It only takes a split second for her to fall. She goes down hard, knee-first, then hip, then the rest of her.
The sound echoes through the rink, sharp and unforgiving, and the crowd reacts in that collective, sympathetic way that always makes things worse. The same reaction they give me when I miss a shot.
I’m moving before I consciously decide to.
Not fast. Not making a show of it. Just… there. Getting to her.
Because the thing about moments like this, public, awkward, vulnerable moments, is that they don’t need a hero.
She’s already pushing herself up when I reach her, palms sliding uselessly on the ice. Her jaw is set. Her mouth curves into a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Up close, she’s even more distracting. Pink-cheeked from embarrassment, hair falling into her face, lips pressed together like she’s already preparing the joke she’ll use to save herself from the moment.
She’s beautiful.
Not in the polished, camera-ready way people expect in my world.
In the way that sneaks up on you and knocks the air out of your lungs.
“Hey,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. “You’re ok.”
“I meant to do that,” she replies instantly.
There it is. Armor. It’s funny. Self-deprecating. A little sharp around the edges. Delivered fast, like she wants to get there first, beat the laugh to the punch.
I crouch in front of her, careful to keep my balance neutral, my presence steady.
“Of course you did,” I say, like it’s obvious. Like she hasn’t just eaten ice in front of half the city.
Her shoulders relax a fraction.
Good.
I offer my hand, slow enough that she can choose it. She hesitates barely, but then takes it, and the contact is grounding in a way I didn’t expect.
Not electric. Not dramatic.
Just… solid.
She grabs onto me like I’m a life raft. Which, maybe, in her case, right now I am.
And suddenly I’m very aware of two things at once.
One: she’s warm through the layers of fabric between us.
Two: I have absolutely no idea who she is, but my brain has already decided she’s the most interesting person in this entire arena.
I bring her up in stages, guiding rather than pulling, because people don’t like being yanked when they’re already off-balance. She gets her feet under her, breath hitching once, then she’s standing.
The crowd cheers.
She laughs real this time and the sound lands somewhere low in my chest.
Ok. Interesting.
I don’t look at the stands. I don’t acknowledge the noise. I keep my focus on her because right now, this is the only part of the ice that matters.
“No one saw,” I say.
