Page 4 of Melt My Heart: Denver Warlords

"I've seen her skate on many occasions. Her technique is almost perfection." There was a hint of admiration in his voice that annoyed me. "You could learn something from her discipline."

I scoffed. "And she could learn to actually feel something on the ice instead of just following the script."

"Maybe that's why they paired you two," Hank mused, a knowing glint in his eye. "Fire and ice…should make for a good show."

Before I could respond, the arena door opened. I turned, and everything inside me stilled.

She stood in the entrance, silhouetted for a moment before stepping into the light. Starla McKenzie wore simple black leggings and a fitted pale blue jacket, her mousy-blonde hair pulled into a severe bun that emphasized her high cheekbones and delicate features. She moved with the fluid grace and confidence of someone who'd spent their life on the ice—and hadthe wins to show for it. Even in the way she carried her skate bag—balanced perfectly at her side—I could see the control that defined her.

Damn though, she was beautiful—in that untouchable, pristine way that made me instantly want to ruffle her feathers. Despite her petite frame, she carried herself with such authority that she seemed taller than her actual height. And those eyes—emerald-green, sharp, assessing everything in their path.

"You can still learn something from that discipline," Hank murmured beside me, too low for her to hear. Then louder: "Ms. McKenzie! Right on time."

She approached, her haughty gaze sweeping over me before settling on Hank. "Coach Wells," she greeted with a professional nod and polite smile. Then to me, coolly: "Hi, Gunnar."

Not really an enthusiastic introduction, more of a statement. I extended my hand, curious if she'd take it.

"The one and only," I replied with a deliberately casual smile. "Though you can call me Blaze…Everyone does."

She hesitated for a fraction of a second before shaking my hand. Her grip was surprisingly firm, her skin cool against mine.

"I'll stick with Gunnar," she said evenly, withdrawing her hand. "I'm not big on nicknames."

Of course she wasn't. I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

Hank, perhaps sensing the brewing tension, stepped in. "I'll leave you two to get acquainted. Gunnar, remember what we discussed…this matters." He gave me a pointed look before nodding to Starla and heading toward the exit. "I'll check back in an hour."

With Hank gone, an awkward silence fell between us. Starla set her bag down and unzipped to reveal a pair of pristine white figure skates nestled inside.

"So…" I began, leaning against the boards, "How do you want to approach this?"

"In an organized and efficient manner," she replied while concentrating on pulling out her skates. "How else? I've drafted some ideas for routines that might work for our...different styles."

Of course she had a draft ready. Probably color-coded and indexed too.

"You don't think we should, I don't know, maybe talk about our skating backgrounds first? Get to know each other a little?" I suggested.

She glanced up, those green eyes narrowing slightly. "I know who you are, Gunnar. Three-time national champion in short track. Gold at World Championships last year. Known for..." she paused, choosing her words carefully, "...unconventional racing tactics."

"You've done your homework," I acknowledged. "And I know you're Starla McKenzie, figure skating prodigy. Silver at Nationals. Sister of the famous Logan McKenzie. NicknamedThe Ice Queennot only for your skating."

A flicker of something—annoyance? hurt?—crossed her face before it settled back into its neutral porcelain-like mask. "I see my reputation precedes me."

"Just like mine," I countered. "So maybe we should forget what we think we know and start fresh."

"What I know is that we have four weeks to create a coherent routine," she snapped, sitting on the bench to lace her skates. Each loop and pull was strong and sure, the cordscrossing in perfect symmetry. "And I'd prefer not to waste time on unnecessary socializing."

"Right…All business…Got it." I pushed off from the boards, skating a slow circle as she finished lacing her skates. "So what's this brilliant routine you've drafted?"

From a small bag, she pulled out a notebook and flipped it open. "I've outlined a four-minute program that incorporates elements from both disciplines. Classical music would be ideal…perhaps Tchaikovsky or…"

"Classical?" I interrupted. "Are you serious? Nobody wants to watch figure skating to classical music anymore."

She looked up sharply. "It's traditional."

"It's boring," I countered. "If we're doing this, we need something with energy. Something that actually makes people want to watch."

Her lips pursed. "The audience for this event includes Olympic Committee members and sponsors who appreciate technical proficiency and artistic interpretation. Not everything needs to be flashy to be impressive."

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