show for one day."

Her smile held exhaustion, relief, and something that looked remarkably like happiness. "Take me home, Hayes."

As we left the arena, reporters shouting questions we weren't ready to answer, I kept her tucked against my side. The mystery had been solved, the danger neutralized, but my protective instincts remained fully engaged. Some things, once awakened, couldn't be switched off again.

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