Chapter Text
The first thing you noticed about university life was that nobody at Briar U really looked at each other closely enough to care.
It was almost insulting, if not for the fact that anonymity was what you’ve been praying for in the last 2 years.
For thirteen years, your entire existence as Camille Lin / the Gilded Swan (a nickname you gained when you won your first World Championship at 14) had been dissected beneath arena spotlights and television cameras, your face printed across sports magazines and Olympic coverage, your interviews clipped into motivational montages about perseverance and grace under pressure.
There had been a time when people recognised you at airports before you even removed your sunglasses. There had been a time when grown adults cried after your silver medal performance in Milan because your triple loop was just slightly under rotated, clawed your way back during the free skate (where you scored the highest points of all time in the history of the event), and smiled through tears during the medal ceremony like your heart had not been ripped open in front of millions. You lost out by a mere 1.89 points. Which hurt more when you knew just how close you were to your life’s dream since you first started skating at 6.
Then, at twenty years old, you retired. Not because of an injury. Not because you stopped loving skating. But because you were tired.
Tired of waking up before dawn to train until your feet bled through your boots. Tired of every meal being monitored by coaches and nutritionists. Tired of reporters asking whether you regretted not winning gold. Tired of hearing your parents politely redirect every conversation away from your athletic career and toward your LSAT diagnostic scores instead.
You had won an Olympic silver medal and your mother’s first response afterward had been, “well at least now you can finally focus on something sustainable.”
So the Silver Phantom (as you became lovingly known by after narrowly missing out on gold) retired six months later. You remembered the media furore that exploded when news came out that Camille Lin, silver Olympian medallist was retiring at 20. But you were secretly relieved to go back to being Isadora Camille Lin-Monroe after 13 years as Cammie Lin, never mind the implications and connotations your full name bore.
After 2 years split across travelling relatively incognito in Asia, where you were relatively unknown (you skipped Japan and and China, having somehow gained a fan club in both countries to your bewilderment), catching up on years of missed classes in in favour of training and competitions and taking your university placement exams in Singapore with the guidance of your maternal grandparents, and also lots of rotting and doing nothing, you finally enrolled at Briar University as a political science major on the pre-law track because apparently every old-money family in Massachusetts eventually produced either senators or litigators.
You were trying very hard to become the latter. It was what your parents would have wanted, having come from pedigreed lawyer families themselves.
“Wait,” the blonde girl standing in your doorway suddenly said, narrowing her eyes at you with terrifying intensity. “No. No freaking way.”
Your stomach dropped. You had only moved into the apartment complex beside Hastings House three hours ago.
You still had boxes everywhere. Surely you could not already be recognized. The brunette beside her gasped so loudly it echoed down the hallway.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, clutching the blonde’s arm. “Hannah. Hannah, that’s really her.” You closed your eyes briefly. Damn it.
When you opened them again, both girls were staring at you like they had collectively discovered buried treasure.
“You’re Cammie Lin,” the brunette breathed. “The Gilded Swan is here. In my apartment building.”
You instinctively glanced around the hallway. “Could you maybe say that quieter?”
The blonde immediately slapped a hand over her friend’s mouth.
“Oh my God,” she hissed excitedly. “Sorry. Sorry. We’re not trying to be weird. I’m Allie and this is Hannah and we are huge figure skating fans.”
“Embarrassingly huge,” Hannah corrected through Allie’s hand.
You relaxed slightly. Figure skating fans were usually safe. The general public recognised your Olympic face. Figure skating fans remembered your programs, your transitions, your edge work, your under-rotation controversies, your emotional support tissue box from the retirement gala interview.
They also tended to be women. Women were less frightening. “I promise we won’t tell anyone,” Hannah said immediately, correctly interpreting your hesitation. “Honestly most people here probably wouldn’t even know who you are.”
“That is both comforting and deeply humbling. But also, thanks for not calling me the Silver Phantom at least.”
