Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air inside Hawkins Ice Arena hung heavy with the sharp scent of frost, metal, and exertion—the familiar perfume of a rink that had seen thousands of hours of practice. Cold mist clung to the surface of the ice like a thin veil, disturbed only by the steady scrape of blades carving across it. Overhead lights reflected off the frozen surface in pale streaks, turning the rink into a glowing sheet of glass.

Will Byers glided across it like he belonged there.

His movements were effortless, fluid in a way that made the years of brutal training behind them invisible. Each push of his blade sent him cutting across the ice with quiet precision, drawing elegant arcs that overlapped like brushstrokes on a canvas. The soft hiss of his skates echoed through the otherwise empty arena.

At twenty-two, Will was at the peak of his career.

His body had been shaped by the sport—lean muscle and controlled strength built through endless early mornings and late nights. Beneath the arena lights, the fabric of his fitted black practice shirt clung lightly to his frame, the outline of his shoulders and arms shifting with every turn and extension. His dark hair, longer now than he used to wear it, fluttered slightly whenever he spun, loosened from the tight routine of training.

Out on the ice, Will wasn’t just an athlete.

He was an artist.

Every movement told a story—every glide, every lift, every jump carefully choreographed to mean something. The ice was his canvas, and his body was the brush. It had always been that way. Even when he was younger, when the jumps were messier and the landings rougher, the artistry had been there.

And today, that story was meant to be one of triumph.

He slowed slightly near center ice, exhaling a small cloud of breath into the cold air as he looked toward the boards.

Jane Hopper was watching him.

She leaned against the barrier with her arms crossed over her chest, one skate blade resting casually on the rubber matting. Her expression was focused, eyes sharp as she tracked every movement he made. Even at rest she carried an intensity that most skaters only found mid-performance.

Where Will was grace, Jane was force.

Where he flowed, she launched.

They balanced each other perfectly.

“Your edge was shallow on the outside turn,” she called across the rink, her voice echoing faintly in the cavernous arena.

Will groaned softly but skated toward her anyway, slowing to a stop near the boards.

“Good morning to you too, Hopper,” he said, leaning forward slightly on his elbows against the barrier. “Not even a hello first?”

Jane shrugged, though the corner of her mouth twitched.

“You said you wanted honest feedback.”

“I meant after coffee.”

“You don’t drink coffee.”

“Exactly,” Will replied with a tired smile. “Which means I’m already suffering enough.”

Jane snorted quietly and stepped back onto the ice, pushing off smoothly until she stood beside him.

Up close, their contrast was even clearer. Jane’s posture was grounded and powerful, her muscles built for explosive lifts and throws. Will’s strength was quieter—controlled, flexible, built for balance and flow.

Three years ago, when their coach first suggested pairing them together, neither of them had been sure it would work.

Now they were one of the most talked-about pairs in competitive skating.

Fans loved them. Judges loved them.

The way Jane launched into the air during a throw jump while Will steadied her landing was almost gravity-defying. The way he guided her through intricate step sequences made their movements look like two halves of the same thought.

They had spent three years building that trust.

Three years of falls, bruises, arguments, and victories.

Jane tilted her head slightly toward center ice.

“Again?” she asked.

Will followed her gaze, staring out at the endless sheet of white.

His legs already ached faintly from the morning’s practice, but the familiar thrill was there too—the quiet electricity that came every time they prepared to run the routine. He pushed away from the boards.

“Again,” he agreed.

Jane’s blades scraped lightly against the ice as she moved beside him.

The national finals were only weeks away. Every practice now carried a different kind of weight. Every jump, every lift, every turn had to be perfect. There was no room for hesitation anymore—not when they were this close. Their program had already become something of a quiet legend among coaches and competitors. A daring blend of haunting classical strings layered over subtle modern beats, the choreography told a story of tension and release, of gravity and surrender. It was dramatic, intimate, and technically brutal.

Exactly the kind of routine judges loved. Exactly the kind that could win gold.

Will could already imagine it. The medal around his neck.  The bright lights reflecting off the ice. The roar of the crowd rising like thunder as the final note of their music faded. He had chased that moment for most of his life. And now it was finally within reach.

