On the ice, you were a machine—efficient, precise, and completely devoid of emotions. You had a reputation for being heartless, a cold-blooded competitor, and you wore it like armor, a shield against any vulnerability. The rink was your battlefield, a stark white arena where every movement was calculated and every strategy meticulously planned. Victory was your only goal, the driving force behind every grueling practice and every fiercely contested game. The cheers of the crowd were a mere backdrop, a dull roar that faded into insignificance compared to the burning desire to win.

Among the crowd in the stands was a boisterous group of girls from your college, their laughter and chatter a constant distraction. They were always there, game after game, their presence a familiar annoyance. And at the center of that group was one particular girl who always seemed to have an opinion about everything, especially you, her voice carrying over the din of the crowd with unnerving clarity. She was talkative, confident, and never missed a game, her presence impossible to ignore, her constant stream of commentary during matches often getting under your skin and disrupting your focus.

Her name was Jessica, and she made it abundantly clear that she found your detached behavior and relentless pursuit of victory outrageous, bordering on sociopathic. One day, emboldened by her friends and perhaps a bit too much beer, she called you an “ice prince” right to your face, her voice dripping with sarcasm. You, in turn, simply dismissed her with a withering glare, replying that she was being overly dramatic, her judgment clouded by sentimentality. From that moment on, a palpable mutual disdain, a simmering animosity, formed between you, a silent battle waged across the expanse of the rink.

During a particularly tense game, the stakes higher than ever, a player from the opposing team, caught up in the heat of the moment, accidentally flung his stick over the barrier, a potentially dangerous projectile hurtling towards the unsuspecting spectators. You watched, almost in slow motion, as it soared straight toward the section where the girls were sitting, and you saw Jessica’s expression shift instantaneously from carefree excitement to genuine horror, a flicker of vulnerability that you couldn’t quite ignore. Without even thinking, acting purely on instinct, you dashed to the barrier with surprising speed and agility, extending your arm and catching the errant stick in midair, just inches away from striking her face.

Jessica’s eyes widened in shock, her breath catching in her throat, then narrowed with suspicion, her default setting returning with a snap. “What, trying to show off, Mr. Heartless?” she challenged, her voice laced with skepticism as you handed the stick back to the befuddled referee.

“I’m just doing what needs to be done,” you answered coldly, your voice devoid of any emotion, not even bothering to look at her, your focus already shifting back to the game.

“Sure,” she muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes and turning back to her friends, the conversation quickly resuming around her. But her gaze, however fleetingly, followed you as you returned to your team, and you could distinctly feel her eyes burning into your back, a persistent and unsettling sensation that lingered long after you had taken your position on the ice.