Glide and Burn

Sophia POV

The United Center is supposed to be empty at five-thirty in the morning.

I recheck my phone, the blue light illuminating my face in the dim arena—5:32 AM. The Chicago Wolves won’t start practice for another three hours, which means I have the ice to myself to set up the new conditioning drills Coach Sullivan wants me to implement.

Assistant coach. The title still feels foreign on my tongue, like speaking a language I’ve learned in textbooks but never lived in. Six months ago, I was Sophia Chen, an Olympic hopeful. Now, I am Sophia Chen, a former figure skater turned hockey coach, trying to convince myself that teaching other people to fly on ice is enough.

It has to be enough. Dad ensured I understood that figure skating is “a child’s dream,” and at twenty-four, it’s time for a “real job.”

The familiar ache in my left ankle reminds me why those dreams died anyway.

I push through the arena doors, my equipment bag heavy on my shoulder, and stop dead.

The ice isn’t empty.

A figure moves across the rink with lethal grace, stick handling a puck with the kind of fluid precision that makes my chest tight with recognition. Even in the dim emergency lighting, I can see the power in each stride, the way he carves turns that send ice shavings glittering through the air like snow.

Beautiful.

Then he looks up, and the appreciation dies in my throat.

Nikolai Volkov. Six-foot-three of Russian arrogance wrapped in the Chicago Wolves’ practice jersey, dark hair damp with sweat, ice-blue eyes that seem to cut right through me from across the rink. The trust fund baby who bought his way onto the team—except he’s too damn good for anyone to say it out loud.

Our eyes meet across the ice, and his expression shifts from concentration to irritation in the span of a heartbeat.

Perfect.

I drop my bag with more forcefully and start lacing up my skates. If he thinks I will wait for his royal highness to finish his private ice time, he’s about to learn otherwise.

My blades hit the ice with a sharp whisper, and I push off toward center rink where I’ve left the cone markers. The familiar feeling of gliding that moment when gravity releases its hold and I become something more than human almost makes me forget why I’m angry.

Almost.

“Excuse me.”

His voice stops me mid-stride. Deep, accented, with the kind of authority that suggests he isn’t used to being ignored. I turn slowly, taking my time, and find him skating toward me with lazy confidence.

Up close, he’s even more overwhelming. The practice jersey clings to broad shoulders and a chest that speaks of years building muscle for contact sports. A thin scar cuts through his left eyebrow, and another traces his jawline battle wounds that somehow make him more attractive instead of less.

I hate that I notice.

“Ice is occupied,” he says, stopping just close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

“By me,” I reply evenly. “I booked this time.”

Something flickers in those pale eyes. Surprise, maybe. Most people probably roll over the moment he opens his mouth.

“I’ve been skating here every morning for two years. There must be some mistake.”

“The mistake is thinking you own this rink.” I bend to pick up a cone, making a show of examining it. “I’m Sophia Chen, the new assistant coach. And you’re in my way.”

When I straighten, he’s closer. Close enough that I can smell his cologne, something expensive and masculine that makes my stomach do things I absolutely don’t have time for.

“Assistant coach,” he repeats, and there’s something in his tone that makes my spine stiffen. “The figure skater.”

The way he says it, like it’s a dirty word, lights a fire in my chest.

“Former figure skater. Current hockey coach. And since you seem confused about the hierarchy here, let me clarify: I work for this team. You play for this team. Which means when I need the ice, you move.”

His eyebrows rise slightly, and I catch the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Bold.”

“Realistic.”

“Most people don’t speak to me like that.”

“Most people probably care about your opinion.”

The smile turns real then, sharp and dangerous. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

“I know exactly who you are, Volkov. Daddy’s money bought you a spot on this team, but talent keeps you here. The question is whether your ego is bigger than your skill set.”

I expect anger. Maybe some Russian cursing. Instead, he laughs. A low, rough sound that does something unfortunate to my pulse.

