I arrive at 5:45 AM, which means I'm early. Adrian's already on the ice.
Of course he is.
He's running through footwork sequences, and I hate that he's good. Really good. His edges are clean, his posture perfect despite eight years away from competitive figure skating. Hockey didn't erase his technical foundation. If anything, the added strength makes his movements more powerful.
I watch from the boards as he transitions into a camel spin. Three rotations, centered, controlled. He exits into a back spiral that would make most male skaters jealous.
"Seen enough?" he calls without looking at me.
"Just assessing what I'm working with."
"And?"
"You're not as rusty as your father thinks."
Adrian stops mid-crossover, turning to face me. His hair is slightly damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from exertion. "That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"Don't let it go to your head." I drop my bag and start lacing my skates. "We still have to see if you remember how to skate with a partner."
"I remember plenty."
"Muscle memory from junior skating is different from actually performing under pressure with someone you barely know."
"Then I guess we better get to know each other." He glides over to the boards, resting his forearms on the barrier. "Twenty questions?"
"What are we, twelve?"
"Fine. I'll start." He grins, and it's unsettling how much younger it makes him look. Less damaged hockey player, more cocky teenager. "Why figure skating?"
I finish tying my left skate, considering the question. "My mom took me to a Stars on Ice show when I was six. I watched them fly across the ice and decided that's what I wanted to do. Fly."
"Poetic."
"Your turn. Why did you really quit skating for hockey?"
The grin fades. "I told you. Money. Fame. My father's expectations."
"That's the PR answer. What's the real one?"
Adrian's quiet for a long moment. "Because skating hurt too much. Emotionally, I mean. Every performance felt like bleeding in front of strangers. Hockey was easier. You hit people, they hit you back, everyone goes home with their feelings intact."
I step onto the ice, gliding over to him. "And now you're back to the bleeding."
"Guess so." He pushes off the boards. "Coach should be here in ten minutes. Want to warm up together?"
"Might as well get used to moving in sync."
We start with basics. Stroking side by side, matching tempo. It's awkward at first, our rhythms different. Adrian's used to hockey's aggressive pace. I'm used to Marcus's more cautious approach. But gradually, we find a middle ground.
"Left hand," Adrian says, extending his arm.
I take it. His palm is warm, calloused. We move into waltz position, bodies close but not touching except for our hands. This is where partnerships live or die. In the space between contact and distance.
"Forward crossovers," he instructs. "Mirror me."
We circle the rink, his right hand finding my left, our free arms extended. The movement is hypnotic. Push, glide, cross. Push, glide, cross. Our blades carve parallel lines in fresh ice.
"You lead well," I admit.
"That surprises you?"
"Hockey players aren't exactly known for their grace."
"Hockey players aren't known for a lot of things we're actually capable of." His grip tightens slightly as we lean into a curve. "Don't stereotype."
"Says the guy who called my skating 'too rough around the edges.'"
"I also said you have fire. That's not an insult."
"It felt like one at the time."
"At the time, I was an entitled asshole coasting on family money and natural talent." He meets my eyes. "I'm trying to be better now."
Before I can respond, the rink door bangs open. Coach Elena strides in, already yelling.
"Why you just skating circles? This is practice, not social hour!" She dumps her bags rinkside with a thud. "We have three weeks to build short program. Three weeks! In Russia, we do this in one week and still win gold."
"In Russia, you probably had partners who'd skated together before," I mutter.
"What was that?"
"Nothing, Coach."
"That's what I thought." She pulls out her tablet, swiping through notes. "Okay. Today we work on basic lifts and death spiral. Tomorrow, throw jumps. Day after, side-by-side elements. We build program piece by piece."
Adrian skates over. "What music are we using?"
"Haven't chosen yet. First we see what you can do, then we pick music that matches your style." Elena looks between us. "Or your fighting style, since that is what I saw yesterday."
"We weren't fighting," I protest.
"No? Then why did Lila fall six times?"
"Because we don't know each other's timing yet," Adrian says. "Give us a few days."
Elena snorts. "Few days. He thinks he has few days. Adorable." She claps her hands. "Straight line lift sequence. Adrian, you remember progressions from junior skating?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Start with press lift, move to star lift, finish with lasso lift. Lila, you trust him?"
I look at Adrian. He raises an eyebrow, challenging.
"Getting there," I say.
"Not good enough. You trust him or you don't. There is no middle ground in pairs skating." Elena's expression softens slightly. "I know this is hard. I know Marcus was your security blanket. But Marcus is gone. Adrian is here. So you decide now: you trust him, or we all go home."
The rink goes silent except for the hum of the cooling system.
"I trust him," I say.
It's a lie. But it's the lie we both need right now.
Adrian nods once. "Press lift first. You know the entry?"
"I've done hundreds of them."
"Then let's see if you can do one more."