Allie snorted. “Of course not, we’ve been fans since your first Worlds gold. You’ve always been the Gilded Swan to us.” “You can call me Isa. Or Cammie’s fine, if you’re more comfortable with that.”
Five minutes later you somehow ended up sitting cross-legged on unopened moving boxes eating takeout noodles with your new neighbors while they asked increasingly enthusiastic questions about skating costumes and Olympic Village food.
“And your exhibition gala,” Allie said dramatically, pointing chopsticks at you. “That routine altered my brain chemistry.”
Hannah nodded furiously. “The Lady Gaga one? I watched it like fifty times.” You groaned and covered your face with your sleeve. “Please. I was emotional and dramatic and nineteen.”
“It was art,” Hannah corrected. “It was mildly unhinged.” “It was sexy,” Allie added. You nearly choked on your noodles.
“I am literally begging you not to use that word.” The girls dissolved into laughter. You find it hard not to join in and eventually giggled.
For the first time since arriving at Briar, the knot sitting in your chest loosened a little. Maybe this could work after all. Maybe you could be normal here.
At least until Monday morning. Because Monday morning destroyed your fragile illusion immediately.
You walked into Intro to Constitutional Theory balancing an iced coffee and three color-coded notebooks when a familiar voice behind you said incredulously, “Holy shit.”
You turned. Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis stood halfway down the lecture hall stairs staring at you in complete disbelief.
Tall. Broad shouldered. Dark blond hair slightly damp like he had just come from practice. Briar hockey jacket slung over one shoulder.
Unfortunately, he had somehow gotten even more attractive since the last time you had seen him at a Hamptons charity dinner three summers ago.
Equally unfortunate was the fact that you knew exactly what his reputation at Briar was. Even before your first day on campus, Hannah and Allie had educated you extensively on Briar hockey lore.
Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was apparently a defenseman for the Briar University Hawks, obscenely intelligent, pre-law, rich, charming, and catastrophically promiscuous. You weren’t surprised by the latter description, having seen him flirting at events your parents’ law firm organised from time to time.
When off season breaks coincided with events your parents organised, you used to quietly observe Dean from your place next to your parents, marveling at the ease and confidence with which he interacted with everyone present. Including his family, you’d noted with envy, looking back at your own. Despite being from equally (if not more) pedigreed law (and hospitality, in his mother’s case) families, where there ought to be a rivalry, there existed a friendship between your respective parents, your fathers having gone to law school and started in the same law firms together.
“Isa? You go here?” he asked, breaking your chain of thoughts, still sounding stunned. “You go here?” you shot back.
His grin spread slowly. “Okay, that’s fair.” You had known Dean in the vague way wealthy family friends knew each other. Summer barbecues. Country club dinners. Christmas charity galas where your parents discussed Supreme Court appointments while you both escaped to refill drinks and complain about old people and secretly share a cigarette he somehow convinced the bartender to give to him for free.
You remembered him being funny. You also remembered him teasing you for bringing casebooks to the beach.
“You’re at Briar?” he repeated, moving toward your row. “Since when?” “This semester.” “What major?” “Political science.” “No way.”
You blinked. “You too?” “Pre-law track.” “Oh my God.” He laughed and slid into the seat beside you with effortless familiarity. “Our parents are going to be unbearable about this.”
“That assuming they even know my schedule.” “They definitely do. My mother weaponises networking.” “That is unfortunately true.”
The professor had not even arrived yet and already several girls in the lecture hall were openly staring at Dean.
You noticed because they were not subtle. Dean noticed because of course he did. He leaned closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “You’re looking around like you forgot hockey exists.”
“I forgot hockey players are appealing, especially when all you guys do is ruin the ice” you corrected. “Different thing.”
His mouth twitched. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “How would you know that?” Your shoulders stiffened automatically. He didn’t know about your… history. For reasons unknown to you, your parents never spoke about your figure skating career to their friends, choosing to treat it as if it never existed.