“Sophia Chen,” he says, like he’s testing how my name feels in his mouth. “Olympic trials, 2024. Ankle injury during the triple axel sequence. Career-ending.”

The casual way he recites my personal tragedy makes my blood freeze, then boil.

“Did your homework, did you?”

“I always research the competition.”

“I’m not your competition, Volkov. I’m your coach.”

“Are you?” He leans on his stick, studying me with those unsettling eyes. “Because from where I’m standing, you look like someone who’s never played hockey in her life, trying to tell professional athletes how to do their job.”

The hit lands exactly where he’s aimed it. Every insecurity I’ve been fighting for the past six months rises up like a tidal wave, threatening to drown me. He’s right. I am a figure skater playing dress-up in a world that doesn’t want me.

But I’ve learned a few things about taking hits during my competitive career.

“You’re right,” I say, skating backward away from him with easy grace. “I’ve never played hockey. But I’ve spent fifteen years learning how to move on ice like it’s an extension of my body. I’ve studied biomechanics, physics, and athletic performance at levels you probably can’t even pronounce. And I’ve forgotten more about skating technique than most people ever learn.”

I spin in a tight circle, letting my blades carve perfect edges that leave precise lines in the ice.

“So here’s what’s going to happen, Kolya.” I use the Russian diminutive deliberately, watching his eyes flash. “You’re going to move your expensive equipment off my ice. Then you’re going to show up to practice in three hours with the rest of your teammates and let me teach you how to stop skating like you’re afraid of falling down.”

For a moment, the only sound is the hum of the arena’s ventilation system. We stare at each other across ten feet of ice, and I can practically see him recalculating whatever assumptions he’s made about me.

Then he moves.

Not away, like I’ve expected. Toward me, closing the distance between us with two powerful strides that bring him close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his blue eyes.

“Careful, princess,” he says, his voice dropping to something that sounds almost intimate. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Good thing I know how to handle the heat.”

We’re close enough now that I have to crane my neck to maintain eye contact. Close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body despite the chill of the arena. Close enough that when he smiles—really smiles, not that sharp mockery from before—it hits me like a physical blow.

“We’ll see about that.”

He pushes off, skating backward with the same casual grace I’ve just displayed, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Ice is yours, coach,” he calls over his shoulder. “But don’t get too comfortable. This is still my rink.”

I watch him gather his equipment and head for the tunnel, moving with the predatory fluidity of a natural athlete. Only when the arena door closes behind him do I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

Arrogant bastard.

I force myself to focus on setting up the drill stations, but my hands are shaking slightly as I arrange the cones. Whether from anger or something else entirely, I don’t want to examine too closely.

The conditioning drills are designed to improve edge work and quick direction changes—areas where most hockey players are fundamentally sloppy because they’ve learned to prioritize speed and power over precision. It’s exactly the kind of technical work that will make players like Volkov roll their eyes and complain about having a figure skater for a coach.

Perfect.

By the time the team starts filtering in for practice, I have the entire ice mapped out with training stations. Coach Sullivan arrives first, his gruff expression softening when he sees the setup.

“Looks good, Chen. You ready for this?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The players begin emerging from the locker room in groups, their conversation dying when they notice the unfamiliar drill layout. I recognize most of them from team photos and game footage I’ve studied obsessively over the past month.

Volkov comes out last, and I feel his attention like a physical weight as he skates a slow lap around the perimeter. He’s changed into full practice gear, and the pads only emphasize how much space he takes up on the ice.

Sullivan’s whistle cuts through the morning air. “Gather up! I want you all to meet our new assistant coach, Sophia Chen. She’s going to be working with you on technical skills and conditioning.”

The murmur that goes through the group is exactly what I’ve expected. Polite but skeptical. These are professional athletes who’ve been playing hockey since they could walk. Having a figure skater tell them how to improve is going to be a tough sell.