Will gathered speed across the rink, pushing harder with each stroke. The cold air burned slightly in his lungs, but the familiar rhythm of skating steadied him. He pulled his arms in, launched upward—and spun through a flawless double axel.

For a brief moment, he was suspended in the air. Then his blades met the ice again with a smooth, controlled landing. Knees bent. Arms extended. Clean.

Perfect.

He exhaled, a small cloud of breath dissolving in the cold air. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jane already moving toward him. They didn't need to say anything. After three years, most of their timing was instinct. This was their signature moment.

Jane pushed off the ice, gathering speed as she approached him. Her strides were powerful, confident, the kind built from endless hours of repetition. When she launched herself toward him, her body moved with complete trust—arms strong, core tight, ready for the lift.

Will shifted into position automatically. Hands ready. Timing precise.

As she reached him, his hands gripped firmly at her waist, muscles tightening as he prepared to lift her overhead into the sweeping arabesque that always drew gasps from the audience. They had done it hundreds of times. In competitions. In rehearsals. In half-asleep early morning practices when their bodies moved purely from memory.

This time should have been no different. Except something went wrong. It happened in less than a second. Jane’s skate blade clipped something along the ice—an uneven groove, maybe a shallow divot left from the Zamboni's pass. Her edge slipped just enough to throw off her balance.

Will felt it instantly. The shift. The wrong angle. Her body twisted in the air, just slightly—but enough. And then— Crack.

The sound was sharp and sickening, echoing across the empty arena like something breaking that should never break. Jane hit the ice first. Hard. Her cry ripped through the rink, raw and startled and full of pain. The sound bounced off the high metal rafters, shattering like broken glass.

Will froze for half a heartbeat. Then everything collapsed into chaos. His own blades slipped as he tried to stop too quickly, and he nearly lost his footing before dropping to his knees beside her. “Jane!” The name tore out of him before he even realized he was speaking. “Oh God—Jane, are you okay?!”

His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, panic rushing through him so fast it made his hands shake. Jane had curled slightly on the ice, clutching her leg tightly. Her face was twisted with pain, eyes squeezed shut, breaths coming in short, shaky bursts.

Will reached toward her instinctively, hands hovering over her injured leg. But she grabbed it first, gripping just above her ankle as if trying to hold the bone together.

“Don’t—” she gasped, her voice tight and strained. “D-don’t touch it.”

That alone made Will’s stomach drop. Jane never sounded like that. She was the tough one. The unshakeable one. The skater who got back up after brutal falls and brushed off bruises like they were nothing. Seeing her like this—pale, shaking, barely able to breathe through the pain—made something cold settle in his chest.

“Okay,” he said quickly, trying to steady his voice even as his heart hammered violently. “Okay, okay… just—just stay still.”

His mind was racing. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not with nationals so close. Not after everything they’d worked for. Across the arena, the faint hum of the rink machinery suddenly felt deafening in the silence that followed.

Will swallowed hard, his hands hovering helplessly as Jane’s fingers tightened around her ankle. “Jane,” he whispered, fear creeping into his voice despite his best effort to control it. “Talk to me.”

“Will… it hurts. Fuck, it hurts so bad.” Jane’s voice came out ragged and broken, the words barely making it past the sharp breaths she sucked in between them. Tears streamed freely down the sides of her face, freezing almost instantly against the ice beneath her. Her dark hair had spilled out from its tight bun during the fall, strands fanning around her head like ink spreading across white paper.

Will felt his chest tighten painfully at the sight. “Hey—hey, don’t move,” he said quickly, dropping lower beside her. Jane tried anyway. Instinct. Determination. She planted one hand against the ice and attempted to push herself upright. The moment her injured ankle shifted, her entire body seized. A strangled cry tore from her throat as she collapsed back down, her grip tightening around her leg.

“Okay—okay! Don’t, don’t move,” Will repeated, his voice shaking now. “Just stay still. I’ve got you.”

He slid one hand gently beneath her head, lifting it just enough so it wasn’t pressed against the ice. His other hand hovered uselessly near her shoulder, unsure where he could touch without hurting her more.

Jane’s breaths came fast and uneven. “Will… my ankle—something’s wrong,” she managed, her voice cracking.

“I know,” he said softly, though the words felt like gravel in his throat. “I know.”