You learnt from a young age that it was something they tolerated, and outside of the occasional major news announcements you didn’t think people outside figure skating circles would recognise you.
Especially people like Dean, who definitely did not look like the sort to follow mainstream news, much less anything unrelated to hockey. You heard plenty about his hockey career, his parents all too proud to talk about his achievements. You wished your parents would be the same.
Unfortunately, their tolerance of your figure skating career was limited to funding your training and equipment (on the condition that you maintained your grades and routinely took LSAT diagnostic tests, which you were expected to ace). You even competed professionally as Camille Lin, using your middle name and maternal last name, instead of your full name so it was less likely that he would have recognised you.
“I heard. Friends who skate always complain about hockey players ruining the ice.” “Sure you weren’t asking about hockey for other reasons?” “Of course not. I have better things to do.” You shoot him a cool look, to which he returned a smirk. “Any way, you look different.” Your face stiffened. You heard that sentence too often.
Different usually meant healthier. Bigger. Smaller. Older. Less marketable. But Dean continued before you could spiral. “You look less stressed.”
The tension eased from your spine so abruptly it almost hurt. “Oh,” you said quietly. “Yeah. I think I am.”
Something gentled in his expression for a split second before the grin returned. “Well, welcome to Briar.”
You rolled your eyes. “You literally sound like a tour guide.” “Only because I know where the good coffee is.” “You say that like it’s valuable information.” “It is valuable information.”
And somehow that was the beginning. Not dramatic. Not explosive. Just easy.
You started sitting together in lectures because you already knew each other and because Dean was surprisingly attentive in class despite looking like somebody who belonged on the cover of a sports calendar.
Through Dean, you met Garrett Graham, who was obnoxiously charismatic and entirely obsessed with Hannah. John Logan was flirtatious and chaotic in a way that somehow looped back around into endearing. John Tucker was calmer than the rest of them and frighteningly perceptive.
You learned the hockey house was loud at all hours and permanently smelled like coffee, protein powder, body spray and bad decisions.
You also learned Dean was different with you than he was with other girls. Not flirtier. Actually the opposite. Careful. Like he understood instinctively that you startled easily.
One evening about six weeks into the semester, you were sprawled across Hannah and Allie’s couch half-dead from reading constitutional law cases when Hannah suddenly paused the movie.
“Isa, do you miss skating?” she said bluntly. You looked up from your textbook. It had taken a while and a painfully vague explanation as to why you were known as Isadora Monroe here, and not Camille Lin. Allie and Hannah eventually got used to calling you Isa, which filled you with relief as you always froze when they called you Cammie, worried that you’d be somehow recognised. “What?” “You do.”
“No I don’t.” Allie snorted from the armchair. “That was the least convincing lie I’ve ever heard.”
You opened your mouth to protest before stopping. Because the truth was complicated. You did not miss the pressure. You did not miss competing. You did not miss being judged.
But sometimes, late at night, your body still remembered the sensation of flying. “It’s been a while since I’ve been on the ice,” you admitted finally.
Hannah immediately sat upright. “Then we’re fixing that.” “What? How?”
“The boys have practice tonight. We’re going to the rink.” You laughed nervously. “Absolutely not.”
“Yes absolutely.” “I haven’t properly trained in almost three years.”
“And?”
“And I could literally break my face.” Allie waved dismissively. “You landed three triple axels in the Olympics.”
“At twenty.” “You’re twenty-two, not ninety. Besides, I saw you brought your skates with you. Just admit it, you missed skating.” Unfortunately, you lost that argument.
In the evening, you found yourself standing inside Briar’s rink with your skates slung over one shoulder while Hannah and Allie vibrated with excitement beside you.
Your friends tried unsuccessfully to get you to wear one of your old costumes. You didn’t share your secret fear that the costume wouldn’t fit, giving the excuse instead that they were old and likely prone to tears.
