Borrowed Love On Ice

MELISSA'S POV

"Brown! Move your feet!"

Coach's voice cut through the ice, but I didn't flinch, I was already used to this side of him.

I moved the skate, shifted my weight while dropping my shoulder, and executed a clean left cut. Number fourteen was there, but he wasn't a problem. He never was.

I'm Melissa Brown, one of the best hockey player you'll ever see.

And I don't say this to boast, but this wasn't my first victory, and it damn sure wouldn't be my last.

"Mon Dieu! (Ohh my gosh)" someone from the French bench muttered as I slipped through their defense smoothly.

A smirk tugged at my lips. What did they expect?

"Melissa!" Xavier's voice sounded across the ice.

I raised an eyebrow but kept my focus. Xavier never knew when to shut up, always barking orders like he was the captain.

"Back right!" he screamed again, making me scoff.

I already knew the reason he was trying to tear his vocal cords. Without looking, I flicked the puck backward in a perfect pass.

His stick caught it with a satisfying clack, and a heartbeat later, the crowd erupted.

Goal.

I didn't celebrate. I never did. If I celebrated every time I won, I'd be celebrating all damn day. Instead, I skated back to center ice and waited for the puck drop, my face a mask of cold focus.

Xavier coasted over, grinning like the devil himself. "You're welcome," he said, that cocky smirk plastered across his face.

I didn't look at him. "You mean I passed you the puck."

"Teamwork, baby."

My glare was cold. "Don't call me baby."

He laughed, the sound rich and infuriating. "You're so grumpy when we're winning."

"I'm always grumpy."

He winked. "Right."

I didn't respond, I just took my position and waited for the whistle, too focused to get distracted by his games.

By the third period, the score was 4–1. England was crushing it.

Coach screamed from the bench. Fans roared until their voices went hoarse. The commentator kept yelling my name like he'd finally learned how to pronounce it correctly.

"Melissa Brown with another clean steal!"

"Unbelievable! She's cutting through the French defense like a blade!"

Xavier shot me a look as we lined up for another faceoff. "You're showing off now."

"I'm winning," I shot back.

"You like playing with me. Admit it."

I rolled my eyes and skated past him, but he wasn't wrong. We did work well together, too well.

His fire and my ice created something unstoppable. He was one of the few people I actually enjoyed playing with. Maybe the only one. When we clicked, we were untouchable.

When the final buzzer sounded, we'd won 8–1.

The English section of the arena erupted. Fans jumped to their feet, screaming until their faces turned red.

Xavier was beaming, flashing that perfect sexy smile, that always made the girls and cameras swoon over him.

But I didn't smile, I just lifted my stick once and skated off.

There wasn't any need for that, no need at all.

As I skate off, I heard Katrina screaming from the bleachers, making me roll my eyes. "GO, BABY! THAT'S MY MAN!"

I heard Xavier chuckle as he pulled off his helmet, sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes in a way that was annoyingly photogenic. He jogged toward her like some romantic movie hero.

She met him halfway, throwing herself into his arms and kissing him right there in front of everyone like they were the star-crossed lovers in some cheesy movie.

I kept walking toward the locker room. I didn't care if they decided to put on a full show right there on the ice. Really, I didn't. Why should I?

..................

The locker room reeked of sweat and victory. I unzipped my jersey and tossed it onto the bench, my chest still heaving from adrenaline, but my mind already shutting down the noise.

"Yo, Mel," Liam grinned, yanking off his pads. "Saw you drop that guy in the second period. Thought he was gonna cry."

"He elbowed me in the gut," I muttered, pulling off my gloves. I hated when people thought they could push me around because I was a girl.

"Still," Brandon added, shaking his head in admiration, "never seen anyone check someone like that. That was cold and brutal." I shrugged.

"Someone tell her to smile," Jay laughed. "We just won!"

"Melissa? Smile?" Liam scoffed. "She's basically a robot. No emotions."

I rolled my eyes and started unlacing my skates.

"Come on, Brown, say something cocky. You earned it."

"I'm the best," I said flatly. Everyone burst out laughing.

"You're such a little shit," Brandon grinned.

"And you all love me for it," I replied, deadpan.

They did. They might joke about my attitude, but they all knew I was the backbone of this team. I wasn't just the only girl, I was the best player they had.

When I first tried out, they all thought I was messing with them, that I wasn't serious.

Coach actually laughed before his face went serious, telling me I had no idea what I was getting into. Said it was too dangerous, too aggressive, that I'd get hurt.

But I was adamant. I knew what I wanted, and I always got what I wanted. They let me stay because they had no choice after I outplayed half their roster in tryouts.

I proved them wrong. Over and over again.

I was the youngest player to join the national league, held the fastest skating record, and had more assists than half the team combined.

Dinner was held in the hotel ballroom, all fancy tablecloths, crystal glasses, and silverware that clinked too loudly.

Everyone looked uncomfortably clean after hours of being sweaty warriors on ice.

I sat in the middle, between Jay and across from Connor, our goalie.

Xavier was farther down the table with Katrina practically glued to his side. She wore one of those tight mini skirts and his England jacket draped over her shoulders like a claim of ownership.

She was laughing too loud at everything he said, holding his hand like he was some kind of trophy.

He didn't seem to mind. Why would he? She was his girlfriend.

The thought made me stab my fork into the roasted chicken with more force than necessary.

"Hey," Connor said, tapping the table near my plate. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"You were incredible today," he continued, his voice taking on that tone guys used when they were working up to something. "That pass in the third period was pure genius."

