Chapter Text
The ice rink smelled the same as always—cold metal, old rubber, and that faint sting of disinfectant that never quite masked the sweat ground into the walls. Zanka adjusted the strap of his skate bag on his shoulder as he stepped inside, the automatic doors sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss.
Late afternoon. Quiet hours.
Perfect.
At least, they were supposed to be.
He approached the front desk, resting his elbows on the counter as the attendant looked up from their screen.
“Zanka,” he said automatically. “Figure skating.”
The attendant nodded, tapping a few keys. “Yeah, you’re checked in. Ice is… uh—”
Zanka raised an eyebrow.
“Occupied?” he finished flatly.
“Just for a bit,” they said quickly. “Hockey ran long.”
Zanka clicked his tongue but said nothing, already turning away. It wasn’t the first time, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last. Still, the schedule existed for a reason, and he’d planned today down to the minute.
He headed for the locker room, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the hall. Inside, it was empty—thankfully. Zanka dropped his bag onto a bench and sat, shoulders slumping slightly as he leaned forward to unlace his boots.
The familiar routine steadied him.
Shoes off. Skates on. Laces pulled tight, then tighter. Gloves tucked away. Jacket shrugged off and replaced with a fitted training top. When he stood, he caught his reflection in the mirror—focused eyes, jaw set, irritation simmering just under the surface.
Don’t let it throw you off, he told himself.
Fully geared, Zanka slung his guards over his shoulder and stepped back into the hallway, his blade guards clicking softly against the floor as he made his way toward the rink entrance.
The moment he pushed the door open, sound flooded in.
Shouting. Laughter. The sharp crack of puck against stick.
Zanka stopped dead.
On the ice, at least a dozen players tore across the rink in bright jerseys, skates biting hard into the surface. Pucks scattered everywhere. None of the movements were graceful—fast, aggressive, messy.
Zanka scanned the rink again, slower this time.
He didn’t recognize a single one of them.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.
These weren’t just stragglers finishing up. This was a full hockey practice. Lines, drills, coach barking orders from the side.
His ice time.
With a sharp exhale, Zanka moved to the bench area and sat down, carefully slipping his guards off and placing them beside him. His leg bounced as he watched the players fly past, irritation building with every wasted second.
They were supposed to be here tomorrow.
He was just debating whether to go complain—again—when someone plopped down beside him.
“Wow,” Riyo said, leaning back with her hands braced behind her. “You look like you’re about three seconds away from committing a felony.”
Zanka didn’t look at her. “They took my ice.”
Riyo followed his gaze to the rink, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hockey?”
“Hockey,” he confirmed. “They weren’t scheduled. I was.”
Riyo hummed. “Bold of them.”
“They do this every other week,” Zanka snapped. “Every single time it’s ‘just five more minutes.’ Five minutes turns into half an hour, half an hour turns into—” He gestured angrily at the chaos on the ice. “This.”
Riyo tilted her head, studying him. “You gonna yell at them?”
“I shouldn’t have to,” he said. “I plan my training. Jumps, footwork, timing—this throws everything off.”
“Yeah,” she said lightly, “but yelling would be entertaining.”
Zanka huffed despite himself, crossing his arms. “If a puck comes flying over here, I swear—”
The sentence never finished.
A puck suddenly launched over the barrier, spinning fast and low.
“—!” Riyo yelped, jerking backward as the puck skimmed past where their heads had been a second earlier.
It hit the ground with a sharp clack and slid several feet before stopping.
Silence fell between them.
Zanka stood so fast his skates screeched against the floor.
“HEY!” he shouted, voice cutting clean through the noise of the rink. “WHO THE HELL HIT THAT?!”
On the ice, players slowed. Sticks lowered. Heads turned.
The rink had gone strangely quiet.
Not silent—there was still the hum of the lights overhead, the distant scrape of skates slowing—but the energy shifted. Every player on the ice had noticed. Zanka stood rigid at the barrier, chest tight, eyes locked on the puck resting on the rubber mat like it had personally offended him.
Riyo straightened beside him, brushing off her jacket. “Wow,” she muttered. “That was close.”
Zanka didn’t answer. His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached.
From the center of the rink, one player pushed off and skated toward them with lazy confidence, helmet tucked under one arm. His grin was sharp, unapologetic, and way too amused for someone who’d almost taken someone’s head off.
The player skating toward them didn’t rush. If anything, he took his time, carving lazy arcs into the ice, posture loose and confident. He stopped a few feet from the barrier, snow spraying lightly as he turned.
“Oops,” Jabber said, tilting his head. “My bad.”