Instead, you were clad in all black. A fitted cropped zip up, leggings and a small flared skirt. Exactly the type of outfit you used to wear for training.
The Hawks had just finished practice. Players were filtering off the ice in groups while the Zamboni waited by the entrance tunnel.
You almost backed out. Then the rink manager looked up from his clipboard, froze completely, and said, “No fucking way. It’s Cammie Lin!”
You closed your eyes. Hannah burst into laughter. “Oh God,” you muttered. “Not again.” Ten minutes later, Howard, the middle-aged Zamboni driver was practically glowing with excitement while resurfacing the rink personally.
When you tried to argue that you didn’t want to waste his effort, since you planned to just try and restore your jumps he insisted that you needed fresh ice for your efforts. “For you?” he declared. “Kid, I watched your Olympic free skate with my wife and cried like a baby. Least I can do is give you fresh ice.”
“That is incredibly kind,” you said weakly. “You still got the boots?” You lifted them slightly. He grinned. “Then get out there.”
The first step onto fresh ice nearly shattered you. Your blades carved into the surface with that familiar whispering crunch and suddenly your body remembered everything before your brain did.
Edges. Weight shifts. Breathing. You pushed off slowly at first, your knees bending automatically as muscle memory returned in fragments. Hannah and Allie cheered from the stands while you warmed up with cautious crossovers.
Then a turn. A spiral. A double salchow. Your landing foot shook slightly but held. “Oh my God!” Hannah screamed.
Heat rushed to your face. You laughed breathlessly despite yourself. Maybe you still remembered. Maybe the ice still remembered you too.
An hour later, your lungs burned pleasantly and loose strands of hair stuck to your cheeks with sweat. You had worked through jump drills carefully, rebuilding confidence piece by piece. You were secretly pleased that restoring your jumps wasn’t the impossible endeavour you thought it would be. You’d never admit it, but a part of you was worried you’d disappoint your new friends if you weren’t able to perform like you used to.
“Do the gala routine,” Allie suddenly called. You nearly fell over. “No.” “Please?” “That’s a horrifying suggestion.”
“Hannah,” Allie said dramatically, “tell her.” Hannah clasped her hands together. “Cammie. Isa. Our pretty Swan. Please. I am begging.”
You stared at them. Then at the empty rink. Then at the speakers. “This somehow feels like emotional blackmail,” you muttered.
But you skated toward center ice anyway. Hannah immediately scrambled to connect her phone to the sound system. The opening notes of That’s Life echoed softly through the arena.
Your heartbeat stumbled. You had not performed this routine since the night you retired. But you remembered every second of it.
The grief. The freedom. The terrifying realisation that it was over. You inhaled slowly. Then moved.
The choreography returned like instinct. Sharp edges slicing across the ice. Controlled turns flowing into intricate footwork. Your body folding into familiar positions as music flooded your veins.
Halfway through the program you shrugged out of your fitted black jacket and tossed it toward the boards without breaking rhythm.
Hannah shrieked. Allie nearly fell out of her seat laughing at the sight of your fitted crop top, which was black and hugged the curves you regrettably gained since you stopped managing your meals and counting macros and calories. You rolled your eyes mid-spin before launching into the first real jump combination.
A triple axel. You landed with ease. A triple loop. The impact vibrated through your bones. Adrenaline surged hot and bright through your bloodstream.
I've been a puppet, a pauper,
A pawn and a queen
From the corner of your eyes, you see Allie and Hannah replicating the lyrical choreography that quickly gained virality when clips of this performance first went online.
I've been up and down and over and out
But I know one thing
Each time I find myself flat on my face
I pick myself up and get back in the race.
For the first time in years you stopped thinking. You simply skated. The music swelled.
Then the cantilever arrived right at the climax of the song and your thighs screamed as you leaned backward almost parallel to the ice, your hands grazing the surface above your head while momentum carried you across center rink.