“Chen’s going to take you through some new drills this morning,” Sullivan continues. “I want everyone to give her your full attention and effort. Questions?”

Silence. But I can feel the weight of twenty pairs of eyes evaluating me, looking for weakness.

“All right then,” I say, skating forward to address the group. “We’re going to start with edge work. I know what you’re thinking, this is basic stuff you learned in bantams. But I guarantee most of you are doing it wrong.”

A few players exchange glances. Someone, I think it might be the backup goalie, suppresses a snort.

“The average NHL player wastes approximately fifteen percent of their energy on inefficient edge transitions,” I continue. “That’s fifteen percent that could be redirected into speed, power, or endurance. Today, we’re going to fix that.”

I demonstrate the first drill. A figure-eight pattern that requires precise edge control and body positioning. It looks simple. It isn’t.

“Partner up and run through this sequence. I’ll be coming around to make corrections.”

The next hour is exactly as brutal as I’ve anticipated. Professional hockey players, it turns out, do not enjoy being told their fundamental skating technique needs work. Especially by someone who’s never taken a body check or fought for a puck in a corner.

But the drills work. Even the most resistant players can’t argue with the improvement in their times and control as they repeat the exercises.

Volkov, predictably, is both the most talented and the most infuriating to work with.

“Your left edge is weak,” I tell him during his third attempt at the crossover sequence. “You’re compensating with upper body rotation instead of trusting your blade angle.”

“My left edge has carried me through six years of professional hockey.”

“Your left edge is the reason you can’t cut as sharply to that side. Watch.”

I demonstrate the proper technique, feeling his attention track every movement as I carve the pattern with textbook precision.

“The issue isn’t strength, it’s technique. You’re fighting the physics instead of using them.”

When I finish, he tries again. Better, but still not right.

“Here.” I skate up behind him, close enough to guide his positioning. “You need to commit to the lean. Stop protecting yourself from falling.”

My hands settle on his shoulders, adjusting his posture, and I immediately regret the contact. Even through the padding, I can feel the coiled strength in his frame, the controlled power that makes him so dangerous on the ice.

“Like this,” I say, my voice more breathless than it should be.

He runs through the sequence again, and this time it’s perfect—smooth, efficient, exactly what I’ve been trying to teach him.

“Better,” I manage.

When he turns to face me, we’re standing closer than proper coaching distance. Close enough that I can see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the way his breathing has quickened from the drill.

“Anything else, coach?” The word is a challenge, wrapped in honey and delivered with that slight smile that suggests he knows exactly what kind of effect he’s having on me.

Professional. Stay professional.

“That’s all for today.”

But as I skate away to work with other players, I can feel his gaze following me across the ice like a physical touch.

The rest of practice passes in a blur of corrections, demonstrations, and grudging acknowledgment from players who can’t argue with results. By the time Sullivan calls the session, even the most skeptical teammates are asking questions about technique instead of making jokes about figure skating.

Small victories.

I’m packing up my equipment when footsteps echo through the tunnel. Most of the team has already headed to the locker room, but someone is coming back.

I know who it is before I turn around.

Volkov stands in the tunnel entrance, still in his practice gear minus the helmet. His dark hair is damp with sweat, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite read.

“Impressive,” he says.

“What?”

“The drills. The technique corrections. You know what you’re talking about.”

It shouldn’t matter. His approval shouldn’t send a warm flush through my chest. But it does.

“Surprised?”

“Yes,” he says honestly. “Most coaches rely on experience rather than science. You understand the mechanics.”

“Figure skating is all about mechanics. Precision. Efficiency.”

“So is hockey, apparently.”

We stand there for a moment, the arena settling into quiet around us. Without the noise and movement of practice, the space feels suddenly intimate. Just the two of us in the vast emptiness of the rink.

“You were right, you know,” he says finally.

“About what?”

