Page 7 of Melt My Heart: Denver Warlords

I should have been relieved. This charity nonsense was an inconvenience anyway, a PR stunt I'd been forced into. But as I watched her leave, all I felt was a strange disappointment and...intrigue.

Starla McKenzie wasn't what I expected. Underneath that perfect, controlled exterior was fire—real passion and determination. I'd caught a glimpse of it in her anger, and now I wanted to see more. There was something captivating about the way her eyes flashed, the way her voice gained an edge when challenged. I saw the color rise to her cheeks, and I liked knowing that I was the one who put it there.

And something told me she wouldn't actually quit. She had too much pride, too much determination. She'd be back, if only to prove she could handle anything I threw at her.

I skated lazy circles on the empty ice, replaying our disastrous first session.Fire and ice.Maybe Hank was right—the contrast could make for one hell of a show. If we didn't kill each other first.

A slow smile spread across my face. One thing was certain: working with Starla McKenzie wouldn't be boring. And if there was one thing I couldn't stand, it was boredom.

Tomorrow would be interesting. Now I just had to hope she showed up.

Chapter Three

STARLA

I started my day as always: a quick yoga flow in my uncluttered living room, where every piece of furniture had a purpose and no stray items littered the pale bamboo floor. Normally, the steady cadence of controlled breathing kept my thoughts from spiraling. Not this morning, though. My mind kept drifting to Gunnar ‘Blaze’ Hayes and our disastrous first practice.

Exhaling slowly, I tried to push him out of my head. The last thing I needed in my mental space was that cocky grin he wore when he questioned whether I, the so-called, Ice Queen, ever smiled. He was too handsome for his own good, too confident, and definitely too chaotic for me.

I dropped from warrior pose into a gentle forward fold, letting tension flow from my shoulders. Today, I had to apologize for storming off the rink. I never let my emotions get the better of me like that, and it stung to admit I’d lost control. But the clock was ticking. Neither my coach, Vivian, nor the charity event’s organizers would accept me walking away from a partnership they deemed crucial. Four weeks to craft a seamless performance—four weeks to keep the Olympic Committee’s interest. Failure wasn’t an option.

My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, jolting me. Balancing on one foot, I nearly toppled over. With a sigh, I abandoned the pose and crossed the open space to snatch up the device. Vivian’s name flashed on the screen. Of course it was her.

“Yes, Vivian?” I said, striving for a composed tone.

Her exasperation practically crackled through the line. “Starla, I’ve been leaving messages. The event managers want reassurance this pairing isn’t going to implode.”

“I know,” I replied, trying to clamp down my own frustration. “We clashed at first, but…”

“Fix it,” she cut me off in that no-nonsense voice. “The Committee expects you to prove you’re adaptable as well as technically flawless. Understand?”

I forced a breath. “I won’t let them down.”

When she ended the call, tension churned in my gut. I’d spent my entire life perfecting my discipline—now I had to show the skating world I could handle an unpredictable partner who seemed to court the limelight. Absolutely ideal. I scrolled through my notifications, grimacing at a text from an unknown number:

You deserve better partners.

A chill prickled my skin. My skate bag had been out of place lately, and once or twice I’d felt like someone was watching me at the rink. But I couldn’t jump to conclusions over a single cryptic message. Probably a misguided fan who hated the idea of me teaming with a ‘bad boy’ speed skater.

With a determined shake of my head, I blocked the number and changed into leggings and a hoodie. No time to dwell on random drama—I had a routine to salvage.

After a quick breakfast—egg whites, spinach, and perfectly measured oats—I hopped into my compact SUV and drove through brisk winter air to the Denver Ice Arena. The building rose up behind a row of leafless trees, its facade a blend of glass panels and steel beams that glinted in the pale morning sun. I inhaled the tang of crisp air as I stepped outside, a reminder that I’d always thrived in the cold—both on the ice and off.

Inside the arena, my footsteps echoed across the polished floors. Light spilled onto the rink from overhead fluorescents. I paused behind the plexiglass, scanning the expanse of meticulously resurfaced ice. That’s when I spotted Gunnar mid-sprint, carving a perfect arc with raw power in every stride. Even from afar, he radiated the kind of athleticism that turned heads.

He noticed me and let himself coast, breath fogging in the chilly air. “Morning,” he called, voice echoing across the empty rows of seats. His dark hair was slightly damp, a sure sign he’d already pushed himself hard.

Forcing calm, I walked down the aisle, my skate bag hefted over one shoulder. “I’m not one to skip practice. About yesterday...” My stomach knotted around the word apology. “I shouldn’t have walked out. We started off badly, and I let my frustration show.”

“Apology accepted,” he replied, leaning against the boards. The corners of his mouth quirked in an irrepressible smirk. “Butcome on, Starla…we’re total opposites. We need to figure out how to make our differences a selling point.”

I mustered a faint scowl. “Interesting or disastrous. We have four weeks to find out.”

He clapped his hands, the sound reverberating around us. “So how about we figure out a plan that won’t end in homicide?”

I tried not to let relief show on my face. “I...yes. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

Gunnar joined me, watching as I laced my boots in the team bench area. His black speed skates had shorter, sharper blades than my figure skates, and I couldn’t help eyeing them warily. Could I trust someone who specialized in speed enough to do spins with me in his arms, let alone lift me up?

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