COLD WAR ON ICE

Iris's POV

I sat on the worn-out bench in the locker room, letting out small puffs of breath as I followed my ritual of putting on my gear, only to discover my Edea Pianos were missing. After realizing the locker room was locked, I confronted Reid Carter, who, despite my frustration, pretended not to know where they were, leading me to find my skates hanging high in the outdoor equipment shed after a challenging climb.

As I tightened my laces, my hands shook with anger at Reid Carter, who underestimated my dedication and thought my Olympic trials were insignificant next to his NHL aspirations; soon, he would realize that figure skaters possess an unmatched level of discipline and resilience.

The following Tuesday, I resolved that Reid could use a setback, so I bided my time until the locker room emptied, aware that he left his gear in locker 42, and while avoiding his jersey and stick, I took a small honing stone to alter the blades of his skates carefully, making them flat enough that he wouldn't be able to maintain his grip on the ice.

I took my seat in the third row of the stands, feigning interest in my music cues, when the team finally stepped onto the ice, with Reid, sporting a determined expression, taking a hard turn to pivot only this time, the steel didn't grip as usual, and he ended up crashing spectacularly into the boards, sliding twenty feet and drawing the attention of the NHL scouts above.

"Carter!" his coach exclaimed, "What was that? You're skating like a newborn giraffe!" Reid quickly got up, his face flushed with anger, but after attempting to push off again, his right skate slipped out, prompting him to glance at the stands. I couldn't help but smile slyly as he spent the remainder of the hour on the bench.

The score was tied one to one.

On Friday night, the Founders' Gala transformed the Northfield Ballroom into a lavish space filled with gold accents and the overpowering scent of shrimp cocktail, showcasing "top-tier" talent to potential donors.

Dressed in a long emerald silk gown that felt like protective armor, I was chatting with the Dean of Athletics when Reid entered, donning a perfectly fitted black tuxedo that softened his brutish appearance and revealed the man he was meant to be, until our eyes met and that familiar mocking glimmer returned.

An hour in, as I reached for my clutch, the bottom suddenly gave way, spilling my belongings, my lipstick rolling under a table, tampons scattering toward a group of elderly donors, and my "lucky" childhood rabbit landing at the Dean's feet just as Reid appeared with champagne in hand.

"Did you drop your toys, Harper? I didn't know the Olympic committee accepted toddlers." I knelt to collect my belongings, trembling, realizing this was more than a prank; it was a moment of public humiliation in front of those who supported me. As I rose, I moved closer to confront him.

"You may think you're smart, Reid, but you're just a mediocre athlete who bullies others to mask your own fear of failure."

"'Mediocre?' Reid said, his voice lowering. 'I'm the conference's top scorer, while you're just a girl performing for judges who don't appreciate you, one misstep away from obscurity.'"

"At least I have a soul," I retorted while poking his rigid white shirt

"But you're merely a machine that will be replaced the moment your knees fail, and we both know you're infatuated with me. Iris, admit it, you've been after me since high school."

"I've been trying to distance myself from you since high school; your presence feels overwhelming." The room fell silent as a circle of donors surrounded us while the Dean approached, but I couldn't hold back the emotions that had accumulated over ten years of shared experiences and quiet grievances.

"I shouted, 'You're a foolish, conceited caveman!'"

Reid retorted, "You're nothing more than a cold, robotic elitist snob!" as he waved his arms and accidentally brushed against the towering five-foot ice sculpture of a phoenix, causing it to teeter; he tried to steady it, but his shoe dress, previously sabotaged by me with a touch of floor wax, betrayed him.

He stumbled heavily, clutching my arm as we fell together in a tangle of emerald silk and black wool, colliding with the buffet table and sending ice and shrimp cascading over us.

I rose breathless, hair tangled with a piece of garnish, my dress in tatters, while Reid lay beside me with a torn jacket. The only sound piercing the silence was the collective click of fifty smartphones.

"You destroyed it all," I murmured, and as Reid glanced at the crowd and then at me, I noticed, for the first time, that his usual arrogance was replaced by the same empty fear gnawing at my heart.

"Yeah," he murmured, "I think we finally did," as a student reporter behind the crowd captured the moment live with the caption:

ICE WAR: Northfield's Stars Finally Implode.