Zanka’s glare sharpened.
The guy had a sharp face—too sharp, honestly. Crooked grin, eyes bright and magenta with something like amusement, dark dreads damp with sweat and flattened where his helmet had been. He looked entirely too relaxed for someone who had just sent a puck into the stands.
Zanka took a slow breath through his nose.
“Is that how this works now?” he asked coolly. “You almost hit someone, and that’s it?”
The hockey player blinked once, clearly not expecting that tone. Then his grin widened.
“Hey, I said sorry.”
Riyo leaned in slightly. “You could’ve seriously hurt someone.”
“Could’ve,” he agreed easily, glancing between them. His eyes lingered on Zanka a second longer than necessary. “Didn’t, though.”
That did it.
Not yelling—not yet—but something hot and sharp snapped into place behind Zanka’s ribs.
“Do you normally practice during someone else’s scheduled ice time,” Zanka asked, voice measured, “or is today a special occasion?”
The guy tilted his head. “You’re the figure skater, right?”
Zanka didn’t bother correcting him. “Answer the question.”
A few other players had drifted closer now, leaning on their sticks, watching with interest. Riyo shot Zanka a look—careful—but he ignored it.
“Coach said we could finish our drills,” the guy replied. “Didn’t think anyone would mind.”
Zanka let out a short, humorless laugh. “You didn’t think. Yeah, that checks out.”
The hockey player snorted. “Wow. You always this intense, or is that part of the outfit?”
Riyo sucked in a breath like she was trying not to laugh.
Zanka turned his head just enough to glare at her, then looked back at him. “You’re on my ice.”
The guy’s eyebrow twitched. “Pretty sure it belongs to the rink.”
Zanka stepped closer to the boards, close enough now that they were eye level. “I’m scheduled. I plan my training weeks in advance. You’re not supposed to be here.”
For the first time, something flickered across the hockey player’s expression—not guilt, not apology, but interest.
“Huh,” he said. “Didn’t know you guys were so territorial.”
“We are,” Zanka shot back. “About time. About safety. About people not firing projectiles into the seating area.”
The guy glanced at the puck, then back at him. “You caught that pretty fast.”
Zanka stiffened. “What?”
“I mean,” he said casually, “most people flinch. You moved.”
Zanka hated that he’d noticed.
“I’ve been skating since I was five,” he replied flatly. “Dodging things comes with the territory.”
The hockey player hummed, clearly amused. “Figures.”
There was a pause—just long enough to be uncomfortable.
Finally, Riyo broke it. “So,” she said brightly, “are you planning on wrapping up anytime soon, or…?”
The guy looked over his shoulder at the rink, where the coach was pretending not to watch. “Couple more drills.”
Zanka’s nails bit into his palms.
“You’ve already run over,” he said. “By twenty minutes.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Happens.”
Zanka stared at him, incredulous. “Do you hear yourself?”
“Loud and clear.”
The hockey player pushed off the boards and skated backward a step, grinning like this was the most fun he’d had all day. “Look, no one got hurt. You’ll get your ice. Promise.”
Zanka didn’t move. “That’s not good enough.”
For a moment, something sharp flashed in the guy’s eyes—something competitive. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the top of the barrier.
“Then what is?”
Zanka met his gaze without blinking. “You get off the ice. Now.”
The rink seemed to hold its breath.
The hockey player studied him for a long second, then chuckled under his breath. “You’ve got guts. I’ll give you that.”
“That’s not a compliment,” Zanka said.
“Didn’t mean it as one.”
Riyo shifted beside him. “Zanka…”
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to step back. Yelling wouldn’t help. Losing his temper wouldn’t either. He wasn’t going to give this guy the satisfaction.
“Just,” Zanka said, tone tight but controlled, “finish up. And keep the pucks on the ice.”
The hockey player straightened. “Sure thing.”
He turned away, then paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
“Oh—and it’s Jabber.”
Zanka didn’t respond.
Jabber grinned anyway and skated back toward his team, shouting something over his shoulder that made them laugh. The noise rose again, drills resuming like nothing had happened.
Zanka sat back down heavily on the bench.
Riyo let out a low whistle. “Well.”
“He’s insufferable,” Zanka muttered.
“Yeah,” she said. “But… interesting.”
Zanka shot her a look. “Don’t.”
She held up her hands. “I’m just saying—this doesn’t feel like the last time you’ll run into him.”
Zanka stared out at the ice, watching Jabber weave effortlessly between players, reckless and confident and entirely too comfortable in a space that wasn’t his.
Something told him she was right.
And he hated that feeling almost as much as he hated the wait.