"Thanks." I kept eating, hoping he'd take the hint.

He leaned closer. "You ever... uh... go out after tournaments?"

"No."

Jay snorted beside me. "Good luck with that, man."

Connor ignored him, pressing on. "Just wondering if maybe sometime we could grab a drink. You don't even have to talk much."

"I'm not interested." I tried to keep my voice level, really tried not to be harsh.

He blinked rapidly. "Oh. Okay. Yeah, cool. No problem."

Jay laughed. "Told you so."

I didn't respond. I just kept eating and tried to ignore the way Xavier's laugh carried over from his end of the table.

"Why are you so scary?" Jay asked after dessert arrived.

"I'm not scary."

"You're terrifying. Like, genuinely intimidating."

"Maybe you're just soft."

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you calling me weak?"

"Compared to me? Obviously."

He shook his head, grinning. "You're actually evil."

"Only on the ice."

Connor mumbled something under his breath, but I wasn't paying attention anymore. My eyes had drifted to Xavier, who was looking directly at me with an expression I couldn't read.

When our eyes met, he held my gaze for a moment too long before turning back to Katrina.

Something tightened in my chest, but I ignored it.

..............................

I tried falling asleep but that was an impossible task. I'm sure everyone else was probably knocked out from dinner and drinks, but my mind wouldn't shut up, it was racing like it always did after games.

Victory didn't settle me, it energized me, left me wired and restless.

I threw on a hoodie, laced up my sneakers, and slipped out of my hotel room.

The rink wasn't far. The hotel connected to the stadium through a private underground corridor meant for athletes and VIPs. I knew the route by heart.

I just needed the ice. Alone. No screaming coaches, no cameras, no expectations. Just me and the silence.

I pushed open the side door and stepped inside, then froze.

Because there he was.

Xavier stood at center ice, alone. His shirt was damp with sweat, hockey stick in hand, firing pucks into the empty net.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

He hadn't noticed me yet. I stayed in the shadows by the door, watching him move with that fluid grace that made him so dangerous on the ice.

But this was different. He looked... intense. Focused in a way I rarely saw during games. His jaw was tight, his breathing controlled but heavy.

There was something almost vulnerable about seeing him like this, stripped of his usual cockiness and bravado.

Then he turned and caught me staring. Our eyes locked across the ice, and he didn't look surprised to see me. If anything, he looked like he'd been expecting me.

"You always sneak into rinks past midnight?" he asked, his voice echoing in the empty arena.

"I needed silence," I said, stepping forward slowly.

He smirked, but it seemed forced. "Guess you're out of luck."

I moved closer to the edge of the rink. "What are you doing here?"

"Same thing as you, I bet." He tapped a puck with his blade. "Trying to breathe."

I stayed where I was, arms crossed, watching him skate toward me with that effortless stride. I hated that he was this good. Even alone, even without an audience, he moved like a god.

He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could see the exhaustion in his eyes. "Didn't peg you for the sentimental type."

"I'm not."

He raised an eyebrow. "So why sneak out at midnight? Missing the ice already?"

I didn't answer, because the truth was complicated and I didn't do complicated.

He leaned against his stick, studying me with those dark eyes. "You don't talk much, do you?"

"I talk when people say something worth responding to."

"Ouch." He placed a dramatic hand over his heart. "Right through the chest." I shrugged.

"Still mad I called you baby on the ice?" he asked, that teasing tone creeping back into his voice.

I gave him a look that could have melted the ice beneath his skates. "Say it again and I'll break your teeth."

He laughed, and the sound echoed around us, rich and genuine. "There she is. The real Melissa Brown."

I hated how his laugh seemed to pierce through my chest, how it made something inside me respond against my will.

"So," he said after a moment, "is it weird?"

"What?"

"Playing with guys. Being the only girl on the team."

"No." The answer came immediately.

"Never?"

I met his eyes steadily. "Not when I'm better than all of you."

His mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a smirk. "Cocky."

"Confident."

He nodded slowly. "Fair point."

We stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the empty arena pressing down around us. Then he did something that made my brain freeze for a moment.

He pulled off his shirt.

I blinked hard. "Are you serious right now?"

"It's hot," he said casually, tossing the shirt aside like this was completely normal behavior. "You never smile, you know that?"

I was trying very hard not to look at his chest. "There's nothing to smile about."

"You ever have fun? Like, actual fun?"

"Fun doesn't win championships."

"You sound exhausted." His voice was softer now, more serious.

"Failure is exhausting," I said, the words coming out more honest than I intended. "People treating you like you're less because of your gender is exhausting."

He was close now, close enough that I could see the sweat still glistening on his skin, close enough that I could smell his cologne mixed with the lingering scent of ice.

His eyes were studying my face like he was trying to see through me.

He wasn't just the loud-mouthed forward anymore. Not Katrina's boyfriend, not my teammate, not even the cocky idiot who winked during faceoffs.

He was something else entirely, something that made my carefully constructed walls feel suddenly fragile.

I stepped back too fast and smacked my head against the metal door frame.

"Shit," I muttered, gripping the back of my skull.

"You okay?" he asked, reaching toward me instinctively.

"Don't touch me," I snapped, but my voice came out breathier than I intended.

He stopped mid-motion, then smiled, not his usual cocky grin, but something softer, more knowing. "You're blushing."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Your face is completely red."

I glared at him, spun around, and walked away as fast as my legs would carry me without running.

"Melissa " he called after me, but I was already pushing through the door and back into the

corridor.

What the hell was that?

And why was my heart racing like I'd ran a marathon?