Val's pov
The thing no one tells you about being a competitive figure skater is that it's a little like being haunted. You start to hear your routines in your head at random hours. Moves that looked fine at practice suddenly feel crooked. Every spin is a potential failure. Every jump is either perfection or humiliation.
So yeah. I broke into the rink at 11:48 p.m.
And no, I didn't feel guilty.
The back door key was technically for emergencies, but I decided a double axel that wouldn't cooperate was an emergency. Besides, it's not like anyone else would be here. The rink was dead silent except for the low hum of the ice compressors and the soft click of the security lights flickering to life.
I laced up my boots on the bench in total silence. My fingers moved on autopilot, tight and fast, like they were angry. Like I was angry. My coach said I needed rest. My father said I needed more focus. But neither of them was here now, were they?
The music in my phone was already queued. A slow, instrumental piece I usually saved for performances. I skated out onto the center of the rink, heart hammering like I'd just robbed a bank instead of a schedule. Cold bit my cheeks.
I inhaled. Exhaled. And moved.
The thing about skating alone is that it feels like the world belongs to you. For a second, there are no boys with helmets shouting over your music. No nagging coach. No—
Crash.
My skate caught. I stumbled. Slid out. Landed flat on my back. Ice met my spine like a slap.
I stared at the ceiling. Gasped a laugh.
"Impressive."
I sat up so fast I almost snapped my neck.
Him.
Theo Dodge stood just outside the rink, hoodie half-zipped, hockey stick dangling from one hand like he owned the entire damn arena. He leaned against the barrier, smirking like the jerk he is. Like he knew something I didn't.
"You're such a creep," I muttered, brushing ice shavings off my sleeve. "What are you even doing here?"
He lifted a brow. "Could ask you the same, Deluca. Didn't know pirouettes were a midnight thing."
I glared. "Didn't know puck chasers practiced solo."
He jumped the barrier like it was nothing, landing with a casual thud. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd hit the ice. Didn't think I'd find Elsa doing angry ballet."
I shoved myself up. "You're in my way."
He skated a lazy circle around me, like a shark with a death wish. "This your usual vibe? Dramatic music, solo sessions, tragic falls?"
"You watched me fall?"
"Watched you almost crack your spine. Yeah."
Silence stretched.
Not the comfortable kind.
His voice dropped an inch. "You okay, though?"
I blinked.
There it was.
The Moment.
The rare one where Theo's voice softened just enough to make me wonder if the whole rude, smug, hotheaded act was just a cover for something he didn't want to name.
But I didn't flinch.
"I'm fine," I said, brushing past him.
He followed, slowly, matching my glide.
"You sure? That was a pretty impressive wipeout. Should've filmed it for the group chat."
"You're hilarious."
"I know. You laugh in your dreams about me."
I turned sharply. "Get. Off. My. Ice."
He grinned, skating backward now. "You're cute when you're bossy."
And then he was gone, coasting to the far end of the rink, shooting invisible goals with an invisible puck.
I stood alone in the center again, heart thudding.
I hated him.
I really, really hated him.
And worse?
I was starting to suspect he knew it wasn't all hate.