Chapter 1
Gwen
The volunteer opens the little gate to the ice.
Cold air rushes up to meet me, sharp and bracing. The ice looks impossibly smooth, reflecting the lights above like a mirror waiting to expose me.
I step forward.
One foot. Then the other.
The skates hit the ice, and my body immediately registers its displeasure. Somehow, this is worse than I expected.
I am going to die on this ice.
Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. Literally. My tombstone will read:
GWEN: LOST A DARE AND PAID FOR IT IN PUBLIC.
The rink smells like cold air, popcorn, and regret.
I stand at the edge of the ice in borrowed skates that are definitely one size too big, gripping the railing like it’s the only thing tethering me to this mortal plane. My knees are locked. My jaw is clenched. My dignity is already gone.
This is it.
Somewhere behind me, someone taps a microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a cheerful voice booms through the arena, echoing off the rafters, “joining us on the ice for our community challenge tonight, please welcome… Gwen!”
The crowd cheers again.
Actual cheers.
I crack one eye open and immediately regret it. Every single person in the arena is looking at me.
I lift one hand in a weak wave that probably looks more like I’m asking for help. The Grizzlies are already on the other side of the ice, warming up. Some glance my way, but I decide to ignore that fact for now.
But knowing that Leo tampered with fate, even just a little, makes everything sharper. If I survive this ice, I will get him back.
“Why,” I ask slowly, “would you do that?”
He looks at me. Really looks. His teasing softens.
“Because you’re always on the sidelines,” he says. “And you never get pulled into the middle unless you put yourself there. I just… helped.”
I open my mouth to yell at him, but nothing comes out. Because beneath the meddling, the chaos, and the billionaire audacity, I know what he’s saying is true. And it’s unsettling how nice it sounds when he says it like that.
I’m the helper. The support. The funny one who claps the loudest for everyone else. I’m very good at standing outside the spotlight.
The announcer’s voice cuts back in. “Gwen, if you’ll make your way to the ice…”
“I don’t have to,” I say immediately.
Leo nods. “You don’t.”
Tess nods too. “You really don’t.”
The crowd doesn’t know that yet. They’re still clapping, still waiting, still assuming this is all part of the fun.
I look down at my boots. The skates. Heavy. Unforgiving. Already judging me.
My heart is racing now, but not in the panicked way I expect. It’s fast and loud, yes, but something else sits underneath it.
Defiance.
I think of every time I’ve laughed something off so no one else would feel uncomfortable. Every time I’ve said, It’s fine, when it wasn’t. Every time I’ve watched someone else be chosen.
I think of how I put my name in that bowl with shaking hands and told myself I could leave before it mattered.
It matters.
“Gwen,” Tess says gently. “Whatever you decide, we’ve got you.”
I nod.
I take a breath.
Then another.
“I’m going,” I say. I quickly take off my jacket and hand it to Tess.
“You look amazing. You’re going to do great!” she tries to reassure me. I hear her words, but they don’t fully land.
“I’m going on the ice,” I repeat, more to convince myself than anyone else.
Leo’s eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say. “If I fall, I fall. At least it’ll be on my terms.”
Tess smiles. “That’s my girl.”
Leo is behind the boards, hands clapped over his mouth, eyes bright with barely contained delight. He looks like a man watching a very expensive experiment unfold.
I narrow my eyes at him. He gives me two thumbs up.
“Ok,” I mutter to myself. “Ok. You can do this.”
It’s a lie, but it’s a familiar one. I’ve been telling it to myself for years in dressing rooms, at parties, on first dates that never made it to second dates. “You can do this”, is my emotional duct tape. Sticky. Reliable. Questionable in the long term.
I try to move forward again, but my ankles wobble. My arms fly out instinctively, windmilling like I’m trying to take flight.
The crowd collectively inhales.
I freeze.
Still upright. Barely.
A miracle.
I take another step. Slower this time. I keep my knees bent the way the instructional video I watched twelve years ago suggested. My brain is screaming, but my feet are cooperating just enough to keep me vertical.
Progress.
I push off again.
That’s when gravity remembers I exist.
My blade catches on something I will never understand, and my center of balance shifts. It shifts just enough to send my body pitching forward in a way that feels both slow-motion and immediate.
There is no elegant way to fall on ice. Only the inevitability of it.
This is it. This is how I die.
I don’t die.
But I do go down.
Hard.
