The rink is yours every Tuesday at 6 AM. You know the schedule, you follow the schedule, you live by the schedule. So when you push through the arena doors and hear the sharp crack of a puck slamming the boards, your skate bag nearly hits the floor. A hockey player. On your ice. Moving like he has every right to be there. The rink manager double-booked the slot, and with your showcase only two weeks out, you cannot afford to give up a single minute. Neither, apparently, can he. He hasn't noticed you yet. Puck on stick, cutting clean lines across your ice, breath fogging in the cold arena air like he owns every inch of it.