Chapter Text
The best sound in the world was the clean, sharp shhhk of a fresh blade cutting into pristine ice.
At 5:45 AM, the Briar University rink was a cavern of freezing, hollow silence. The overhead stadium lights hadn't even fully warmed up yet, casting a soft, hazy glow over the blue lines. For Alora, this was heaven. No coaches yelling, no judges judging, and absolutely no distractions. Just the biting cold on her cheeks and the rhythm of her own breathing.
She glided backward, her eyes locked on the far wall as she built up speed. Deep breath in. Three-turn, transition, and—pop.
She launched into a triple toe loop, spinning through the air in a blur of practiced grace before landing cleanly on her right outdoor edge. She let out a small, satisfied puff of air, a cloud of white condensation blooming in front of her face.
Perfect.
She was just settling into a crossover to prep for her next sequence when the heavy double doors to the rink didn't just open, they slammed against the wall with a deafening thud.
The peaceful silence was instantly obliterated by a chorus of loud, rowdy laughter, the harsh scraping of heavy hockey duffel bags, and the unmistakable, obnoxious clatter of hockey sticks banging against the metal bleachers.
Alora skidded to a hard halt, her blades spraying a sharp shower of ice against the plexiglass. She whipped her head around, her jaw tightening.
A sea of oversized maroon jerseys filtered out of the locker room tunnel. Leading the pack was a guy skating backwards onto the ice, laughing hysterically at something shouted from the bench. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and moved with the kind of lazy, effortless confidence that practically screamed I own this campus. Even without seeing the name on the back of his jersey, Alora recognized the jawline and the tousled blonde hair from the campus sports brochures.
Dean Di Laurentis.
Dean spun around, his eyes sweeping over the ice until they landed directly on her. A slow, cocky, dimpled smirk spread across his face. Instead of turning back to his team, he changed direction, skating right toward her with his hockey stick slung casually over his shoulders.
"Well, well, well," Dean drawled, stopping just a few feet away and leaning on his stick, his eyes doing a deliberate, slow sweep from her skates up to her face. "Didn't know they allowed angels on the ice this early. I gotta say, sweetheart, you're a hell of a view for a Tuesday morning."
Alora didn't blink. She didn't blush. She just crossed her arms over her chest, looked at him with total, deadpan indifference, and checked her watch.
"You're early, Di Laurentis," she said, her voice dripping with ice. "And you're breathing my air. Get off my rink."
Dean blinked, genuinely caught off guard for a fraction of a second before his smirk returned, wider this time. "Your rink? Pretty sure the sign outside says Briar University, sweetheart. And technically, the team has the ice at six. We're just eager."
"It is 5:48," Alora replied, her voice flat as she skated a slow, deliberate circle around him, forcing him to turn his head to keep her in eye line. "Which means I have twelve minutes left. Twelve minutes where I don't have to smell testosterone and cheap body spray. So, step back behind the blue line before I accidentally skate over your toes."
"Ouch. Lethal," a voice called out.
Alora glanced past Dean's shoulder to see Garrett Graham skating up, a broad, amused grin on his face. Behind him, Logan and Tucker were leaning against the boards, watching the exchange with pure entertainment.
"Don't bother, Dean," Logan shouted, shaking his head. "She's out of your league. She actually has a brain."
"Shut up, Logan," Dean shot back over his shoulder, though he didn't take his eyes off Alora. He leaned a little closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "Come on. You can't honestly want to spend the next twelve minutes alone. I'm excellent company. Ask anyone on this campus."
"I have asked," Alora said, offering him a sweet, entirely fake smile. "And the general consensus is that you're a walking STI hazard who thinks a dimple substitutes for a personality. Now, move."
Dean's jaw actually dropped a fraction. From the team bench, Justin and Beau let out a collective, booming "Ooooooh!" while Dexter practically fell over laughing, banging his stick against the ice.
"Did... did she just call you an STI hazard?" Tucker asked, trying and failing to hide his grin behind his glove.
"Hey! I'm clean as a whistle!" Dean defended himself, his chest puffing out slightly, though a flash of genuine, intrigued amusement sparked in his eyes. He looked at Alora like she was a puzzle he suddenly wanted to solve. "And for the record, my personality is delightful."
"I'll take your word for it. From a distance," Alora said.
With a sharp flick of her wrists, she turned away from him, executing a flawless, powerful stride that left him standing in her wake. She spent her remaining ten minutes ignoring the entire hockey team, focusing entirely on her footwork, though she could feel Dean's eyes tracking her every move from the bench.
When the clock finally struck 6:00, Alora skated toward the exit gate. Waiting for her by the stands were Hannah and Allie, who had apparently arrived early to catch the drama, alongside Jules, who was holding a travel mug of coffee.
"Oh my god," Allie whispered excitedly the second Alora stepped off the ice. "You just completely shut down Dean Di Laurentis. Do you know how many girls would die for him to look at them like that?"
"He looks at anything with a pulse like that," Alora said, unlacing her skates with aggressive efficiency.
"True," Jules laughed, taking a sip of her coffee. "But he usually gets a phone number out of it. You looked like you wanted to castrate him with your guard."
"He's annoying," Alora muttered, wiping down her blades. "He thinks because he's pretty and plays hockey, the world revolves around him."
"He is pretty, though," Hannah pointed out with a smirk, earning a playful nudge from Allie. "What? He is. But Alora's right, his ego needs a reality check. You might be the first girl at Briar to ever tell him to get lost."
"And it won't be the last time," Alora said, slinging her skate bag over her shoulder.
As the girls walked out of the arena, Alora couldn't help but glance back at the ice one last time. The boys were running a drill, but Dean wasn't looking at the puck. He was standing near the center line, leaning on his stick, watching her walk away with a slow, contemplative grin playing on his lips.
Alora rolled her eyes, pushed the heavy double doors open, and stepped out into the crisp morning air. If Dean Di Laurentis thought she was going to be another conquest on his college checklist, he had another thing coming.