The sharp blasts of whistles suddenly echoed through the arena as their coaches rushed onto the ice. The heavy door to the rink banged open somewhere behind them, the sound reverberating through the cavernous space. But Will barely registered it.

The world had shrunk to the girl lying in front of him. This can’t be happening. His thoughts spiraled wildly, each one crashing harder than the last.

Three years.

Three years of brutal practices before sunrise. Three years of ice burns, bruises blooming across their arms and legs, muscles aching so badly they could barely walk to their cars afterward. Three years of pushing each other harder than anyone else dared to.

All of it had led here. To nationals. To the gold they had chased since the moment they first stepped onto the ice together. Will swallowed hard, trying to push down the rising panic clawing up his throat. Jane wasn’t just his skating partner. She was the only person who really understood what this life felt like.

The pressure.
The constant scrutiny.
The loneliness that came with always chasing perfection.

When everyone else saw trophies and applause, Jane saw the exhaustion behind it. The sacrifices. The quiet moments when doubt crept in. She had been there for all of it. And he had been there for her. They fought like siblings sometimes—arguing over choreography, timing, stupid little things during practice—but the bond between them ran deeper than any routine they performed. She wasn’t replaceable. Not on the ice. Not anywhere.

Jane squeezed her eyes shut again, another wave of pain rolling through her. “Will—” she gasped, her fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeve.

“I’m right here,” he said immediately, tightening his grip slightly around the back of her head. “I’m not going anywhere.” Footsteps skidded across the ice behind them.

“Jane! What happened?” one of the coaches shouted, dropping to his knees beside them. “She slipped,” Will said quickly, his voice still unsteady. “Her skate caught something—I heard a crack.” Even saying the word made his stomach twist violently.

The coach’s face immediately grew serious as he crouched lower, examining her ankle without touching it. “Jane, can you move your toes?” he asked carefully.

Jane tried. The movement made her hiss sharply through clenched teeth. “Barely,” she whispered.

Will felt dread settle deeper into his chest. Across the arena, the doors opened again, and someone shouted for medical staff. The bright, pristine ice that had always felt like home suddenly felt cold and unforgiving beneath them. Will glanced down at Jane again, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break through his ribs.

“Hey,” he murmured quietly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her face.

Jane blinked up at him through tears. “We’re okay,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince her or himself. “You hear me? We’re gonna figure this out.”

But deep down, a terrifying thought had already begun creeping into the corners of his mind.

If Jane couldn’t skate… Nationals were over.

The medical team arrived quickly—faster than Will expected, though time had already begun to blur strangely around him. One moment it was just the two of them on the ice. The next, several people in dark jackets were kneeling beside Jane, their voices calm but urgent as they worked.

“Alright, Jane, we’re going to take a look,” one of them said gently. Another carefully cut away the laces of her skate while a third stabilized her leg so it wouldn’t move. Jane clenched her jaw, breathing through her teeth as they worked, her fingers tightening reflexively around Will’s sleeve.

Will stayed right where he was. He couldn’t seem to move. “Easy,” one of the medics murmured as they slid a brace around her ankle. “We’re just stabilizing it.”

Jane sucked in a sharp breath when they lifted her foot slightly to wrap it.

“Sorry—sorry,” the medic added quickly.

Will felt completely useless sitting there. Normally he would’ve been the one helping her up, brushing off the ice after a fall, joking about it until they were both laughing again.

But this wasn’t one of those falls. The brace was secured tightly around her ankle before they carefully helped lift her onto a stretcher. The metal legs unfolded with a loud clack that echoed through the arena. Jane winced but didn’t cry out this time, her face pale as she focused on breathing. “Alright,” one of them said. “Let’s get her off the ice.”

Will scrambled to his feet immediately, nearly tripping over his own blades as they began pushing the stretcher toward the rink gate. He followed them automatically. His skates dragged across the ice, each step slow and heavy, like his body suddenly weighed twice as much.

“Is it broken?” he asked suddenly.

No one answered right away.

They reached the rubber mat outside the rink before stopping near the bench area, where a trainer was already waiting.

Erica, one of their medics looked over at him giving him an apologetic look before saying. “Bad ankle injury. Possible fracture.”

Will looked at her immediately. “Is it broken?” he repeated, his voice sharper this time. “Tell me it’s not broken.”