Cheers erupted suddenly. Not from Hannah and Allie. Different voices. Male voices. Your stomach dropped instantly. You straightened too quickly and nearly lost an edge before catching yourself.
At the rink entrance stood Dean, Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. All four hockey players looked completely stunned. Dean looked like somebody had punched him directly in the chest.
Mortification consumed you whole. Unfortunately the music was still playing. Unfortunately, your body finished the choreography automatically, setting up for a layback spin at the end. You weren’t sure what possessed you but you decided to extend the final spin into a biellmann as Allie and Hannah cheered from somewhere behind you.
You struck the final pose breathlessly as silence crashed over the rink. Then Logan said very loudly, “Holy shit Isa.”
You covered your face immediately. “I’m actually going to die.” “Nope,” Logan replied faintly. “Because that was the hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life.”
“Logan,” Allie snapped. “What? I’m being respectful.” Dean had not spoken. You looked up carefully and found him still standing completely motionless near the boards, hockey bag hanging forgotten from one hand.
His gaze tracked over you slowly. Not crude. Not careless. Just stunned. Like he was seeing you properly for the first time.
“Isa. You’re a… figure skater,” he said finally. “Not just any figure skater, an Olympian! Who won a silver medal at the last Olympics!” Allie quips from the side.
“Wait! You’re the… Silver Phantom! But I could have sworn her name was different” Logan gasps from the side. Dean doesn’t miss the way you winced at the nickname. “Silver Phantom? That’s a sick nickname for an Olympian” Tucker muses.
“Actually, she used to be known as the Gilded Swan. The Phantom moniker came after the Olympics. She also competed as Cammie- nope, Camille Lin, hence the different name”, Allie unhelpfully added. “But still, you’re an Olympian. Holy shit.” Logan exhaled.
You swallowed hard. “Former Olympian”, you weakly clarified. Dean’s eyes flicked toward the ice again, disbelief written plainly across his face.
“The Gilded Swan. How the hell did I not know that?” A humorless laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Well, my parents didn’t exactly advertise it.”
Dean frowned slightly. Before he could respond, Garrett suddenly pointed excitedly at the ice. “Wait. Wait. Actually this is genius.” You blinked.
“What is?” “You.” “That feels vaguely insulting.” Garrett ignored you entirely as he turned toward the others. “Figure skating training would be insane for hockey edges and balance.”
Tucker’s eyes widened immediately. “Actually, yeah.” Logan nodded. “That footwork was disgusting.” You stared at all of them. “Did you just call my footwork disgusting?”
“In hockey terms that’s a compliment,” Dean said automatically, though he still looked distracted. Garrett leaned against the boards eagerly. “You should help train us.”
You laughed outright. “Absolutely not.” “Come on.” “I’m retired.” “So?”
“So I’m washed up.” Dean finally moved closer to the glass, his expression quieter now. “You don’t look washed up to me.”
Your pulse betrayed you instantly. The words hit far harder than they should have. Maybe because Dean said them so simply. Not like a line. Not like he was trying to flatter you. Just… honest. Which somehow felt worse.
You suddenly became acutely aware of the cold air against your flushed skin and the fact that your crop top had ridden slightly upward during the last spin combination. Your pulse still had not settled from the routine and Dean was standing close enough now that you could see the damp ends of his hair curling from sweat and melted ice.
This was dangerous territory for you. Unfortunately, Garrett immediately shattered the moment by slamming his gloves against the boards excitedly.
“So it’s settled,” he announced. “You’re helping train us.” You laughed breathlessly. “You all decided that very quickly without my input.”
“Your input is being overruled,” Logan informed you. “That feels legally questionable.” Dean’s mouth curved. “Good thing we’re both future lawyers.”
You rolled your eyes, pushing sweaty hair back from your face. “I genuinely cannot believe you people.”
