Theo's POV
Her lips tasted like peppermint chapstick.
That was my first thought.
The second?
Shit. I kissed her.
The door to the changing room clicked softly shut behind us, the dim light humming above. My hands were still braced on either side of her, pinning her lightly against the wall of lockers, our breath fogging in the cool air.
Val looked up at me, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. Her hoodie was half-zipped from practice, a little bit of sweat still on her collarbone from earlier, and somehow that just made her look real — not this perfect, untouchable figure skater who twirled like she didn't belong to gravity.
Real. And kissable.
And yeah. I kissed her.
She blinked. "Did we—?"
"Yup." I swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close we still were. "That just happened."
Her hand fluttered to her mouth like she could erase it, and she covered her face with a groan. "This is so bad."
"Like, bad-bad or bad-good?"
"I don't even know!" she said, muffled behind her fingers. "You're you. And I'm me. And we hate each other."
"Correction." I pointed at myself. "You hate me. I tolerate you. Sexily."
She let out a sharp laugh, then slapped my arm. "Theo!"
"What? We're standing in a changing room. Post-kiss. You're blushing. I'm practically glowing. This is peak drama."
She dropped her hands and sighed. "We're supposed to be enemies."
I tilted my head. "Enemies with... tongue?"
"Oh my god." She turned away, hiding her face again. "I can't with you."
I leaned back against the lockers, running a hand through my hair. My heart was still going off like it thought we were mid-game. "So... what does this mean?"
She peeked at me. "I don't know. Nothing? Everything? Temporary brain fog due to the ice-cold rink?"
"Possibly." I nodded, trying not to look too satisfied. "Or maybe you've secretly been in love with me all this time."
She rolled her eyes but bit back a smile. "Dream on, Dodge."
I smirked. "Already have."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was... loaded. Like we both wanted to say something more. But instead, Val pulled her hoodie over her head, grabbed her skates, and cleared her throat.
"I should go. Emma's probably wondering where I am."
I nodded, standing straighter. "Yeah. I should head out too. My mom gets dramatic when I'm out past midnight."
We paused near the door, both pretending this was normal, like we hadn't just made out five feet from a bench full of sweaty gym towels.
"Good luck tomorrow," she said, not quite meeting my eyes.
"You too."
Her fingers brushed mine on the door handle. Just a second. But it was enough to make my stomach do a full 360.
Then she was gone.
---
Home was warm and too bright.
I dumped my bag in the corner of the entryway and kicked off my shoes. The penthouse was quiet except for the soft sound of a TV playing some old drama in the background.
"Late night," Mom called from the kitchen, not looking up from her tea. "Skating with enemies again?"
I froze. "What?"
She looked over her mug, one perfectly manicured brow raised. "You smell like ice, look like a kicked puppy, and you're blushing. Which girl is it this time, Theodore?"
"Mom."
"Mm-hm." She sipped. "Just remember, kisses before competitions are either good luck... or very bad distractions."
I grabbed an apple from the counter and started walking backward toward my room. "Thanks for the emotional support."
"Anytime, sweetheart."
I shut my bedroom door and leaned against it.
Was I nervous?
No.
Not anymore.
Tomorrow was the championship. And somehow, after tonight, the pressure didn't scare me the same way.
Because yeah, I'd kissed Val Deluca.
And we were supposed to be enemies.
But enemies don't smile like that when they walk away.
And enemies definitely don't taste like peppermint chapstick.
---
7:03 AM.
My alarm screamed.
And I was already awake.
I hadn't really slept — not properly, anyway. I'd just laid there, staring at the ceiling, my mind stuck in replay like a cursed highlight reel. Over and over. The way her lips felt. The way she laughed after. That stunned look we both had like we were glitching.
I rolled out of bed and hit the cold floor with a grin I couldn't kill. Shower. Clothes. Stick. Bag. Sneakers on. Hoodie. Water bottle. I didn't even notice how fast I was moving until I glanced at the clock again.
7:41. Early. Not just on-time. Annoyingly early.
At school, the rink was quieter than usual — that soft echo of skates cutting across ice, the occasional whistle from Coach. The hockey team was already warming up, skating drills back and forth. I joined in, stretching out my arms, my shoulders, my legs.
"Dodge," Coach barked. "You good?"
I nodded, smirking. "Better than good."
And I was.
It was like something unlocked. Every drill felt easy. My passes were crisp, my speed sharp, my grip steady on the stick. I spun around one of the guys, sent the puck slicing into the net so hard it smacked the back post with a clang.
Coach let out a low whistle. "Damn. What'd you eat for breakfast?"
I grinned. "Confidence."
"Whatever it is, keep doing it."
I skated off with my heart thumping, not from exertion—but because I'd seen her.
There she was.
Val. Black leggings, cropped jacket, hair up in that messy bun with a few strands falling loose. She had her skates on and was stretching by the side of the rink, one leg resting high on the rail, like it was the most natural thing in the world to look like a goddess before 8 AM.
She looked up, caught me staring.
Of course, she smirked. "Shouldn't you be focusing on your puck, Dodge?"
"Can't. Too distracted by the view," I called back.
She rolled her eyes, but I could see her bite back a smile. "You're impossible."
"And yet, here I am. Looking amazing."
"I've seen better."
"Where?"
She opened her mouth, then shut it, laughing. "Whatever. I've got spins to land."
She skated toward the middle of the rink, all smooth and precise like her blades knew the ice personally. She picked up speed and started her sequence — fast rotations, arms tight, her body leaning just right.
And then… the big one.
The stunt she'd been working on for weeks. The one she almost landed yesterday, but not quite.
I knew she was nervous. I could see it in the tension of her shoulders, the little shake in her wrists as she took position.
She glanced toward the hockey half of the rink.
Our eyes met.
I didn't say anything.
Just mouthed: "Focus."
She inhaled. Sharp. Deep.
Then spun.
It was like watching gravity break.
She leapt into the air, turned — one, two, three, four — and landed so clean, so effortlessly that the sound of her blade hitting the ice echoed.
Perfect.
Her knees bent to catch herself, arms flared out, and she slid to a stop, chest heaving.
I didn't even realize I'd dropped my stick.
She looked up, stunned.
I gave her the slowest, cockiest clap I could manage.
She flipped me off.
I smirked. "You're welcome."
She blew a strand of hair out of her face. "You're insufferable."
"Yet highly effective."
And for just a second, right there in the middle of the rink, with the cold air and adrenaline buzzing between us…
She smiled like she'd forgotten we were supposed to be rivals.
And I grinned like I knew that kiss?
Was definitely not a mistake.