Chapter 5 Chapter 5

Charity closed her eyes, listening to Lila hum as she set out the cookware. The space felt warmer and more welcoming. Lila's brand of chaos was the only kind Charity willingly accepted.

Yet even here, safe inside her high-rise sanctuary while her best friend prepped dinner, Charity could still feel the phantom pressure of Cole's gear crowding her in the hallway, the weight of his gaze, and the low texture of his voice speaking her name.

She pressed the pillow over her face and let out a muffled groan.

It was going to be a very long year.

Cole leaned heavily on his hockey stick, his chest heaving after the final drill as sweat trickled down his neck, soaking into his jersey collar. The arena carried its familiar scent of ice, rubber, and metallic effort. Beside him at the boards, Rye chugged water like a man dying of thirst.

"I bet she's running a stopwatch up there," Rye remarked, nodding toward the glass-walled conditioning room overlooking the rink. "The second it hits zero, she's going to march down here and kick us off her sacred ice."

Cole let out a dry laugh, his eyes drifting upward despite himself.

There stood Charity Southwell at the stretch barre, dressed in black leggings and a fitted tank top. Her leg was lifted into a flawless, seemingly impossible arabesque, her arms held overhead with sculpted precision. Her expression was set, jaw tight, every line of her frame radiating intense discipline. Even through the glass paneling, the strain in her posture was clear—wound so tight that a single mistake might break her completely.

Or perhaps Cole was simply paying too much attention to her. Far too much for someone he was supposed to barely tolerate.

"She won't need to this time," Cole muttered, wiping his forehead with his forearm. "Coach will kick us off right on time tonight. Ever since that French coach tore into him last week, he's not taking chances with another lecture from an irate woman in broken English."

Rye let out a quiet laugh. "I still can't believe you let her chase you off the ice like that. Captain Ramsey, terrified of a five-foot-nothing figure skater."

"I wasn't terrified," Cole said, his voice sharper than intended. The word felt wrong to him. Scared wasn't the right description. Annoyed, certainly. Intrigued, perhaps. But terrified? Absolutely not. "She was acting like a snob about the ice schedule. We were simply... being courteous."

Rye gave him a lopsided grin. "Right. Courteous. Is that why you spent twenty solid minutes calling her Charity just to see her get worked up?"

Cole stayed silent. Because in truth, he had done exactly that. Maybe he enjoyed the way her British accent grew clipped and formal whenever she was irritated—sounding like royalty issuing a decree. Maybe he liked how her hazel eyes flashed with enough heat to suggest she wanted to skate over and shove him into the boards herself.

That didn't mean he liked her, though.

Did it?

He pushed the thought aside. She represented everything he didn't have time for—rigid, judgment-heavy, and wound far too tight. He was her polar opposite: relaxed, boundary-pushing, living in the moment. Oil and water. Fire and ice. Whatever cliché applied.

Yet she had a knack for getting under his skin regardless.

"What are you two staring at?" Tank's booming voice cut in as he clomped up behind them in full gear, his six-foot-four frame blocking out the light like a human eclipse. He leaned over the boards beside Rye, following their gaze. "Ah. The ice princess. Word is she made you two clear off Monday morning like you were wide-eyed freshmen."

Rye smirked. "She did. Cole even got front-row seats to her wiping out on her rear. A quad something-or-other. Looked like it hurt."

Tank let out a low whistle. "And yet you're still standing here, staring."

"I'm not staring," Cole insisted, pushing away from the boards to skate a slow circle and loosen his legs. His quads burned from suicides, his lungs still recovering from the pace. "I'm observing the opposition."

"Opposition?" Tank repeated, amused. "Damn, Ramsey. What did she ever do to you?"

Exist, Cole thought. Walk around acting like she's superior to everyone else. Look at me like I'm some reckless fool who doesn't belong on her ice.

But that wasn't the whole truth either. The reality was that she challenged him effortlessly. She made him want to push back, to test how deep her control truly went—and wonder what she would look like if she lost it, just once.

He hated wondering.

Cole shrugged, spraying a thin fan of snow as he came to a stop. "She's got that untouchable attitude. Acts like rules were created specifically for her to enforce. It's irritating."

Rye snorted. "You've known her for what, two days? And she's already living rent-free in your head."

"She's not in my head," Cole shot back, answering too quickly, too defensively. "She's just... predictable. Everything timed, everything flawless. She probably schedules her bathroom breaks down to the exact minute."

Tank burst out laughing, and Rye joined in, nearly choking on his water.

Up in the conditioning room, Charity switched legs at the barre—slowly, deliberately, executing the move with a grace that felt almost infuriating. Her hair was pulled back tightly, not a single strand straying out of place. She hadn't glanced down at the rink even once. Not a single look.

Good. Cole didn't want her looking anyway.

Though a part of him did.

The coach's whistle blew sharply from center ice. "Off. The figure skaters need the rink."

The players began filing toward the bench exit, sticks clattering against the boards and voices echoing off the rafters. Cole lingered behind for a moment, watching as the first group of figure skaters descended from the conditioning room—a sea of leotards, tights, and swinging ponytails.

Charity moved among them with mechanical precision. She stepped onto the ice without glancing at anyone, her blades slicing smoothly and silently into the surface. No idle chatter, no laughter. She went straight into her warm-up laps—arms poised, posture immaculate, everything completely perfect.

Cole hated how effortless it looked.