Chapter 2 The Icy Encounter

Aurora's POV

Two weeks later, I still couldn’t believe I was doing this.

I stood outside Ice Haven, a tired-looking rink tucked between a laundromat and a pizza place in Brooklyn. The sign above the door was faded, and one of the letters was missing. It looked nothing like the shiny studios I was used to. Part of me wanted to turn around and go straight back home.

But Mom had practically pushed me out the door.

“You need to move that ankle, Rory,” she’d said. “The doctor said low-impact. Just try it once.”

So here I was. Crutches under my arms, gym bag slung over my shoulder, feeling stupid in my old black leggings and oversized hoodie. My injured ankle was wrapped tight under a brace. I took a deep breath of cold air and pushed open the heavy door.

Inside, the place smelled like ice, sweat, and cheap hot chocolate. The rink wasn’t huge, but it was full of life. Kids chasing each other, teenagers practicing jumps, and a few older skaters gliding smoothly like it was nothing. The sound of blades cutting into ice filled the air.

I rented a pair of skates from the front desk, laced them up slowly, and stared at the ice like it was my enemy.

This is ridiculous, I thought. I’m a ballerina, not some ice princess.

I stepped onto the ice carefully, holding onto the railing. My first few glides were terrible. My good leg felt okay, but my injured ankle was stiff and weak. I wobbled like a baby deer. A couple of little kids giggled as they zoomed past me.

And then I saw him.

In the center of the rink, a guy launched into the air, spinning so fast I almost got dizzy watching. Triple axel. Clean landing. The kind of jump that would make professional skaters jealous. He looked completely effortless.

He slowed to a stop, pulled off his black hoodie, and tossed it onto the boards. Underneath, he was wearing a fitted compression shirt that showed off his broad shoulders and toned arms. His dark hair was messy from skating, and even from across the rink, I could see girls whispering and staring at him.

My stomach dropped.

No. No way.

Julian Reyes.

Marcus’s best friend since middle school. The guy who used to eat all our snacks and tease me for being “the annoying little sister.” The same guy my brother warned me about a hundred times.

Before I could turn and hobble away, he looked straight at me. His eyes widened in recognition, then a slow, cocky smirk spread across his face.

He skated over smoothly, stopping right in front of me with way too much confidence.

“Little Rory? Marcus’s baby sister?” He tilted his head, looking me up and down. “Pointe Shoes? What the hell are you doing here?”

I gripped the railing tighter. “Don’t call me that.”

He chuckled, low and smooth. “Why? You used to love it when I called you that. Or did you grow out of it?”

I tried to skate backward to put space between us, but my ankle protested and I almost slipped. Julian reached out fast and caught my arm to steady me. His hand felt warm even through my hoodie.

“Easy there,” he said, still smirking. “Didn’t know ballerinas sucked this bad on ice. You look like Bambi on roller skates.”

My face burned. “I’m not here for fun. And I don’t need your help.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Then why are you here, Rory? This doesn’t exactly scream ‘ballet dream.’”

I pulled my arm away. “None of your business.”

Before I could turn to leave, a woman’s voice called out from the side of the rink.

“Rory Sinclair?”

A short, tough-looking Latina woman in a red jacket skated toward us. She had sharp eyes and the kind of posture that said she didn’t take nonsense from anyone.

“I’m Coach Rivera,” she said, smiling. “Mike from the hospital called me. Said you might be coming by. How’s the ankle feeling?”

“It’s fine,” I lied.

She looked at my terrible skating form and then at Julian, who was still standing there like he owned the place.

“You need consistent training if you want that ankle back to full strength,” Coach Rivera said seriously. “Low-impact, but challenging. Figure skating is actually one of the best things for ballerinas recovering from injuries. Balance, control, ankle strength — all of it.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but she kept going.

“I’d like you to come at least four times a week. Early mornings work best.”

“Four times a week?” I repeated, horrified.

Julian laughed beside me. “Good luck with that, Pointe Shoes.”

I shot him a glare. “I said stop calling me that.”

Coach Rivera looked between us, then clapped her hands together.

“Actually, this might be perfect timing. The rink is in real trouble. We’re struggling financially, and if we don’t make a strong showing at the Northeast Regional Mixed Pairs Competition in four months, we probably won’t get the funding we need to stay open.”

She paused, looking directly at me and Julian.

“You two might be our only hope.”

I blinked. “Wait… what?”

Julian’s smirk faded a little. “Coach, you can’t be serious. I’m training for my individual stuff. I don’t do pairs.”

“And I’m not even a skater,” I added quickly. “This is just temporary. I’m a ballerina.”

Coach Rivera crossed her arms. “The competition has a mixed pairs division. We’ve never had a strong team to send. You have ballet background — that means grace and artistry. Julian has the technical power. Together? You might actually have a shot.”

She looked at us with serious eyes.

“Think about it. The rink needs this. A lot of kids here need this.”

The words hung in the cold air.

I looked at Julian. He was staring at me with an unreadable expression now, that cocky smile gone.