Erica had worked with them for years. She was tough, practical, and rarely sugarcoated anything. She crouched beside the stretcher, carefully examining the swelling already forming around Jane’s ankle beneath the wrap. Her expression tightened slightly. “We need X-rays to be sure,” she said finally.

Will felt his stomach drop.

“But—” she continued carefully, glancing up at him. “It doesn’t look good.”

The words hung in the air like a weight.

“Severe sprain at minimum,” Erica said. “Possible fracture.”

Jane closed her eyes briefly. Will felt his chest tighten painfully.

“She’s out for the finals, kid,” Erica added quietly. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do right now except get her to the hospital.”

The words hit him like a punch to the ribs. Out for the finals. Just like that. Three years of work—gone in a single bad landing. Jane’s hand shifted weakly on the stretcher until it found his. Her fingers curled around his automatically, squeezing. Will looked down at her. She tried to offer him a small smile, though it faltered almost immediately.

“We’ll… we’ll figure it out,” she said quietly. Her voice was shaky, but the determination in it was familiar. “Maybe a sub?” she suggested weakly. “Or… solo?” But even as she said it, they both knew. Pairs skating didn’t work like that. You couldn’t just replace a partner weeks before nationals—not when the routine depended on years of trust, timing, and muscle memory.

And solo… Solo wouldn’t carry the same story they had built together. Wouldn’t carry them. Jane’s grip on his hand tightened briefly before loosening as the medics began moving again.

“We’ve got to go,” one of them said.

Will nodded automatically, though his brain barely registered the motion. He watched silently as they wheeled her toward the arena exit. Jane lifted her head slightly from the stretcher, looking back at him one last time. “Hey,” she called softly.

Will blinked.

“Don’t spiral, okay?” she said, her voice still rough with pain. “We’ll figure something out.” Then the doors swung closed behind the stretcher. And she was gone.

The arena fell silent again. The music system had long since shut off, leaving only the distant mechanical hum of the rink’s cooling system filling the space. The ice stretched out before him—wide, empty, and strangely lifeless. Just minutes ago it had been their stage. Now it felt like a graveyard for everything they’d been working toward. Will slowly pulled off his gloves, his fingers trembling slightly as he tossed them onto the bench.

His hands felt cold without them. He sank down heavily, elbows resting on his knees, staring blankly out at the rink. What now? The question echoed in his mind over and over. Gold was slipping away. Nationals were slipping away.

Everything they had built—every late-night practice, every painful fall, every victory—suddenly felt fragile.

Like it could all disappear with one bad moment. Will dragged a shaky hand through his hair, staring at the empty ice. For the first time in years, he had no idea what came next.

The arena doors slammed open with a loud metallic bang that echoed across the quiet rink. Max Mayfield stormed inside like a thunderclap. Her red hair caught the harsh fluorescent lights overhead, the bright strands bouncing wildly around her shoulders as she hurried across the rubber flooring. A cold gust of outside air followed her in, swirling briefly through the arena before fading into the ever-present chill of the rink.

She was already talking into her phone. “No—listen to me, I don’t care what the press office heard. Nobody says anything until I know exactly what happened. Got it?” she snapped, pacing quickly toward the ice.

Max ended the call before the person on the other end could even respond, shoving the phone into the pocket of her jacket with practiced irritation. At twenty-four, Max had already built a reputation most managers twice her age would kill for. Sharp-tongued. Relentless. Impossible to intimidate. She had clawed her way into the brutal, politics-heavy world of figure skating management through sheer stubbornness and a refusal to back down from anyone—not coaches, not sponsors, not federation officials.

And if there was one thing everyone knew about Max Mayfield, it was this: She protected her athletes like a wolf protected its pack. Her eyes scanned the arena quickly, taking in the empty ice, the scattered equipment near the boards—

—and then she saw him.

Will sat slumped on the bench near the rink entrance, shoulders hunched forward, gloves abandoned beside him. The sight made her stomach tighten. “Byers!” she called, already moving toward him. “What the hell happened?” Her boots thudded against the flooring as she crossed the distance in seconds, dropping her bag without a second thought before kneeling in front of him.

“I get a call from Coach saying Hopper’s down,” Max continued quickly, breath slightly uneven from rushing in. “Nobody gives me details, everyone’s freaking out—so start talking.”

