Edge Of The Ice (On Going And Own Book)

Cold Begginings. 1

Alex Rivera liked the cold. It stung his skin and made the world feel cleaner somehow, sharper, like he could see every flaw, every imperfection, and cut it away. The rink was cold, too, though in a different way. It wasn’t the kind of cold that bit into your bones like winter mornings, but the steady chill that seeped in slowly, almost unnoticed until you were already deep in it. That’s how the ice worked.

He stepped inside the rink, the familiar clack of his skate guards echoing through the empty space. The rink was practically deserted, just how he liked it. Morning practice wouldn’t start for another half hour, which gave him time to carve out his own space before the rest of the team showed up. Time to clear his head.

Alex dropped his bag onto the bench and sat down, fingers working through the laces of his skates, tightening them just right. The cold air prickled the back of his neck, reminding him that this—this ritual, this quiet moment before the chaos—was his. It was the only place he felt like he had control.

The ice always welcomed him, steady and unforgiving. It didn’t care who he was off the rink. It didn’t judge. It didn’t look at him the way his teammates sometimes did, with that flicker of hesitation. Here, Alex was just another body, another player trying to be faster, stronger, better.

He stood and stretched, rolling his shoulders to shake off the stiffness from too many hours hunched over textbooks last night. School could wait. Out here, nothing else mattered.

But something was wrong.

Alex stopped short, eyes narrowing. There was someone already out on the ice, gliding across the smooth surface with a fluidity that made his stomach twist. The rink wasn’t supposed to be open to anyone else at this hour. It was supposed to be his time. He squinted through the dim lighting, trying to make out who it was.

Then he saw the figure spin, their form bending into a seamless arabesque before twisting effortlessly into a jump. The landing was light, graceful, perfect. Too perfect.

Cass Aldridge.

Even from a distance, Alex knew it was them. No one else skated like that—like they owned the ice, like they were born on it. Cass was untouchable, a figure skater who moved with a kind of easy grace that looked like it had never cost them a single drop of sweat. And for some reason, they were here. Now. In his space.

Alex scowled. He wasn’t in the mood for this. He wasn’t in the mood for Cass.

He stepped onto the ice, his skates cutting into the surface with a sharp slice. The sound echoed, breaking through the quiet, and Cass’s head snapped up. Their eyes met across the rink—just for a second—and Alex could see the surprise flicker across Cass’s face. But then, just as quickly, it disappeared, replaced by that signature smirk Alex hated so much.

Cass didn’t stop. They didn’t even slow down.

Alex gritted his teeth, pushing off harder than he needed to, gliding toward the far end of the rink. He wasn’t going to let Cass get under his skin today. Not again. He had a tournament to think about, a team to lead, and a thousand other things that mattered more than some stuck-up figure skater who thought they owned the ice.

But as Alex skated laps, he could feel Cass’s presence like a shadow, gliding through the rink as if they belonged there more than anyone else. And no matter how hard he tried to focus, his eyes kept drifting back to that smooth, perfect movement, the way Cass’s skates barely made a sound as they danced across the ice.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that someone could make it all look so easy.

Alex shoved the thought away, digging his blades into the ice, trying to shake off the knot tightening in his chest. He was here to practice. He didn’t have time for distractions.