An Ice-cold Chemistry

Daniels POV

The arena was the only place where the noise in my head finally stopped. On the ice, I wasn’t a product of the Prescott name or the dutiful son trapped under my father’s thumb. I was just a guy with a hockey stick.

My whole life, people only cared about what I could do for them. My father treated me like a trophy, expecting perfection at every turn. I never had the room to fail, to breathe, or to just be human. The one time I lost a match as a kid, he hit me, threatened to cut me off, and made sure the punishment hurt worse than the loss itself. Even now, running my own business, he still tries to pull the strings. I’ve been fighting to take back my life, piece by piece, but the weight of it all never really leaves.

Earlier today, I stopped by a coffee shop after working out and saw her—the same girl I’d kicked out of my arena days ago. Our eyes met, but neither of us said a word before she turned and walked away. I didn't feel guilty. To be honest, I couldn't remember the last time I felt anything at all.

By 8:00 PM, I went back to the arena, desperately needing the cold air to clear my head. But when I stepped onto the ice, she was already there, clumsily trying to skate.

Before I could process it, she lost her balance and crashed hard onto the rink.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were stalking me," I said, leaning on my stick.

She looked up at me, winced, and rolled her eyes.

"Need a hand?" I interrupted.

"Get lost," she snapped, trying to push herself up only to slip and fall right back down with a sharp gasp of pain.

I watched her for a second, feeling a sudden, unexpected tug in my chest. "All you have to do is ask."

She refused to answer, stubbornly trying to haul herself back onto her feet, only to lose her balance and slip right back down.

Finally, she stopped. She looked up at me, let out a heavy sigh, and reached her hand out in my direction.

"What's the magic word?" I asked, my voice deep and bold.

Her eyes glared into mine, practically burning with frustration and pride.

I skated closer, holding my hockey stick loosely in one hand. "Why are you even out here if you can't skate?"

"None of your business," she snapped. "Help me up or don't, but stop asking stupid questions."

I stood there, looking down at her. Part of me was amused by her defense mechanisms, but mostly I just felt that familiar, cold detachment. Such arrogance. I didn't say a word, just kept my gaze fixed on hers, letting the silence stretch between us.

Her expression softened, the fight suddenly draining out of her.

"Please," she whispered, her voice shifting into something raw and desperate.

"Was that so hard?" I questioned, extending my hand to pull her up from the ice and guide her off the rink.

"Thanks," she muttered, unbuckling her skates and slipping her feet out.

I turned and glided back onto the ice, leaving my hockey stick behind this time. I just skated in slow circles, letting the cold air wash over my face, but my eyes never really left her.

As I watched her, memories of our first meeting flashed through my mind—hitting a puck right toward her and having my guards throw her out of my arena. I skated back over to the edge, leaning over the boards.

"Don't you think you owe me an apology?"

She let out a dry laugh. "You wish."

She grabbed her crutches, pushed herself up off the bench, and started hobbling toward the exit.

I immediately stepped off the ice, kicked off my skates, and threw on my shoes. Leaving the arena behind, I stepped out into the crisp, cool night air. The breeze was chilly, but it felt good—cozy, even, under the dim glow of the streetlights as I jogged to catch up with her.

"I can book a ride home for us," I said, catching up to her pace.

"I’m fine, thank you," she said, not even looking at me.

"You don't look fine to me... Natalia."

That made her freeze in her tracks. She looked up at me, eyes wide. "How do you know my name?"

"You really thought I wouldn't find out who you were after the scene you caused last time?" I asked, turning around to walk backward in front of her as we moved down the quiet, cool street.

"I didn't cause a scene—"

"You overreacted—"

"I didn't even know who you were until that day—"

"That's a lie."

"You actually think you're that important and famous?"

"Yes!" I snapped, the quiet night air swallowing my raised voice. "I don't just think it, I know it. And the only reason you came to my arena was because you needed a story on me to save your job."

She scoffed, the cool air turning her breath into a tiny cloud. "Interesting. You really did your research."

"Of course I did. But you're not getting a single detail about me unless I decide to give it to you."

"Then I guess I better get ready to lose my job," she said casually, pulling her coat tighter against the night chill and continuing down the sidewalk.

I paused. She hobbled past me on her crutches, but I couldn't just let her get the last word. I took a few quick strides to catch up with her again.

"You know, for someone on crutches, you sure are full of pride. I'm actually trying my best to be decent here—"

"By demanding apologies when you were the one at fault? Right." I cut in.

"I said I was sorry—"

"You hit me hard with a puck!"

"It was a mistake!" I snapped, my voice cutting through the silent street. "And I don't just go around apologizing to people, especially for a stupid accident—"

"A stupid accident?" she thundered, stopping dead in her tracks. "I could have been hurt way worse than this! Were you prepared to pay for that damage? You're just pissed because I'm not falling at your feet like every other girl who hovers around you. Thank you for helping me off the rink, Daniel Prescott. But that is *all* you're getting from me."

She turned her back on me and kept walking.

Rage surged through my chest. Even with the city so quiet around us, the sting of humiliation felt deafening.

"I am Daniel Prescott!" I shouted after her. "The best athlete and hockey player in this country! That is all you're getting for your stupid story!"

"Whatever," she called back, not even bothering to look over her shoulder.

"And stay out of my arena!" I yelled, the cold air burning in my throat. "That's not a threat. It's a warning."

Without waiting for another dismissive answer, I turned and walked away with heavy rage still inside of me.