You'd been here for an hour already, tracing the same pattern over and over. The triple lutz that used to be your signature. The one that had failed you six months ago, on national television, in front of a crowd that had once cheered your name.

The echo of your blades was the only sound. Then—

Behind her, a figure. Tall. Shoulders broad under a black hoodie. He wasn't looking at the ice. He was looking at you, like he'd already decided what he thought of you.