Tucker leaned against the glass thoughtfully. “Honestly, though, the edge control crossover drills alone would probably help our acceleration.”
The fact that he sounded serious made you blink. “You’re actually considering this?” “Why wouldn’t we?” Garrett asked. “Figure skaters are insane athletes.”
“That’s the nicest thing a hockey player has ever said about us. I thought the hatred over the way we ruin the ice was mutual” “Hockey players are secretly terrified of figure skaters,” Logan admitted. “You people throw yourselves into the air wearing knives on your feet.”
“That is fair.” Hannah suddenly clapped her hands loudly from the stands. “Oh my God,” she gasped. “Wait. Since they’re already here…”
You immediately pointed a warning finger at her. “No.” “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.” “I know that face you’re making.”
Allie sat upright with dangerous enthusiasm. “The Moulin Rouge routine.” Dean frowned slightly. “The what routine?”
Both girls turned toward him so fast it was honestly alarming. “The Moulin Rouge routine,” Hannah repeated reverently.
“The sexy one,” Allie clarified. Heat exploded across your face instantly. “Oh my god” you muttered.
Logan looked delighted already. “Sexy? I’m listening.” “You are not helping.”
Hannah ignored you completely as she addressed the hockey players. “She performed it during Worlds the season before the Olympics, which qualified her when she won gold and it literally broke figure skating Twitter.”
“Figure skating has Twitter?” Logan asked. “It has wars,” Allie corrected darkly. You buried your face in your hands. “This is deeply humiliating.”
“No,” Hannah argued. “What’s humiliating is the fact that I can still remember every second of the choreography, even if I can never perform it.”
“She’s right,” Allie agreed immediately. “That routine fundamentally altered my standards for women.”
Dean looked thoroughly entertained now. “You’re telling me our shy little pre-law student has some secret scandalous skating routine hidden in the archives?”
“It was not scandalous,” you protested weakly. Allie made a choking noise. “You literally skated to El Tango de Roxanne and Come What May in that iconic red lace backless costume.”
“They were tasteful.” “They were sheer.” “Strategically sheer.” Garrett looked fascinated. “I suddenly understand why figure skating has fans.”
“Oh my God,” you groaned. Dean folded his arms against the boards, eyes glinting with amusement. “Well now I definitely have to see it.”
“No.” “Why not?” “Because absolutely not.” “Scared, Monroe? Or is it Lin now.” The words landed like a challenge. You narrowed your eyes immediately.
Dean saw it happen and grinned slowly like he had just stepped on a landmine intentionally. “There she is,” he murmured.
Competitive instinct was ugly. You had spent years trying to suffocate it after retirement because competition had consumed your entire adolescence. The need to prove yourself had once dictated every calorie, every practice, every waking thought.
Most days at Briar, you could almost pretend it no longer existed. Then Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis looked at you like that. Like he knew exactly which nerve to press.
“I’m not scared,” you informed him coolly. “Mmhm.” “You’re insufferable.” “And yet you’re still thinking about doing it.” Fuck, you hated that he was right.
The worst part was that your body already remembered the routine the second Hannah started fumbling for her phone excitedly.
“Oh my God she’s doing it,” Hannah shrieked. “I didn’t say that. Besides you don’t have the music” “You have the face. Also, we’re your biggest fans. Of course we have the music,” Allie informed you knowingly.
Dean tilted his head slightly, studying you with infuriating calm. “You know, for somebody who competed at the literal Olympics, your trash talk game is weak.”
You stared at him. Then at the rink. Then back at him. “Oh, you’re really asking for it now.” Garrett actually pumped a fist in victory.
“Yes!” “You’re all terrible people,” you muttered as you skated backward toward center ice. “Correct,” Logan called helpfully. He ignores the middle finger you flipped at him as you turned. The opening instrumental flooded through the speakers moments later.
Everything inside you shifted instantly. Because unlike the Gaga exhibition routine, this program had been built for competition.