Her sharp blue eyes immediately swept over him, scanning instinctively for injuries. Hands. Knees. Shoulders. “Are you hurt?” she asked abruptly.

Will blinked slowly, as if the question took a moment to register. “No,” he muttered.

Only then did Max really see his face. The devastation there made her expression soften almost instantly. His brown eyes looked glassy, unfocused, like he was still somewhere back on the ice when Jane fell. Max’s voice lowered slightly. “Hey,” she said more gently. “Talk to me.”

Will swallowed hard. “Her ankle,” he said quietly. The words sounded heavy, like they cost him something just to say. “She twisted it on the lift.”

Max’s brow furrowed immediately. “What lift?”

“Our closing one,” he replied numbly. “The arabesque.”

Max inhaled slowly. That lift was one of the most difficult parts of their program. And one of the most important. “They think it’s broken,” Will added.

The words cracked slightly on the last syllable. “They took her to the hospital.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “Okay,” she said carefully. “Did the trainer say that for sure?”

“They need X-rays,” Will said. “But Erica said… severe sprain at least.”

He let out a quiet breath that sounded dangerously close to a laugh, though there was no humor in it. “She’s out, Max.” The sentence hung in the cold air between them. “The finals…” he murmured, staring blankly toward the empty ice. “We’re done.”

For a moment, Max didn’t respond. She followed his gaze across the rink—the same rink where she’d watched them train for hours, watched their routine evolve from rough choreography into something breathtaking.

Three years of work. Gone in a second.

But Max Mayfield wasn’t the kind of person who sat in silence when things fell apart. She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees so she was directly in his line of sight. “Hey,” she said firmly.

Will blinked and looked at her. “We are not declaring defeat five minutes after the injury,” Max said. Her tone wasn’t harsh—but it carried the same unshakeable determination that had gotten her into the industry in the first place. “Jane’s tough as hell,” she continued. “You know that better than anyone.”

Will ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Even if it’s just a sprain, she won’t recover in time,” he said quietly.

Max didn’t argue with that. She knew the timeline too well. But that didn’t mean she was ready to accept the outcome. Max let out a sharp curse under her breath, dragging a hand through her already wild red hair. The motion only made it worse, strands falling into her face as she exhaled hard through her nose. “Shit,” she muttered. She turned away from Will for a moment, pacing across the rubber flooring beside the bench. Her boots thudded softly with every step, the sound echoing faintly in the cavernous arena. 

One hand rested on her hip while the other tapped restlessly against her phone, her mind clearly racing through a dozen possibilities at once. “Okay,” she said under her breath, more to herself than anyone else. “Okay, okay… don’t panic.” She stopped pacing for half a second, then added dryly, “Panicking’s my job.”

Will watched her quietly from the bench. The frantic energy radiating off Max was almost comforting. It gave his mind something to focus on besides the image of Jane lying on the ice.

Max had always been like this—loud, relentless, impossible to ignore. Where Will tended to retreat into his own thoughts, Max barreled straight through problems like a wrecking ball.

She’d been with him since his junior skating days, back when he was still just a talented kid with messy hair and too much nervous energy before competitions. Back then, most managers had looked at him and seen potential—but also risk.

Max had seen something else entirely. She’d pushed him harder than anyone. Negotiated sponsorships. Fought with coaches. Argued with federation officials who tried to sideline him. Turned his natural artistry into a name people in the skating world actually recognized.

Over the years, somewhere between competitions and travel and endless strategy meetings, she’d stopped feeling like just a manager. She’d become something closer to family. And right now, watching her pace like a caged animal, Will realized he was strangely grateful she was here.

Max stopped suddenly and turned back toward him, pointing a finger in his direction. “Listen,” she said.

Will blinked up at her.

“We are not throwing in the towel!” Her voice carried across the empty rink with sharp certainty.

Will let out a quiet breath. “Max—”

“Nope,” she cut him off immediately. “Not hearing it.” She resumed pacing, her brain clearly shifting into problem-solving mode. “Pairs skating needs two people, yeah,” she continued. “But that doesn’t mean we’re completely screwed.”

