It’s 5:45 AM. The overhead lights hum to life, casting a harsh, clinical glow over the pristine, empty sheet of ice. The only sounds are the distant whir of machinery and the soft scrape of a single blade.

Y/n is already on the ice, a lone, focused figure tracing familiar patterns into the frost. Every push, every turn, is precise, practiced, absolute. This is her domain. Her shot.

The heavy metal door to the players’ bench clangs open, a jarring sound in the quiet dawn.

Nate Hawkins steps through, already in full gear, his skates clicking on the concrete. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and looks like he’s been awake for hours, his dark hair messy and his expression one of mild, perpetual irritation. He stops at the boards, leaning his arms on the top, watching.

He checks the large digital clock on the wall above the scoreboard. The red numbers read 5:47.