We move into position. Adrian's hands settle on my waist, thumbs pressing against my ribs. I can feel the tension in his arms, the coiled strength waiting to explode.
"On three," he says. "One, two, three."
I jump. He lifts. For one glorious second, I'm above him, arms extended, body arched. Then he shifts his grip and I feel it. The wobble. The uncertainty.
"Lock your core!" Elena shouts.
I tighten every muscle, trying to stabilize, but Adrian's already lowering me. The dismount is rough, both of us off-balance.
"Again," Elena commands.
We try again. And again. By the fifth attempt, we're both frustrated. By the tenth, I can see the muscle twitching in Adrian's jaw.
"You're gripping too tight," I say.
"I'm gripping fine. You're not holding position."
"Because you're throwing me off-balance with your grip!"
"Maybe if you had better core strength, my grip wouldn't matter."
"My core strength is fine. Your technique is what's rusty."
"ENOUGH!" Elena's voice cracks like a whip. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. You argue about whose fault, whose technique, who is rusty. Nobody cares! What matters is you fix it. Together."
Adrian runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I'm starting to recognize as his tell for frustration. "What do you suggest?"
"I suggest you both shut up and listen." Elena skates over, positioning herself between us. "Adrian, you are gripping her waist like you grip hockey stick. Too much force. You need gentle strength. Lila, you are holding breath. Can't maintain position if you don't breathe. So: Adrian loosens grip, Lila breathes, everybody stops being idiots. Try again."
This time, when his hands find my waist, the pressure is different. Firm but not crushing. I focus on my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
"Three," Adrian counts.
I jump. He lifts. My body finds the position almost automatically, muscle memory taking over. One second, two seconds, three.
"Beautiful!" Elena claps. "See? When you work together instead of against each other, magic happens. Now do it nine more times so it becomes habit."
We run the sequence until my arms are shaking. Press lift, star lift, lasso lift. Each one slightly smoother than the last. Not perfect. Not even close to performance-ready. But progress.
"Water break," Elena finally concedes. "Five minutes."
I collapse onto the bench, chugging from my bottle. Adrian sits beside me, breathing hard.
"Your core strength is actually fine," he says after a moment.
"I know."
"And my grip was too tight."
"I know that too."
He laughs, short and surprised. "We're both stubborn as hell."
"Looks like it."
"This is going to be a nightmare, isn't it?"
"Probably." I cap my water bottle. "But Elena's right. When we stop fighting and just skate, it works."
"Yeah." He looks at me sideways. "It does."
The moment stretches, almost comfortable. Then Elena's back, clapping her hands.
"Break's over. Death spiral time."
My stomach drops. Death spirals are beautiful and terrifying in equal measure. The man spins in place while the woman leans back, body parallel to the ice, held up only by his grip on her hand. One slip and you're on the ice. Or worse.
"Have you done death spirals recently?" I ask Adrian.
"Couple weeks ago with a coach. Basic stuff."
"This isn't basic stuff. This is you holding my entire body weight while spinning at high speed."
"I'm aware of the mechanics, Hart."
"Are you aware that if you drop me, I crack my skull open?"
"Not planning on dropping you."
Elena demonstrates the position, talking through the technique. Entry, grip, rotation count, exit. It's a move Marcus and I could do in our sleep. With Adrian, it's starting from zero.
"Slow first," Elena instructs. "Build speed gradually. And Adrian, do not let go. Understand? You let go, she dies, I kill you after. Simple."
"Comforting," I mutter.
Adrian offers his hand. "Trust me?"
I think about yesterday's falls. About the lifts we just barely completed. About three weeks to do what should take three years.
"Not even a little bit," I say.
"Perfect. Honesty's important in a partnership." He pulls me to center ice. "Let's do this anyway."
We get into position. Adrian plants his feet, right hand gripping my left wrist. His other hand supports my lower back as I begin to lean backward.
"Slow," Elena calls. "Adrian, start rotating. Lila, extend."
I arch my back, feeling gravity pull at me. Adrian's grip is the only thing keeping me from falling. We begin to rotate. Slowly. So slowly.
"Good! Now lower, Lila. Get closer to ice."
I lean farther back. My free arm extends, my free leg lifts. The position is correct but everything feels wrong. Adrian's rotating too fast. Or I'm too low. Or his grip is slipping. Or—
"I've got you," Adrian says. "Breathe."
I breathe. We rotate. One full circle. Two.
"Faster!" Elena commands.
Adrian picks up speed. The world becomes a blur of white ice and fluorescent lights. My hair whips around my face. This is the moment where you either trust your partner completely or you panic.
I'm panicking.
"Adrian—"
"I've got you."
"My hand—"
"I've got you."
But his grip is loosening. I can feel it. The sweat making his palm slick, the rotation making it harder to hold on. My fingers are sliding through his.
