Fractured Desire

Chapter 4

The rink was empty except for me and the ice, glistening under the overhead lights like it had been polished with moonlight. My skates sliced through the surface, blades humming against frozen perfection. Music in my ears, body moving like it had a mind of its own I was a swan. A proper, tragic, perfect swan, and nobody could ruin it.

I twirled, arms arching, legs stretching, leaping in perfect rhythm. My reflection glared back at me from the wall of mirrors: pale face, hair plastered to my forehead, sweat making my leotard stick. I was alive. I was art. I was untouchable.

Until of course, someone had to ruin it.

“Oi, Swan Lake! What’s up, graceful?”

I groaned. The voice carried across the ice, bouncing off the walls like nails on a chalkboard. Hunter. And, behind him, a cluster of other hockey dickheads, helmets tucked under arms, smirks all in unison like a pack of coked-up wolves.

I froze mid-spin, blade scratching the ice. “You’re banned,” I muttered under my breath.

Hunter didn’t hear me, of course. “We’ve been watching you, and we think it’s hilarious,” he said. “Ballet, huh? That’s easy. Anyone can do it.”

I spun around, arms flaring like a goddess ready to obliterate. “Easy? You’re about to eat the ice, you cocky shit.”

The other girls from the ballet team skated in behind me, heels clicking on the edge of the rink as if they’d known this would happen. Lila’s expression was a mix of fury and exasperation.

“Seriously?” one of them snapped. “You think they get to just barge in and be assholes?”

I nodded, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Let’s see if they can survive ballet 101.”

Hunter laughed, stepping onto the ice like it was his domain. “It’s just skating. How hard can it be?”

Famous last words.

I demonstrated a leap, arms soaring, legs curling like I was born to defy gravity. The ice was mine, and I owned every inch of it.

“Your turn,” I said, gesturing at Hunter and his pack.

“Easy!” one of them said. “Just like skating, right?”

I watched as he tried a basic glide. His leg slipped out from under him mid-step. Flat on his face. The group erupted into laughter.

“Beginner’s luck,” I said sweetly, smirking.

Another tried, trying to imitate my spins. He didn’t. He fell sideways, arms flailing, like a drunken penguin. I could barely breathe from laughing.

“See? Ballet’s not easy,” I said, skating around him with perfect balance. “It’s art. It’s discipline. It’s—” I leaned close, voice low and sarcastic—“not falling on your arse in front of everyone while looking like an idiot.”

The girls cheered from the edge of the rink, clapping and hollering, while the boys groaned, cheeks red, embarrassment radiating like heat waves.

Hunter tried again, smirking like he could salvage some dignity. I let him attempt a spin. He wobbled, arms flailing like a windmill, and then perfectly predictable crashed into the barrier.

“You okay, Swan Lake?” I asked, skating close, voice syrupy sweet.

“I’m fine,” he muttered through gritted teeth, ignoring the fact that everyone including me was losing it laughing.

“Try again,” I teased, flipping my hair dramatically. “Maybe next time you’ll manage not to look like a toddler on ice.”

The girls and I formed a small line, doing a perfect routine in unison: spins, leaps, glides, extensions that would’ve made an audience weep. Every movement was precise, beautiful, and infuriatingly perfect. The boys tried to follow, slipping, tumbling, grunting, and failing spectacularly.

“This is art,” I shouted over the music. “You’re just… chaos!”

Hunter glared, chest rising and falling. “You’re psychotic,” he muttered.

“Better psychotic than pathetic,” I replied, skating past him with a flourish.

By the end, they were all sprawled across the ice, red-faced and panting. One muttered something about ballet being “easy,” and I laughed so hard I nearly fell myself.

“Easy, my arse,” I called out. “Next time, maybe you should try a tutu and a tiara. Might help your grace.”

The girls cheered, high-fiving me. Jax, who had somehow ended up leaning against the bleachers watching the chaos, gave me a thumbs-up and a grin.

“Legend,” he muttered. “Absolute legend.”

Hunter scrambled to his feet, glaring, smirk fading into something like rage and begrudging respect. I wanted to punch him and kiss him at the same time. Classic Hunter effect.

“Next time,” he said through clenched teeth, “I’ll get you.”

“You?” I snorted, spinning around with my arms extended, “You wouldn’t survive a pirouette without face-planting again.”

And there it was: my perfect little victory. Ice cold, perfect Swan Lake victory over the cocky hockey bros who thought they could walk in and ruin my world.

But I knew it wouldn’t last. Hunter never let anything go. And neither did I.