Precision. Seduction. Control. You remembered exactly who you had been at eighteen when you first debuted it internationally. You had been angry at the world then. Angry at judges who thought artistry mattered less than technical scores. Angry at reporters who treated female skaters like dolls instead of athletes.
So you had built a routine impossible to ignore. The first sharp movement of choreography snapped through your body like muscle memory waking from hibernation.
The rink fell silent. Even from the corner of your eye you could see the boys straighten instinctively. Good. You let the music carry you.
Deep edges carved aggressively across the ice as your hips rolled with the rhythm. Every extension was deliberate. Every glance over your shoulder timed perfectly to the crescendo.
The routine demanded performance as much as athleticism. And unfortunately you had always been very good at both.
Halfway through the step sequence you heard Garrett mutter, “Holy fuck.” You pretended not to hear him. Dean had gone completely still against the boards.
That awareness burned hotter than the exertion. Because earlier he had looked stunned by your athleticism. Now he looked something else entirely. Your pulse kicked harder.
Fine. If he wanted a performance, you would give him one. You accelerated into the next jump pass hard enough that cold air whipped against your skin.
Triple flip. Landed. Immediate transition into a double toe. Clean. The blades bit sharply into fresh ice as applause echoed from the stands.
“Jesus Christ,” Logan breathed. You barely registered it. Your entire body had slipped into that terrifyingly intoxicating state athletes chased for years. The place where movement stopped feeling conscious and everything became instinctive rhythm.
The choreography softened briefly during the Come What May section. Your expression shifted naturally with the music as you glided backward across center ice, one hand brushing upward along your throat in time with the lyrics.
Dean swore quietly under his breath. You heard that one. Heat curled low in your stomach. Oh. That was dangerous. You should stop.
Instead, you skated harder. The final minute of the routine exploded into full performance mode. Fast footwork. Sharp turns.
A triple salchow directly across the hockey logo at center rink. Then the final combination.
You launched into the triple lutz with enough force that your skirt flared violently around your thighs before landing cleanly into the immediate transition sequence.
The boys erupted. Actually erupted. Garrett was slamming his gloves against the glass like a maniac while Logan yelled something incoherent and Tucker looked genuinely shell shocked.
But Dean said nothing. Which somehow affected you more. The music ended. Your chest rose and fell hard as you finished the final pose.
Silence lingered for half a heartbeat. Then Dean slowly pushed away from the boards. You suddenly felt very exposed standing alone at center ice beneath his gaze.
“Well,” Garrett announced loudly into the silence. “I get it now.” “Allie was right,” Logan added faintly. “That routine was transformative.” “You people are so embarrassing,” you muttered, mortified.
Hannah looked smug beyond belief. “Tell me I lied.” “Nobody’s saying you lied,” Tucker replied immediately. Dean finally stepped closer to the rink entrance. His expression had changed completely since earlier. Still warm. Still amused.
But there was something heavier underneath now. Something focused. “You’ve been holding out on us,” he said quietly.
Your throat suddenly felt dry. “It’s just skating.” Four hockey players stared at you like you had lost your mind. “Just skating,” Garrett repeated incredulously. “You flew.” “You jumped four feet into the air while rotating multiple times,” Tucker added.
“You made eye contact during it,” Logan said, sounding personally victimized. You laughed helplessly despite your embarrassment. Dean’s gaze remained fixed on you. “You really don’t understand how impressive you are, do you?”
The question caught you off guard. Because no. Not really. Not anymore. Back when you competed, nothing was ever enough. Silver meant you were the girl who almost won gold. Perfect programs still got dissected for flaws. Interviews focused on mistakes more than victories.
Your parents had not helped. Achievement in your family was measured in academic prestige, judicial clerkships, firm partnerships.
Sports had always been temporary in their eyes. Disposable. You looked away first. “It’s not a big deal.” A strange expression crossed Dean’s face then. Not pity. Something sharper. Like anger on your behalf.