Will frowned slightly. “Max…”

“I know people,” she said quickly, holding up a finger as she counted off possibilities. “A lot of people.” Her pacing sped up again. “I’ve got contacts in three training programs, two retired skaters who still owe me favors, and one federation rep who would rather chew glass than deal with me—but he’ll still answer my calls.”

Will couldn’t help it—he gave a faint, exhausted huff that almost resembled a laugh.

Max pointed at him again. “Exactly. See? Humor. We’re making progress.” She stopped pacing and crouched down in front of him again, lowering her voice slightly. “I’ll pull strings,” she said firmly. “I’ll start scouting a replacement partner tonight if I have to.”

Will stared at her. “A replacement?” he echoed.

Max lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Temporary,” she clarified quickly. “We’re talking emergency partner, not permanent.”

She tapped the side of her head as she continued thinking aloud. “I’ll talk to the federation too—see if there’s any way we can get an extension on the entry list. Maybe medical exemption paperwork, maybe a late substitution clause…”

She trailed off for a second before shaking her head. “Hell,” she added, throwing her hands up slightly, “if I have to, I’ll get you a goddamn stunt double.”

That actually made Will laugh—a short, disbelieving sound. “A stunt double?” he repeated.

Max shrugged again, completely serious. “Figure skating version of one,” she said. “Point is, we’ll figure something out.”

She leaned forward slightly, her expression sharpening. “But you?” she continued, pointing at him again. “You are skating.”

Will opened his mouth to protest, but Max didn’t let him.

“Don’t,” she warned. “Don’t even start with the defeatist crap, Byers.” Her blue eyes locked onto his with fierce determination. “You’ve spent years building toward this,” she said. “Years.” She gestured toward the ice behind him. “I’ve watched you train until you could barely walk. I’ve watched you redo the same step sequence two hundred times until it was perfect.”

Her voice softened just slightly. “And Jane didn’t bust her ass for three years just for you to give up the second something goes wrong.”

Will looked down at his hands. He knew she was right. Jane would absolutely lose her mind if he just quit.

Max crossed her arms. “That gold medal?” she said. Her tone carried the same stubborn confidence she’d always had. “That gold medal is still ours.” Will glanced back toward the empty rink. The ice reflected the overhead lights in long, pale streaks. Just hours ago, it had felt like home. Now it felt like a question he didn’t know how to answer.

Still…

Max’s certainty planted a small, stubborn spark somewhere deep in his chest.

“You really think this is possible?” he asked quietly.

Max smirked slightly. “Byers,” she said. “I once convinced a sponsor that glitter-covered skate guards were a ‘revolutionary marketing opportunity.’”

She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Trust me,” she added. “I can work miracles.”

Will managed a weak, fragile smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. The doubt sitting heavy in his chest refused to budge. “Still A replacement?” he said quietly, the word sounding wrong even as it left his mouth. He shook his head slowly, staring down at his hands. “Jane’s irreplaceable, Max.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

“Our routine—” he continued, gesturing helplessly toward the rink. “Everything we do is built around her. The timing, the lifts, the transitions… I can’t just plug someone else in like it’s nothing. I can’t do this without her.”

Max didn’t hesitate. “The routine can adapt,” she interrupted firmly.

Will looked up at her.

“And Jane would absolutely want you to keep going,” she continued, her voice sharp with certainty. “You know she would.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but the words died before they formed. Because he did know that. Jane would probably scream at him if he even suggested quitting.

Max crossed her arms, tilting her head at him. “And if you win,” she added, softer this time, “it won’t just be for you.” Her blue eyes held his. “It’ll be for her too.”

The words settled somewhere deep in Will’s chest, heavy but grounding.

Max suddenly straightened, her expression shifting as another thought hit her. “You’re Will Byers,” she said, pointing at him again. “The golden boy of gliding.”

Will groaned faintly. “Please never call me that again.”

“Not the point,” Max shot back immediately. She began pacing again, the familiar rhythm returning as her brain worked through the problem. “Unfortunately,” she continued, “finding another elite pairs skater this late in the season is basically impossible.”

Will nodded slowly. That much he already knew.

Most pairs trained together for years before competing at the national level. The kind of trust required in lifts and throws wasn’t something you built overnight. But Max didn’t look discouraged. If anything, she looked energized.

“So,” she said, snapping her fingers suddenly, “we think outside the box.”