My knee hits first, followed by my hip, then the rest of me in a graceless heap that echoes louder than I’d like against the ice. The impact rattles through my bones and knocks the air from my lungs in a sharp oof that I’m fairly certain gets picked up by a microphone somewhere.
There’s a beat.
Then the crowd reacts, this time a sympathetic murmur, mixed with a few concerned gasps.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I cannot look at the crowd.
Ok.
This is happening.
Do not cry.
Do not cry.
Absolutely do not cry.
I press my palms against the ice, trying to push myself up, but my hands slide uselessly. My skates slip out from under me as if they’re actively working against my recovery. Almost like they’re making fun of me.
Cool. Great. Love this for me.
I try again to get up when I hear skates approaching.
“Hey.”
The voice is close. Calm. Male.
Not the announcer.
I crack one eye open.
He’s crouched in front of me, balanced easily on his skates like the ice is a suggestion rather than a threat. He’s wearing a Grizzlies jersey with dark, bold lettering across his chest, and he looks… relaxed.
Which feels unfair.
“You’re ok,” he says, not asking, telling. His tone is steady, like this is a normal Tuesday problem he solves all the time.
I blink up at him.
He has kind eyes. That’s the first thing I notice. Not cocky, not pitying. Attentive. Focused on me, not the crowd.
“I meant to do that,” I say automatically.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Of course you did.”
I swallow. My face feels hot.
“I really wanted to test the ice.”
“Smart,” he agrees. “Very thorough.”
His humor is quiet, dry. Not a performance. Not something meant for the crowd. Just… between us.
He extends a hand toward me.
Again, not dramatic. Not like he’s rescuing a damsel. Just an offer. Take it or don’t.
I hesitate for half a second long enough to register the weight of the moment, then take it.
His grip is warm even through his glove. Solid. He braces himself, shifting his weight effortlessly, and then he pulls.
I rise.
Not all at once. Not yanked upright like a rag doll. He guides me up in stages, steadying my elbow, keeping me close enough that I don’t topple again but not so close that it feels invasive.
I’m standing.
I’m actually standing.
The crowd cheers again, louder this time. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and laugh slightly hysterical.
“Ok,” I say. “That was humbling.”
He smiles fully now, and something in my chest stutters.
“No one saw,” he says lightly.
I glance at the stands. At the phones. At the thousands of eyes currently locked on us.
“Bold claim,” I reply.
He shrugs. “I didn’t see anything.”
That makes me laugh again. Real laughter this time, the kind that loosens the knot in my chest instead of tightening it.
“Thanks,” I say. “For the assist.”
“Anytime.” He gestures subtly toward my skates. “You want to try again, or should we call this a strong opening act?”
I consider it.
My knee aches. My pride is bruised. My heart is still racing.
But I’m upright. I didn’t die. And for reasons I can’t quite explain, I don’t feel like a joke right now.
I need to do this.
“I can try again,” I say.
His eyebrows lift slightly, impressed.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I confirm. “But slower. And maybe… with less falling.”
He nods. “I can work with that.”
He shifts to my side, close enough that our shoulders almost brush, and gestures forward.
“All you have to do is follow me,” he says. “Small steps. Don’t fight the ice.”
I snort. “That’s not my natural instinct.”
“For most people, it isn’t.”
We move together, inch by careful inch. He doesn’t hold me the whole time; he just checks in with a light touch on my elbow when my balance wavers, his presence a quiet anchor.
I become acutely aware of him in a deeply inconvenient way, of how easy this is for him, of how unhurried he seems, of how he never once looks out at the crowd.
It’s like, for him, this moment only exists right here. With me.
Behind the boards, Leo is watching us with an expression I can’t quite read. Tess stands beside him, arms crossed, her expression equal parts fond and murderous.
I catch Leo’s eye.
He mouths, You’re doing great.
I mouth back, You’re dead.
He beams.
I turn my attention back to the man skating beside me, the Grizzlies player whose name I don’t know, and at that exact moment, my blade slips again.
This time, I don’t panic.
Because before I even fully register the fall, his hand is there, firm and grounding, keeping me upright.
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly.
Then, because I have never once in my life known when to stop talking, I say, “I would like to formally apologize for whatever just happened to your evening.”
That does it.
He laughs.
Not politely. Not quietly.
A real laugh that crinkles his eyes and makes something warm bloom in my chest, like I’ve been hit with a heat lamp.