"Adrian, pull me up!"
"Almost done, just—"
My hand slips free.
The ice rushes up to meet me. I crash hard, shoulder taking the brunt of impact. Pain explodes through my arm, my back, my hip. The breath leaves my lungs in a wheeze.
"Lila!" Adrian's beside me instantly, hands hovering. "Are you okay? Can you move?"
I try to answer but can't get air. The fall knocked the wind out of me. I roll to my side, gasping.
"Don't move her!" Elena's voice, sharp with panic. "Lila, where does it hurt?"
Everywhere. My shoulder, my back, the hip I bruised yesterday. But nothing feels broken. Just battered.
"I'm fine," I finally manage. "Just. Need. A second."
"You're not fine." Adrian's face is white. "I dropped you. I let go."
"It was. An accident."
"That doesn't make it better." He looks at Elena. "That was my fault. My grip failed."
"Yes, it was your fault," Elena agrees flatly. "But also Lila's fault for tensing up. Both of you panicked. Both of you failed."
I push myself to sitting, wincing. My shoulder screams in protest. "Again."
"No," Adrian says.
"What?"
"Not happening. You're hurt."
"I'm bruised. There's a difference." I extend my hand. "Help me up."
"Lila—"
"Help. Me. Up."
He pulls me to my feet, and I immediately regret the decision. Everything hurts. But I can move, which means nothing's broken.
"We're trying again," I say.
"No."
"Yes."
"This is insane. You can barely stand."
"And we have three weeks to nail this element. So we try again. Right now, while the fear is fresh, so we can push through it."
Adrian looks at Elena. She nods slowly.
"One more try," Elena says. "But slower this time. And Adrian, you get chalk for your hands. Better grip."
While Adrian gets chalk, I test my shoulder. It's stiff but functional. Tomorrow I'll have a bruise the size of a grapefruit. Worth it if we can nail this spiral.
"You sure?" Adrian asks, returning with chalked palms.
"No. Let's go anyway."
This time, we're both hyperaware of every point of contact. Adrian's grip is vice-tight, maybe too tight. I focus on keeping my body rigid, maintaining position.
"Rotate," Elena calls.
We spin. Once around. Twice. Three times.
"Faster!"
Adrian picks up speed, but this time his grip holds. I can feel the strain in his arm, the way his fingers dig into my wrist. It's probably leaving marks. I don't care.
Four rotations. Five. Six.
"Exit!"
Adrian pulls me up smoothly. We complete the exit, both breathing hard. For a second, we just stand there, hands still clasped, eyes locked.
"That was it," I say. "That's the one."
"Yeah." His chest heaves. "Yeah, it was."
"Again?"
"You really are crazy."
"Is that a no?"
He grins, wild and slightly manic. "That's a hell yes."
We run the death spiral eight more times. Each one slightly cleaner than the last. By the end, my shoulder is screaming and Adrian's arm is shaking from the strain, but we have it. Not perfect. Not performance-ready. But functional.
"Good!" Elena finally calls. "That's enough for today. Ice your shoulder, Lila. Adrian, work on grip strength. Tomorrow we do throw jumps and I don't want anyone dying."
"Comforting," Adrian mutters.
We skate to the boards, both moving carefully. I can already feel tomorrow's pain setting in.
"You okay?" Adrian asks.
"Ask me tomorrow when I can't lift my arm."
"Seriously though. That was a bad fall."
"I've had worse."
"That doesn't make me feel better about dropping you."
I look at him, really look at him. His jaw is tight, guilt written all over his face. "Adrian, we're learning. Falls happen. What matters is whether we get back up and try again."
"Philosophy major?"
"Stubborn major." I grab my water bottle. "Same time tomorrow?"
"6 AM. I'll be here."
We're walking off the ice when I notice them. Through the observation window that overlooks the rink. Three people with cameras. Press badges around their necks.
"Shit," Adrian says.
Elena follows our gaze and swears in Russian. "I told Federation no press until week two!"
But it's too late. They've seen us. Seen the fall. Seen everything.
One of them raises their camera, flash going off even through the tinted glass.
Adrian turns to me, and I can see the wheels turning in his head. Calculating damage. Planning spin control. This is the NHL player talking now, the one who knows how to work a scandal.
"Well," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, "that's just great."
"They're going to tear us apart."
"Probably." He glances at the cameras again, then back at me. Something hardens in his expression. "Good thing I'm used to it."
"Adrian—"
He raises his voice, making sure it carries to the observation window. "Maybe if you weren't so stiff, I could actually lift you."
The words hit like a slap. His tone is pure condescension, designed to cut. Designed to be overheard.
Another camera flash goes off.
I stare at him, shocked. "What?"
But he's already skating away, leaving me standing alone at center ice while the cameras capture every second of my humiliation.