Where the ice Softens

Heather Parkston falls in love the way she does everything else-quietly, without spectacle. From the stands, she watches Alex Larson carve himself into something untouchable on the ice, all sharp edges and confidence, a Hawk who knows exactly where he ranks in the world and never lets anyone forget it. She never intrudes on his space. She doesn't chase. She just notices-the way his jaw tightens after a bad play, the split second of doubt before the mask snaps back into place, the difference between who he is when the crowd is watching and who he is when no one is.

Alex barely sees her at first. Not really. To him, Heather is soft-spoken, polite, easy to overlook in a world built on volume and dominance. He's defined by hierarchy and heat, by being louder and better and stronger, and she exists outside that structure entirely. She doesn't compete. She doesn't challenge him openly. And that unsettles him more than he'd ever admit.

The slow burn lives in the space between them-Heather's steady presence and Alex's gradual, reluctant awareness. She knows him long before he knows her.