“No harm done,” he says. “You’re doing great.”
“I am absolutely not,” I reply as my ankles betray me again.
The second fall is less dramatic. Which is not to say it’s graceful. It’s just… quieter. Slower. Like my body has accepted that ice is, in fact, a hostile environment and has adjusted its expectations accordingly.
My skate slips again, but this time my brain doesn’t go blank. I don’t flail. I don’t panic. I make a small, frustrated noise and tilt sideways like a tree that’s been politely informed it’s time.
Except I don’t hit the ice.
His hand tightens at my elbow. His other arm comes up instinctively, not grabbing, not clutching, just there. A barrier. A guide rail.
I wobble. Teeter. Then stop.
Standing.
Again.
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “I’m vertical.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “There you go.”
My heart is pounding now, but it’s different from before. Less terror. More… awareness. Of the way his hand still lightly holds my arm. Of how close he is, angled toward me like his attention has narrowed to this exact square of ice.
“You’re adjusting,” he says. “That’s good.”
“I would like credit for that,” I reply. “Emotionally, if not physically.”
“You’re earning it.”
I glance at him. “Do you say encouraging things to everyone who eats it on the ice?”
“No,” he says easily. “Only the brave ones.”
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
The crowd cheers again, reacting to… something. I don’t know what. I’m too busy feeling the heat in my cheeks and the strange, buoyant sensation in my chest that has nothing to do with balance.
“Ok,” I say, clearing my throat. “I think I’ve proven my point.”
“Which was?”
“That I am very courageous,” I say solemnly. “And extremely done.”
He smiles more softly this time. Less teasing.
“Fair.”
He lifts his chin slightly toward the boards. “Want help getting back?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “Please. Before I get cocky and attempt a spin.”
“That would be tragic.”
“For everyone,” I agree.
He stays close as we make our way toward the gate, moving at my pace, never rushing me, never drawing attention. It feels strangely private, given that it’s happening in front of hundreds of people.
I become aware, suddenly, that he hasn’t told me his name. I try to find it on his jersey, but there’s nothing there.
We reach the boards, and he steadies me as I step through the gate, one skate at a time. My legs feel rubbery now that the adrenaline is fading.
The volunteer claps. The announcer thanks me enthusiastically, calling me “a great sport” and “a crowd favorite,” which I choose to interpret generously.
As soon as my skates hit solid ground, I turn to face him.
“Thank you,” I say. “Seriously. You saved my life.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Anytime.”
I hesitate. “I’m Gwen.”
His eyebrows lift slightly, like he’s pleased. “Nice to meet you, Gwen. This was fun.”
He doesn’t offer his name.
I wait a beat.
Nothing.
Interesting.
“Well,” I say, gesturing vaguely at the ice, “if you ever need someone to dramatically lower expectations, I’m your girl.”
He laughs real and warm. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Behind me, Leo makes a choking noise.
I turn.
He’s red-faced, clutching his stomach like he’s run a marathon fueled entirely by secondhand joy. Tess stands beside him, one hand on his back, the other gripping his sleeve like she’s restraining an animal.
“You’re alive,” Leo says breathlessly. “I knew it.”
I glare at him. “You are on thin ice.”
“Pun intended?” he asks hopefully.
“No.”
He winces. “Worth it.”
I turn back to the Grizzlies player, suddenly aware that this moment is ending, that whatever bubble existed on the ice is popping, replaced by noise, people, and reality.
“Well,” I say. “I should probably go… sit down. And ice my dignity.”
He runs his fingers through his brown hair and nods. “Good plan.”
He pauses, then adds, “You did great.”
The way he says it, simple, sincere, no qualifiers, lands somewhere deep.
“Thanks,” I say again, quieter this time.
He gives me one last small smile, then pushes off, gliding back onto the ice with effortless grace that feels like showing off, even though I know it’s not meant to be.
“See you later, man,” he says to Leo.
I watch him go for half a second longer than necessary.
“You know him?” I ask Leo, shocked.
“Who?” he replies.
I sigh in annoyance.
I huff. “I don’t even know his name.”
Leo’s smile turns slow. Knowing.
“Oh,” he says. “You will.”
I narrow my eyes. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Tess cuts in smoothly, “that you should go get warm.”
She steers me gently toward the seating area, her hand solid at my back.
Behind us, Leo watches the ice like he’s waiting for a sequel.
I don’t look back.
But my heart is still skating.