Will frowned. “Outside the box how?”

Max grinned. “I’m talking hockey players, Will.”

He blinked. “…What?”

Max was already digging her phone out of her pocket. “Hockey players,” she repeated like it was the most obvious idea in the world. “Strong legs, insane balance, used to skating at high speeds, excellent upper body strength.”

She ticked off each point on her fingers. “And most importantly,” she added, “they already know the ice.”

Will stared at her. “Max… hockey and figure skating are completely different sports.”

“Details,” she said dismissively. “You’d still need someone strong enough to support lifts,” she continued. “Someone with solid edge control. Someone who won’t panic when you launch yourself at them mid-spin.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “That’s… a lot to ask And why would I be the one getting lifted?”

Max shrugged. “That’s why we test a few, and because those are harder moves to pull off.. But they’re ones you already know.” She unlocked her phone and began scrolling quickly through her contacts. “First call,” she said, holding up a finger, “doctor. I want a real update on Jane’s ankle.” She raised another finger. “Second call: every contact I have in the skating and hockey world.”

Will rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. “You’re serious about this.”

Max glanced at him. “Dead serious.”

Then she pointed toward the locker room hallway. “You,” she said, “are not sitting here spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Will muttered.

“You’re absolutely spiraling.”

He sighed. Max continued, already dialing a number. “You hit the gym,” she said. “Work on solo elements for now. Spins, step sequences, edge work—keep your muscle memory sharp.”

She pressed the phone to her ear. “Nationals don’t stop just because we had a bad day.” Then she started walking toward the exit again, already slipping back into full manager mode. “Hey—yeah, hi,” she said into the phone. “This is Max Mayfield calling about Jane Hopper—” Her voice faded slightly as she stepped further away.

Will remained on the bench. The arena had fallen quiet again. He slowly turned his head toward the rink. The ice stretched wide and pale beneath the bright lights. Thin marks from their blades still cut across the surface—loops, turns, half-finished patterns from the routine they’d been practicing. Their routine. A tight feeling returned to his chest.

Jane should be out there right now, complaining about her landing edges or arguing with him about musical timing. Instead she was in a hospital. Will leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The faint hum of the rink’s cooling system filled the silence.

She’s right, he thought. I can’t quit. Jane would never forgive him for that. Still, the practical side of his brain refused to quiet down. Pairs skating wasn’t just choreography.

It was physics. Timing. Absolute trust. Lifts required perfect balance and strength. One wrong move and someone could get seriously hurt.

His gaze followed the lines carved into the ice where they’d been practicing earlier. Who could possibly fit into something like that? His mind began running through the mechanics automatically. Someone strong enough to catch him mid-air.

Someone stable on skates. Someone who understood ice movement—not just standing on it, but controlling it. Hockey players were powerful, sure.

Fast. Explosive.

But figure skating required precision.

Grace. Trust.

Will exhaled slowly, watching his breath fog faintly in the cold air. It had to be someone who understood the ice. Not just someone who played on it. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a strange, uncertain thought began to form. Maybe Max wasn’t as crazy as she sounded.

Across town, the Hawkins Hockey Center felt like a completely different world from the quiet precision of the figure skating rink. Here, the air was thick with the smell of sweat, rubber, and sharpened steel. The arena lights blazed down on scarred ice that had seen far more fights than flawless routines. The boards were dented from years of collisions, and the glass rattled every time a player slammed into it. This rink didn’t care about elegance. It thrived on impact.

The sharp crack of sticks against pucks echoed across the ice as practice raged on, the sound mixing with the constant scrape of blades carving aggressive lines into the frozen surface. Players shouted to each other over the chaos, voices rough and competitive.

It was loud. Brutal. Alive. And right at the center of it all was Mike Wheeler.

Mike dominated the ice like he owned it.

At six-foot-two, he towered over most of the players on the rink, his broad shoulders and powerful build making him look more like a linebacker than a hockey player. Years of training had packed muscle across his frame, and when he moved, it was with the controlled aggression of someone who knew exactly how dangerous he could be.

His dark curls spilled slightly from beneath his helmet, damp with sweat from the intense drill. Beneath the cage of his mask, his brown eyes burned with sharp focus as he tracked the puck sliding across the ice.

Hockey wasn’t just a sport to him. It was the only language that ever made complete sense.

