Chapter 7 Edge of control

The arena's practically empty at dawn. Just the hum of the compressors, the distant buzz of lights flickering on overhead, and the faint echo of skates slicing into freshly resurfaced ice.

Ivy's always liked it this way. Quiet. Clean. Focused.

Until Rey Navarro shows up late-again-loud and laughing, holding two protein bars and a thermos of what smells like the world's strongest coffee.

"Brought you something," she calls as she skates onto the rink, flipping a bar toward Ivy. "Looked like you might pass out halfway through suicides yesterday."

Ivy catches it mid-air, eyebrows arched. "Wow. A protein bar and sarcasm. Romance lives."

Rey grins. "Just wait till I start critiquing your slapshot form. That'll really get you going."

They train every morning now. Unofficially. Quietly. As if no one should know that two suspended players-one publicly shamed, the other infamously loud-are building something behind the scenes.

And it's working.

What starts as stubborn rivalry shifts into something else entirely.

Ivy is all structure. Blade angles, edge work, technical precision. A surgeon with a stick.

Rey is chaos with a pulse. Shifty, fast hands, instincts like firecrackers. Uncoachable, unpredictable-but brilliant.

Together?

It's electric.

They take turns pushing each other to the edge-faster laps, tighter drills, harder hits. Ivy catches herself studying the way Rey moves, how she's always a little off-center until suddenly she isn't. How she makes the impossible look easy. How her laughter echoes like a spark in cold air.

Rey watches Ivy too-how focused she is, how methodical. How she moves like she's trying to control every variable. Like if she lets go even once, everything might fall apart.

The sabotage starts small.

First, it's the rink lights. One morning, they flicker off mid-practice. Maintenance claims a circuit blew. But the timing's too perfect to be chance.

Then, their ice time mysteriously disappears from the booking sheet. Ivy finds out only after driving across the city to a locked building.

"We're not paranoid," Rey says, jaw tight. "They don't want us sharp. They want us quiet."

Ivy shrugs. "Then we get sharper."

They move to private rinks. Off-hours. They bribe an old assistant coach to sneak them into the university's ice lab on Sundays. It's not glamorous, but it's war.

They're running a zone-entry drill when it happens.

Ivy's in control, puck on her stick, carving up the ice like it insulted her personally. Rey rushes in from the side, challenging, playful, too-close. They're both going hard-faster than they should be for a two-person practice.

Then Ivy catches a rut. Just a slight one.

Her blade snags. Her balance goes.

She stumbles forward-

And Rey's there.

In a blink, Rey drops her stick, reaches out, catches Ivy by the waist.

They crash into the boards together, but Rey absorbs the hit. Her arms are firm around Ivy. Ivy's hand clutches Rey's jersey for balance. Their chests are pressed close.

It's a moment.

Too long. Too sharp. Too much.

Rey's breath fans hot against Ivy's cheek.

"You good?" she murmurs, voice low, throat dry.

Ivy nods once. Doesn't move. Can't.

Her heart's thudding against Rey's ribcage like it's trying to escape.

The silence stretches.

Then Ivy mutters, "You can let go now."

Rey grins, reluctant. "Yeah. Sure."

But she takes a second too long before stepping back.

Neither of them mention it again.

But that night, Ivy lies awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how Rey's arms managed to feel safe and dangerous all at once.

Everything accelerates after that.

They push harder. Skate faster. Their chemistry sharpens into something fierce and fluid. Rey starts hitting impossible passes during drills. Ivy's release speed climbs. Their timing syncs like twin pulses.

After one particularly brutal session, they collapse on the bench, sweat-slick and gasping.

"You ever think we're good like this because we hate each other just the right amount?" Rey pants.

Ivy tilts her head. "I don't hate you," she says.

Rey blinks.

"Irritated by, sure," Ivy adds. "Occasionally furious. But hate takes effort."

"Wow," Rey says, mock-offended. "Such affection. I'm blushing."

Ivy shrugs. "Didn't say I liked you either."

But the way Rey looks at her then-serious, quiet, eyes darker than usual-it's different.

Like she sees something Ivy hasn't admitted yet.

The stakes rise when Coach Min calls.

"Reporters are sniffing around," she says, voice clipped. "Federation's worried. So they've decided to move your PSA shoot up. Day after tomorrow. Get ready to look united."

Rey rolls her eyes. "Nothing says accountability like a scripted apology video."

Ivy just mutters, "Guess it's showtime."

But she's not thinking about the cameras.

She's thinking about how they've started building something real-and how easy it might be to lose it if the spotlight burns too hot.

That night, they skate under arena floodlights with music blasting through an old speaker.

It's not practice anymore. It's release.

Rey loops backward around Ivy, flicking the puck between her own legs just to show off. Ivy chases her down, body-checks her with a grin, steals it back.

They're laughing. Colliding. Spinning into something they can't name yet.

Ivy ends up flat on her back at center ice, breathless, laughing harder than she has in months.

Rey lies down beside her, their shoulders brushing.

The cold seeps through their gear. The stars are hidden behind the ceiling. But the moment feels infinite.

Rey turns her head. "You ever think we're just setting ourselves up to get wrecked again?"

Ivy swallows. "Yeah. But maybe this time, we're wrecking the right people."

Rey lets out a soft, broken laugh. "God, you're intense."

"You like that," Ivy says, voice daring.

Rey's eyes flick over her face.

"Maybe I do."

Silence. Charged. Electric.

Then Ivy says, "If you kiss me right now, I'm blaming the concussion protocol."

Rey snorts. "Tempting. But I want you fully conscious when you admit you like me."

"Keep dreaming."

But neither of them move for a long, long time.

And when they finally do, their fingers brush in the space between them. Just once.

It's nothing.

It's everything.