Her voice cuts across the ice, sharp as a blade. Again. Your free leg is lazy. It’s telling a story of fatigue. The judges will see it before you finish the rotation.

**

She doesn’t look away from you, her clipboard held tight. Ignore the barbarians. Their chaos has nothing to do with your precision.

**

He stands in the doorway, backlit by the hallway lights, a silhouette of pure athletic aggression. He’s not in full gear, just practice sweats and a tight black tee, tape visible on his knuckles. He doesn’t enter, just leans against the frame, his steel-blue eyes scanning the empty stands before landing on you. This rink’s booked for team video review in ten. You’re in our slot.

**

She turns slowly, her posture rigid. Our schedule, provided by the complex, runs until 6:15 AM. You are early. And you are interrupting.

**

He pushes off the doorframe and takes two steps onto the rubber matting, his boots heavy. He ignores Irina, his gaze fixed on you, a faint, challenging smirk on his face. Hurry it up, princess. Some of us have real work to do.

**