“My left edge. It’s been a weakness for years. I just...” He shrugs, and for a moment the arrogance falls away, revealing something unexpectedly vulnerable underneath. “I don’t like being told I’m doing something wrong.”

“Nobody does. But technique can always improve.”

“Even yours?”

The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”

Instead of answering, he pushes off from the wall and skates toward me with that predatory grace that makes my pulse quicken.

“Show me,” he says when he reaches me.

“Show you what?”

“What you can do. Really do. Not coaching drills. Skating.”

I should say no. Should maintain professional boundaries, keep things appropriate between coach and player. Should remember all the reasons why getting involved with a teammate is career suicide.

Instead, I find myself pushing off from the boards.

The ice welcomes me back like an old friend, and for the first time in months, I stop thinking about everything I’ve lost and just... fly.

I start simple. Basic edges and turns that showcase control and precision. But as I move, muscle memory takes over, and suddenly I’m performing elements I haven’t attempted since before my injury. Spirals that require perfect balance and flexibility. Jump sequences that once were as natural as breathing.

I land a double axel and hear Volkov’s sharp intake of breath from across the rink.

When I finally stop, breathing hard from the exertion, he’s staring at me with something that looks almost like reverence.

“Bozhe moy,” he says softly. “That was...”

“Showing off,” I finish, suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry. I don’t usually—”

“Beautiful.” The word stops me cold. “It was beautiful.”

The way he says it. Like he’s never seen anything quite like it before makes something crack open in my chest.

“I should go,” I say quickly, skating toward my equipment bag. “Long day tomorrow.”

But as I bend to gather my things, I hear him approaching. When I straighten, he’s right there, close enough that I can see my reflection in his eyes.

“Sophia.”

The way he says my name. Careful, like he’s testing its weight makes my breath catch.

“What?”

“Thank you. For the lesson.”

“It’s my job.”

“No.” His gaze drops to my mouth briefly before meeting my eyes again. “That wasn’t about hockey.”

The air between us feels charged, electric with possibility and danger in equal measure. I know I should step back, create distance, and remember why this is a terrible idea.

Instead, I find myself leaning closer.

“Volkov—”

“Nik,” he corrects softly.

“Nik.” His name feels strange and right on my tongue. “This is complicated.”

“Everything worthwhile is complicated.”

His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair away from my face, and the gentle contact sends heat racing through my veins.

“We work together,” I whisper.

“I know.”

“It’s against team policy.”

“I know.”

“Your family would probably hate me.”

Something dark flickers in his expression. “My family doesn’t get a vote.”

The certainty in his voice makes something flutter in my stomach. We’re standing close enough now that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my skin, can count the flecks of gold in his blue eyes.

“Sophia,” he says again, and this time my name sounds like a prayer.

Then footsteps echo from the tunnel, and we spring apart like guilty teenagers.

Coach Sullivan appears in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral as he takes in the scene.

“Chen. Volkov. Everything all right out here?”

“Fine, Coach,” I manage, my voice only slightly strained. “Just going over some technique points.”

Sullivan’s gaze flicks between us, and I have the uncomfortable feeling he isn’t buying our professional facade for a second.

“Right. Well, it’s getting late. Arena needs to be cleared for maintenance.”

“Of course.” I shoulder my bag quickly, avoiding Nik’s eyes. “See you tomorrow, Coach. Volkov.”

I make it halfway to the tunnel before his voice stops me.

“Sophia?”

Against my better judgment, I turn back.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

It’s an innocent question. A professional question. So why does it feel like so much more?

“We’ll see,” I say.

His smile is pure sin. “We will indeed.”

I flee toward the locker room, my heart hammering against my ribs. Behind me, I can hear the soft whisper of his skates as he moves across the ice, and I know without looking that he’s watching me go.

This is a bad idea, I tell myself as I change out of my practice gear. A terrible, career-destroying, absolutely catastrophic idea.

God help me, I’m already counting the hours until I can see him again.