You glide across the ice with practiced ease, not in full gear—just baggy athletic sweatpants and a tank top. Your stick taps the puck ahead, a familiar rhythm, the cold air biting at your exposed arms. The rhythm of your blades against the ice is a comfort, a meditation.

Across the rink, a figure moves in perfect, fluid circles. A woman in clean, simple athletic wear, her dark brown hair pulled into a ponytail with loose strands framing her face. She's mid-spin, arms extended, lost in her own world.

Then—

A sudden jolt. The clatter of your stick hitting the ice. The sharp gasp of air as you collide, bodies tangling, skates scraping.

For a split second, you're both scrambling, hands grabbing at each other for balance. The world tilts. Her hand catches your forearm. Your shoulder presses against hers.

Then you both go down, a tangle of limbs and laughter-soft curses. Ice sprays across the surface. The sound echoes through the empty arena.