Off the Ice

The freezing air of the Horizon Center smelled like stale sweat, expensive rubber, and pure aggression.

Liam Vance pulled his worn sports duffel bag tighter against his shoulder, his fingers trembling slightly inside his knit gloves. It wasn’t from the cold, Liam was a figure skater; ice was his home. It was from the sheer humiliation of why he was here.

Just forty-eight hours ago, the National Athletic Board had quietly revoked his training grant. No funding meant no coach, no ice time, and his Olympic dreams dead in the water at twenty-three. His bank account held a pathetic $14.22. This job, the one his former choreographer had begged him to take—was his absolute last lifeline.

“Power skating coach for the New York Warriors,” Liam muttered to himself, stepping through the heavy double doors leading to the main rink. “Basically, babysitting a bunch of neanderthals who think brute force solves everything.”*

The thunderous CRACK of a hockey puck slamming against the plexiglass echoed through the arena, making him flinch.

Down on the ice, a dozen massive men clad in heavy black-and-gold armor were tearing across the rink. They moved like freight trains, fast, heavy, and destructive. But to Liam’s trained eye, they were incredibly sloppy. Their turns were wide, their balance was centered entirely in their upper bodies, and their footwork was a chaotic mess.

"Hey! Pixie! You're blocking the gate!" a booming voice roared.

Liam snapped his head up. Standing at the team bench was the head coach, a gruff man with a clipboard named Coach Miller. But Liam’s eyes didn’t linger on the coach. They instantly locked onto the man skating hard toward the boards.

Number 87. The Captain. Jaxson Thorne.

Jaxson stopped on a dime, spraying a massive wave of ice shavings directly over the boards, hitting the bottom of Liam’s jeans. Jaxson ripped his helmet off, shaking out a mop of sweat-dampened dark hair. He was broad-shouldered, towering over Liam even without the skates, and his jawline looked like it had been chiseled out of granite. His dark eyes swept down Liam’s lean frame, lingering on his fitted sweater and thin figure skates, with an expression of pure, unadulterated disdain.

"Coach," Jaxson scoffed, his deep voice carrying across the empty arena. "Tell me this is a joke. You brought a ballet dancer to teach us how to play hockey?"

A few chuckles erupted from the players on the ice. Liam felt a hot flash of anger burn through his chest, replacing his anxiety. He stepped onto the ice, his blades cutting into the surface with silent, lethal precision. He didn't slip. He didn't stumble. He glided smoothly until he was standing bare inches from Jaxson’s massive padded chest.

"It's figure skating, Captain," Liam said, his voice deadly calm, tilting his chin up to meet Jaxson’s arrogant smirk. "And considering your team leads the league in tripping penalties and unforced turnovers, you don't need a hockey coach. You need someone who actually knows how to balance on two millimeters of steel."

Jaxson’s smirk vanished. His dark eyes narrowed, a dangerous heat flaring behind them. He stepped closer, using his massive size to crowd Liam, trying to intimidate him into backing down. The scent of wintergreen, sweat, and raw testosterone rolled off him.

"Listen to me, sweetheart," Jaxson growled, his voice dropping to a low, menacing register that vibrated right through Liam’s chest. "This is my ice. These guys don't take orders from someone they could snap in half with one body check. Why don't you take your pretty little skates and go back to dancing under a spotlight before you get hurt?"

"Is that a challenge, Thorne?" Liam challenged, refusing to take a single step back even as Jaxson’s heavy chest pressed against his shoulder.

"It's a promise," Jaxson whispered, his eyes dropping to Liam’s parted lips for a fraction of a second before hardening. He turned to his team. "Boys! Let's show the coach what happens when a tourist gets in our way. Line drill. Full speed. Don't avoid the obstacle."

The "obstacle" was Liam.

Before Coach Miller could even yell to stop them, five massive hockey players lined up at the opposite end of the rink. Jaxson blew his whistle, and the first player—a 220-pound defenseman—charged straight down the ice, accelerating directly toward Liam like a runaway semi-truck.

Liam didn't move. He stood perfectly still in the center of the ice, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"Move, kid!" the coach screamed from the bench.

The player was ten feet away. Five feet. The wind from his speed blasted into Liam's face.

At the very last microsecond, Liam didn't dodge like a coward. He bent his knees, dug his outside edge into the ice, and executed a flawless, blindingly fast hydroblade, dropping his body mere inches from the ice surface as the hockey player sailed right over where he had just been standing, completely losing his balance and crashing hard into the padded boards.

Liam smoothly popped back up to his feet, spinning around effortlessly to face Jaxson, his breathing completely steady.

Jaxson’s jaw was dropped. The entire rink had gone dead silent.

"Your turn, Captain," Liam said, a sharp, mocking smile cutting across his face. "Let's see if you can actually catch me, or if you're all talk."

Jaxson’s eyes turned completely feral. A dark, possessive anger flashed in his gaze as he gripped his hockey stick. "You asked for it."

Jaxson dug his skates into the ice and charged. He was twice as fast as the first guy, his eyes locked onto Liam like a predator tracking prey. Liam waited, calculated the trajectory, and pivoted to slip past him but Jaxson anticipated it.

Instead of trying to out-skate him, Jaxson dropped his stick and threw his massive, padded arms forward.

Liam tried to spin away, but his blade caught a rut in the ice left by the previous crash. His balance faltered. In the next heartbeat, Jaxson’s heavy body collided with his.

Liam gasped as the breath was knocked out of him. The sheer momentum carried them both backward. Jaxson’s large hands slammed into Liam’s waist, gripping him tightly as they both crashed hard onto the cold ice.

The world spun. When it stopped, Liam was flat on his back, his hands pinned against the ice, and Jaxson’s massive, heavily padded body was draped directly on top of him, trapping him completely.

Jaxson was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling against Liam’s. Their faces were inches apart. Liam could feel the searing heat radiating from Jaxson’s skin, contrasting violently with the freezing ice beneath them. Jaxson’s fingers dug tightly into the soft flesh of Liam’s waist, his grip so fierce it would surely leave bruises.

"I told you," Jaxson panted, his dark eyes staring down into Liam's with a terrifying, breathless intensity. "You don't belong here."

Liam glared up at him, his own chest heaving, his heart racing from a sudden, chaotic jolt of adrenaline that had nothing to do with fear. "Get. Off. Me."

Before Jaxson could reply, the heavy metal doors of the arena concourse flew open with a loud bang.

"Jaxson! Liam!" a frantic voice shouted.

It was Sarah, the team's public relations director, holding her phone up with a look of absolute horror on her face. "Get up! Right now! The paparazzi followed Liam here. A live-streamer just caught that entire collision from the glass—and the internet thinks you two just had a lovers' quarrel on the ice!"