Ice Breaker

Svetlana

I woke up to sunlight and the sour tang of regret.

The first thing I registered was the burn of cheap whiskey in the back of my throat. The second was that I wasn't alone.

My head throbbed as I forced my eyes open, the hotel room tilting at a sickening angle. White sheets. Discarded lace. My dress crumpled on the floor like a fallen flag.

Stupid.

The Russian Ice Federation does not sponsor athletes who spend their nights in the bottom of a glass. And they certainly don’t sponsor girls who wake up in a stranger’s bed the morning of the most important training session of their lives.

I pushed myself upright, bracing for the vertigo—and that’s when I saw him.

Red hair. Not soft auburn or mousy brown. It was a bright, unapologetic Irish red, messy against the white pillowcase.

My stomach dropped.

Memory returned in jagged flashes. A crowded bar near the Olympic village. An accent that sounded like gravel and honey.

“Leaving already?” he’d asked, his hand grazing my wrist.

“I should have left an hour ago,” I’d replied, breathless.

He’d laughed then. Crap, that laugh.

Now, he shifted, the sheet sliding lower to reveal broad shoulders and lean, functional muscle. A map of tattoo lines inched from his ribs, snaking down his spine. I shouldn’t have looked. I looked anyway.

As if sensing the weight of my gaze, his eyes snapped open. Green. Sharp. Not a trace of sleep in them.

He studied me without the usual morning-after confusion. A slow, devastating smile curved his mouth.

“Morning, Snowflake.”

I bristled, my spine snapping straight. “Don’t call me that.”

His gaze drifted over my blonde hair spilling across my bare shoulders, then back to my eyes. “You’re not from around here,” he said, his voice thick with Ireland. “The accent gave you away.”

“Neither are you.”

“Fair.”

The silence that followed wasn't awkward; it was charged, humming with the leftover heat of the night before. I grabbed the sheet, wrapping it around myself like armor before standing. My head spun, but I refused to stumble. I do not fall apart in front of strangers. Especially not Irish ones with infuriating smiles.

“I have somewhere to be,” I said, my voice returning to its usual frost.

“So do I,” he replied easily, propping himself up on one elbow. “Early start.”

Of course. Normal people had jobs. They didn't have Olympic ice sessions. The reminder punched through my hangover like an ice pick.

The rink. My new partner.

The Federation had been cryptic. A "mystery import." No name, no stats, just a command to show up at 6:30 a.m. sharp.

I checked the time on my phone. 6:12 a.m.

I swore in Russian, a string of words that would have made my grandmother faint.

The redhead arched a brow. “That bad?”

“You have no idea.”

I scrambled into my dress, ignoring the way he watched me. There was no apology in his eyes, just a quiet, terrifying confidence.

“What’s your name?” he asked as I reached for my heels.

I hesitated. I should lie. I should be 'Natalia' or 'Katya.' Instead, the truth slipped out. “Svetlana.”

He repeated it slowly, testing the weight of it. “Svetlana.” The way he said it made my pulse trip.

“And you?” I asked, despite my better judgment.

“Finn.”

Of course it was.

“You always run out on men at sunrise, Svetlana?” he asked lazily.

“I don’t make a habit of waking up with them in the first place.”

That earned a real smile—sharp and genuine. I didn't wait for a goodbye. I stepped into the hallway and let the door click shut. My heart was still racing, and for the first time in my career, it had nothing to do with the sport.

The air inside the rink was cold enough to cut. It usually centered me; today, it just made my headache flare.

I stepped onto the ice fifteen minutes late. My coach, Elena, stood by the boards, her arms crossed tightly over her puffer jacket.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice like a whip.

“I know. The traffic—”

“Save it.” She studied my face, her eyes narrowing at my pale complexion. She knew. “Your new partner just arrived. He’s already warmed up.”

My stomach tightened into a knot. “Where is he?”

She gestured toward the opposite gate. The heavy doors creaked open, and the world seemed to tilt again.

Bright red hair caught the glare of the overhead stadium lights. Green eyes scanned the ice, landing on me with the precision of a predator.

Finn.

He didn't look surprised. He looked amused.

He glided onto the ice with a grace that could only come from years of elite training. He didn't stop until he was inches from me, the blade of his skate kicking up a fine spray of ice onto my leggings.

Elena’s voice cut through the frozen silence. “Svetlana, meet your new pair partner, Finn O’Shea.”

Finn leaned in, his breath warm against my ear, smelling of peppermint and trouble.

“Ready to work, Snowflake?”