The Hockey Captain's Ice Queen

Elara

The ice was mine at six in the morning.

That was the deal I’d made with myself the day I transferred to Northlake. Figure skaters got the rink from six to seven. Hockey took over at seven sharp. Fifty-nine minutes if I was being honest about how long it took to lace up. It wasn’t much, but it was something I could control. And control was the only thing I still trusted.

I pushed off the boards and let the silence take me.

No music. I’d stopped skating to music eight months ago. Certain songs could drag me under faster than a bad dream or a crowded hallway or the sharp, cheap smell of the vodka Nick used to drink at team dinners. Music had too much memory in it. So I skated in silence—edges, crossovers, three-turns. Things my body still knew how to do without asking my brain for permission.

The arena was cold the way only rinks are cold. Metal and Zamboni exhaust and that bone-deep chill that settled under your skin. My breath came out in small white clouds. I watched them disappear and tried to think about nothing.

I built speed for a single Axel. Nothing ambitious. Just a jump I’d landed since I was seven.

Takeoff edge. Leave the ice—

Different ice. St. Petersburg. Nick’s hand on my waist, the lift steady. Later the team dinner, vodka he said was just to celebrate. The sound of the door locking. Him pushing me down onto the bed, unzipping, shoving his pants down just far enough. The thick head of his cock grinding hard against me through my underwear. I said no. Loud. He only got more into it, breathing heavier, telling me I was just nervous, that I’d like it once he was inside—

My landing went wrong.

Blade caught at the wrong angle. Weight shifted hard left. For one ugly second I felt the fall already happening—that specific, helpless physics—and then a voice cut through everything.

“Watch out.”

Male. From the upper walkway.

My body reacted before my mind did. Eight years of falling and getting back up. I twisted, dropped my hip, got a hand down. Not graceful. Not even close. But I stayed up.

I stayed on one knee for a second, palm flat against the ice, heart slamming hard enough to hurt. Then I looked up.

A group of them on the second-level corridor. Hockey gear, duffel bags, early as hell—it wasn’t even six-thirty. Most of them weren’t looking at me. One was.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Blond hair catching the flat arena lights like he belonged somewhere warmer. Dark team jacket. He was watching me with an expression I couldn’t read from this distance.

Then he turned, said something to the guy behind him, and walked toward the stairwell without looking back.

“You okay down there?” Another voice—darker hair, leaning over the railing.

I stood. Lifted one hand in the universal I’m fine gesture.

They followed the blond one toward the stairs. I watched until the last of them disappeared, then skated slowly to the boards and sat. My hands were shaking. I pressed them against my thighs and checked my watch.

6:23.

I unlaced my skates and shoved them into my bag. Stood up. Started for the exit.

The second I hit the corridor outside the locker rooms, the noise hit me—laughter, the heavy clatter of equipment bags, someone yelling, “Tonight’s gonna be fucking insane,” followed by a round of cheers and whoops.

I picked up my pace. Pushed through the door and stepped out into the sharp October air.

By the time I got to the dorm, showered, and pulled on my usual uniform—oversized grey hoodie, black leggings, hair in a low ponytail—it was barely seven. I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the small spiral notebook I kept in the front pocket of my backpack.

6:00–6:30: ice (interrupted)

I stared at the word. Wrote it again. Interrupted. Then moved on.

7:00 breakfast: black coffee, half an apple, 10 almonds (~150)

I closed the notebook and put it away.

I took the third row from the back in Sports Physiology, next to the window. Not the front—too visible. Not the last row either. That particular brand of invisibility made me feel like I’d already decided I didn’t matter. Third from the back was the compromise I’d landed on after two weeks of trial and error.

“Hey.” Cody Warren dropped into the seat beside me, still a little out of breath, backpack straps digging into both shoulders. “Did you finish the muscle mechanics set? I got wrecked by question four.”

I slid my notebook across without looking up. He found the page with the ease of someone who’d done this three times already in the last two weeks.

“Thank god,” he muttered, scanning my work. “I knew you’d have it.” He handed it back. “You hear about the party tonight? Wolves took down the Thunder Bears last night. Apparently it’s going to be—” He made a vague, chaotic gesture with one hand.

“I don’t really follow the hockey team,” I said.

“Yeah, you don’t exactly scream party.” No judgment in it. Just fact. “If you want company in the realm of not going, I’ll be in my room watching terrible television and deeply regretting that I can’t afford tickets to any of their games.”

I almost smiled. “I’m rewatching The Boys.”

“Solid choice.” He paused. “Hey—you know you kind of look like Starlight? The hair, mostly. And you’ve got that same energy of someone trying really hard to be normal in a situation that keeps refusing to cooperate.”

“That’s the most specific compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“I stand by it.”

The library was quiet in the afternoon, which was the only reason I went there. I found my usual corner table, the one with the view of the courtyard where the maple trees had started turning, and opened my Sports Physiology textbook to next week's chapter. I was two weeks ahead in every class. This was not ambition. This was the same thing as the notebook, the same thing as the six AM ice time — something to fill the hours so the hours couldn't fill themselves with other things.

At some point I stopped reading and looked out the window.

The blond guy from the ice rink. The one who'd called out the warning and then left without waiting to see if I was actually okay. I didn't know why that detail kept snagging at me. Maybe because it was the right call — I hadn't needed help, and he hadn't made it weird by offering it. He'd just said the thing and moved on.

I didn't know who he was. I didn't need to know.

My phone buzzed on the table.

Leah, my roommate, never texted me like this unless something was seriously wrong.

Leah: WHERE ARE YOU?? Come back RIGHT NOW. We have a serious problem.