Fire On Ice: The Olympic Claim

Everly POV

"Lower," I barked. My skates dug into the line. "Your weight is still in your chest, Mercer. Drop your hips another inch."

The speed skater groaned, his thigh muscles shaking under his training pants. He was in a squat, holding an edge glide around the center circle. Sweat dripped from his chin, splashing onto the ice. He had been holding the position for three minutes.

"My legs are on fire," he said, jaw clamped shut as he struggled to keep his body straight.

"Good," I said, skating backward ahead of him. "That fire means you are using your core. Figure skating is not theater, Knox. It is tough. Welcome to my world."

He gritted his teeth, his blue eyes flashing with exhaustion and pride. He did not quit. For four days, I had pushed him to his limits, stripping away his speed track shortcuts and forcing him into flexibility circuits and deep edge-work. He was left huffing and drenched.

The arrogant bad boy of track was learning to stay balanced on a quarter-inch of steel; it required more than force.

My student stood up from the glide, his breath coming in gasps. He leaned over, hands on his knees, chest heaving. "Are you trying to kill me before the combine?"

"I am trying to fix you," I said, checking the arena clock. We had twenty minutes left. "Now we switch. I need to work on my axel. You are going to be my harness."

Knox straightened up, wiping sweat from his forehead. He looked at the leather strap and pulley system. "How does this work?"

"You hold the anchor rope," I said, strapping the leather belt around my waist. "When I launch, you pull up on the line. You absorb part of my weight. It keeps me from hurting my ankle. You have to match my speed. Stay three feet behind my shoulder. Catch me if I tilt."

He took the rope from my hands, his large fingers wrapping tight around it. He did not mock me. He looked at the belt, then at my ankle, his expression sober. "You trust me not to drop you?"

"I do not have a choice," I said, my voice dropping. "The sectionals are in five weeks. I need my triple back. Hold the line."

He nodded, face turning serious. The cocky smile vanished, replaced by pure intensity.

We pushed off together, building speed down the rink. He tracked my movements, his speed blades hissing in a rhythm behind my right shoulder. The tension on the rope was firm.

I turned forward, deep on my outside edge. This was the take-off. The wind whipped past my face, and the old panic flared in my chest.

I launched into the air. One turn. Two turns. Three.

The air rushed past. My body tilted. My balance was gone. I was coming down sideways, about to land on my bad ankle.

"Knox!" I gasped.

Before my blade could smash into the ice, the hockey player surged forward. His arms wrapped around my waist, lifting me out of the air. His torso slammed against my back, absorbing my momentum.

We skated out the speed together. He held me tight and did not let go. His hands were locked around my waist, his grip firm.

"I have you," he whispered, his breath brushing against my neck. "Stay still."

I leaned into him, exhausted. I could feel his heart beating against my shoulder blades. He was steady.

My protector looked down at my ankle, seeing the scar. His fingers tightened gently on my waist. He looked at me, and for the first time, he did not see an obstacle. He saw the warrior underneath the ice queen mask.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Only when I miss," I whispered, my voice trembling.

The proximity felt dangerous. The tension between us shifted, the air thick with awareness.

The arena door clicked loudly. The moment was shattered. His hands dropped from my waist, and we turned toward the entrance tunnel.

The TV camera lights flooded the hallway. Reporters stepped onto the ice. Hunter Cross walked in, my former pairs partner and ex-fiancé. He wore his custom gold Vanguard Club team jacket. His blond hair was perfect, his lips set in a smirk.

My main rival walked beside him, her sharp face lit up with a grin.

"Ah, look, the cameras are already rolling," the skater said, his voice echoing through the arena. "I told you we would find her here, Ava. Training in the dark like a ghost."

I froze. My hands clenched into fists. The pain in my ankle was forgotten, replaced by humiliation and anger.

The main reporter stepped forward. "Hunter, Ava, we are live in three minutes. Is it true you are doing your segment here at the Mercer Center today?"

"That is right," my ex-fiancé said. He stepped onto the ice, looking around the arena with disgust. "The Vanguard Club wanted to show the media where our old talent ended up. We heard Everly was reduced to begging for scraps after the injury."

The woman giggled, an annoying sound. "We just wanted to wish her luck. Even if she does not have a partner, or funding, or a proper routine anymore."

The golden boy walked closer, stopping ten feet away from me. The cameras focused on my face.

"Let us be honest, Everly," he said, his voice loud. "You should have stayed retired. You look pathetic here trying to play catch-up. You are holding onto a dream that died the day your bone snapped. Why do you not save yourself the embarrassment at sectionals and just drop out now?"

The humiliation was a physical weight. The reporters scribbled on their pads, the camera lenses tracking my every breath.

Suddenly, Knox stepped in front of me. His huge frame shielded my body completely from the lenses. He slammed his speed skates into the ice, the metal scraping a sharp warning.

The hockey player looked down at the man who broke my heart, his blue eyes frozen with rage.

"Who the hell let this garbage onto my ice?" he growled.