Before he could say anything, Garrett suddenly pointed at the ice again. “So when do we start training?” You blinked. “You’re still serious about that?”
“Absolutely.” “You realize figure skating conditioning is awful.” “Good.” “You will suffer.” Garrett grinned. “Worth it.”
Dean finally smiled again, though his eyes lingered on you thoughtfully. “Come on, Isa,” he said lightly. “Don’t tell me an Olympian is scared of coaching a few hockey players.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing now. “Fine. But you better not complain when it gets tough.” “Wouldn’t dare dream of it, little Swan.”
Hannah, Allie, Garrett, Logan and Tucker watched your exchange with interest. You were so busy glaring at Dean that you missed the raised eyebrows they were shooting behind your back. Dean clearly saw them though, his smirk growing as his eye looked past you. When you turned, your friends put on innocent expressions as you looked at them with suspicion.
“We should get food. I’m starving now.” Allie speaks up. Hannah gasps, realising you haven’t had dinner either. “Oh right, Isa you haven’t eaten either! Shit, I’m sorry we made you come straight to the rink, I was worried Howard would have started the Zamboni before we got here.”
“You haven’t eaten? Wait - I don’t think I saw you at lunch either” Dean looks at you, concern filling his face. Your face heats up upon making eye contact, and you look away as you mumble “well I was going to get to it but I forgot.” “You forgot. To eat.” “… It happens.”
“Well we’ve got to fix that, let’s go to Malone’s.” Tucker suggests. “Good idea, I’ll drive.” Dean is already reaching for his bag, moving before either of you could say a word.
“Didn’t you guys come back for extra practice? It’s fine, I’ll just grab something from the vending machines.” “You haven’t eaten the whole day and you’re planning to fix that with vending machines food? No.”
“Dean…” you try to protest but he cuts you off. “Besides, I’m sure our captain here is fine with waiving extra training for tonight since we have a new trainer to help us with our edge work and agility, which was what we came back to work on anyways. Right?”
From the side, Garrett barely looks up from where he was nuzzling into a giggling Hannah, “Hmm? Yeah sure, let’s go to Malone’s.”
You sigh and give up, deciding it wasn’t worth putting up a fight. Besides deep down, you knew you wanted a burger and not a cold sandwich from the vending machine.
Before you could grab your things though, Dean beats you to it and scooped up your bags with ease, turning to hand you your jacket. You sputter and try to take your bag from him but it was useless. The defenceman of the Hawks hovered at more than a foot taller than you and with his stupidly huge muscles, trying to take your bags from him was a losing game.
You gave up with a huffed and snatched your jacket from his outstretched arm, putting it on as you stomped away to change out of your skates. When you were done, Dean reached out for those as well and you contemplate strangling him with the laces. But eventually you decided this wasn’t worth going to jail for homicide, glaring as you handed them to an all too smug Dean.
He slings your boots over his shoulder, your white skates falling neatly next to his black ones and you ignore the way the sight of your skates together makes you feel.
As everyone walked out of the rink together you don’t notice the knowing glances behind you, or Dean’s small smile as he watches you march ahead, pretending you’re not affected by the way he took your bags for you.
An Olympian, huh? Dean wonders how much more about you there was for him to learn about as he feels the familiar urge in him rising, as it did whenever he was interested in a girl. Except this time it felt different. He wasn’t just interested in knowing you physically (because how could he not, especially after that Moulin Rouge routine).
But something about the restrained way you usually held yourself loosening the moment you felt the music on ice made him want to know everything about you. Beyond what he already knew from years of casual interactions at legal events and your budding friendship.
Your likes and dislikes. Your history with your parents, which didn’t seem anything like the relationship he shares with his. What else would make you drop the guarded nature you normally put up against everything and everyone.
Dean realises with a start that for the first time in a long while, he was interested in a female beyond wanting to get into her pants. And he likes it.