Fire On Ice: The Olympic Claim

Everly POV

The cold air hit my throat first. It was five in the morning. The arena was dark except for one strip of light on the ice. The air smelled like ice, dust, and metal. It was perfect because it was empty.

I pushed off, my blades making a sharp hissing sound. With every stride, I tried to forget about the pain in my ankle.

At twenty-two, I was already yesterday's news. The newspapers had spent months saying my career was over.

I flipped to skate backward. I locked my arms, tightened my stomach, and leaped into the air. I did one turn, two, then three.

I landed hard on the ice. My ankle did not hurt much. It was a victory. I kept moving, letting my momentum carry me across the sheet. The music from my phone was quiet in the empty arena.

Then I heard a noise. It sounded like a train. I looked around.

A big guy was moving fast near the other side of the arena. He was wearing a dark suit, a helmet, and pads. It was Knox Mercer. He is twenty-eight years old and a star at short-track speed skating.

The athlete was in my lane, moving fast with his arms swinging back and forth. He was heading straight for me.

"Move!" he yelled.

My stomach dropped. I tried to stop, but my ankle buckled. I lost my balance.

The speed skater realized he was going to hit me. He tried to turn, but he fell, sliding across the ice completely out of control.

He hit me hard. His shoulder slammed into my waist, and I went down. The world was spinning.

We slid across the ice, tangled together, until we hit the wall on the side of the arena.

It has been ten months since I hurt my ankle. My partner, Hunter, left me after that. He took our routine and our funding, claiming I was no longer good enough.

The arena was quiet again. I was lying on my back, pinned against the boards. My collision partner was on top of me, his chest pressing hard against my ribs.

He lifted his head. His helmet was gone. His eyes were blue and wide open.

"Get off me," I said, pushing against his chest.

The man looked at me. He saw the sequins on my dress, then he looked back at my face. His breath was hot against my skin.

He did not move. His hands were on either side of my head.

"You," he said, his voice rough. "What are you doing in the high-performance lane?"

I glared at him, my voice getting stronger as I got angrier. "This is my ice," I said. "I have the morning time from five to seven reserved. You almost broke my legs, you crazy guy!"

The racer moved a little, getting up on one knee. He was still close to me. He took off his gloves with his teeth and threw them away. "I am getting ready for the national team. You are just standing there, not moving. You should be training with the kids, not on my ice."

I pushed his chest as hard as I could. He did not budge, but he did take a step back and stood up, blocking the light behind him.

I got up. My ankle throbbed with pain. I made myself stand straight, refusing to show him how much it hurt. "I was in the middle of a jump. You came around the corner with your head down like a maniac. You do not own this place, Mercer."

"My family pays for this facility," he said, taking a step closer to me. His eyes got small and cold. "I can skate on any ice I want. You are getting in the way. Your music is too loud, your clothes are silly, and your little dances are messing up the surface for people who have real skill."

"Real skill?" The insult stung. "I won an international medal. You got in trouble for being too rough on the track. You do not look where you are going, you do not care who you hit, and you are not in control."

His jaw got tight. He picked up his helmet and stepped close to me. He was so big that I should have been scared, but I did not back down. I kept looking right at him.

"Say that again," he said quietly.

"You are a hazard," I said slowly. "You are basically a wrecking ball on skates."

Then someone yelled, "Hey! Both of you! Stop it!"

It was Gary, the guy in charge of the rink. He came running through the doors, his boots sliding on the floor. He was pale and scared, clutching a set of papers tightly.

"Gary, tell this guy to look at the schedule," I said, still staring at the man in front of me. "He took my ice without asking."

"I do not care about the schedule!" the manager yelled. He reached the gate, his boots slipping on the ice. He did not look at our bruises or ask if we were okay. His hands were shaking. "Get off the ice, both of you. Get your things. Leave the building."

Knox turned his head, looking annoyed. "Gary, I still have an hour of training to do. My coach is coming in ten minutes."

"Your coach is not coming," the older man said, his voice quiet and hollow. He looked at me, and I could see the pity in his eyes. "Nobody is coming. The city inspectors just left the building. They checked the roof and found a massive structural failure."

Ice spread through my chest. "What do you mean?"

The rink manager pointed up at the ceiling. "The main beam that holds up the roof is cracked. The whole roof is moving. The building is a safety hazard. They are revoking our permit to use the building, effective immediately."

The words hung in the air: safety hazard and no permit.

"You cannot close the rink," I said, my voice dropping. My skates felt heavy like rocks on my feet. "The big competition is in six weeks. Every other rink in the city is booked. If I lose this ice, I will not be able to compete. I do not have another place to go."

Gary looked down at his boots. He would not look me in the eye. "There is nothing I can do, Everly. The police are coming at six to lock the gates."