“Move it! Move it!” a teammate shouted from across the rink.

Mike didn’t need the reminder. He surged forward down the wing, legs pumping hard as he accelerated. His skates cut into the ice with brutal speed, spraying a trail of shavings behind him. The puck stayed glued to the blade of his stick as he stick-handled with surprising precision for someone known mostly for his strength.

A defenseman tried to close the gap. Mike didn’t slow down. Instead, he shifted his weight and drove straight into the hit. The impact was thunderous.

Shoulder met chest with a bone-rattling crack that echoed through the arena as the other player slammed into the boards and lost his balance completely. He crumpled onto the ice with a grunt, his stick skittering several feet away.

The glass vibrated from the force. For a split second, the rink went quiet. Then the benches erupted.

“Damn!” someone yelled.

“Holy hell, Wheeler!”

Mike barely reacted. He just scooped the puck back under control and fired a quick shot toward the goal before the whistle blew. The goalie barely managed to block it with his pad. The drill stopped.

A chorus of laughter and cheering broke out as players skated past the fallen defenseman, who was already pushing himself back up with a groan. From the bench, Lucas Sinclair leaned over the boards, shaking his head with an amused grin. “Wheeler!” Lucas shouted. “Save some for the actual game, you animal!”

Mike finally slowed, gliding in a wide circle as he caught his breath. “Tell him to stay out of my lane,” Mike shot back, his voice slightly muffled behind the cage of his helmet.

The player he’d knocked down lifted a hand sarcastically. “Yeah, yeah. Real funny,” he muttered.

Lucas hopped over the boards and skated out to meet Mike, easily weaving around a stray puck that slid past them. Up close, the difference in their play styles was obvious. Lucas was leaner, built for speed and agility, his movements quick and controlled compared to Mike’s heavier, explosive skating.

Still, they moved around each other easily—years of playing together had built an almost automatic rhythm. Lucas bumped Mike’s shoulder as he passed him. “You trying to kill someone during practice?” Lucas asked with a laugh.

Mike shrugged, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his glove. “He stepped into the drill.”

“That was a scrimmage warm-up,” Lucas said.

“Same thing.”

Lucas snorted. “You’re unbelievable.”

Mike rested the blade of his stick against the ice, glancing around the rink while the coach reset the next drill. Players skated lazily in circles, catching their breath. The constant noise of practice filled the arena again—sticks tapping, pucks sliding, someone arguing with the goalie about a missed pass. This place felt like home. Simple rules. Fast decisions.

Hit hard, skate harder.

Lucas tilted his head slightly, studying Mike for a second. “You’re in a mood today,” he said.

Mike shrugged again, though his jaw tightened slightly. “Just playing.”

Lucas wasn’t convinced. “You nearly folded Carter in half,” he pointed out.

Mike followed Lucas’s gaze toward the defenseman he’d hit earlier. The guy was fine now, skating again like nothing happened.

Still…

Lucas smirked slightly. “Let me guess,” he said. “Too much energy.”

Mike huffed a quiet laugh. “Something like that.”

Lucas pushed off the ice slightly, spinning his stick lazily in one hand. “Well, good news,” he said. “Coach says if you break anyone else today, you’re running extra laps.”

Mike groaned. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” Lucas grinned wider. “And since you already almost murdered Carter—”

Mike shot him a glare.

Lucas held up his hands innocently. “I’m just saying… maybe tone down the ‘hockey warlord’ energy a little.”

Mike skidded to a stop near the boards as the drill ended, the spray of ice from his skates dusting the glass. His chest rose and fell heavily beneath the bulky pads, lungs pulling in the cold rink air as the adrenaline slowly started to settle. He reached up and yanked off his helmet, shaking out the damp curls stuck to his forehead. Sweat trickled down the side of his face, and he wiped it away with the back of his gloved hand.

For a moment he just stood there, stick planted against the ice, catching his breath.

That’s what I live for. The hit. The rush.
It was the only time his mind really shut up.

Off the ice, his thoughts were always moving—strategizing, overthinking, replaying mistakes, imagining plays that hadn’t happened yet. But when he was skating, when he was chasing the puck or lining up a check, everything narrowed into one simple focus. Move fast. Hit hard. Win the puck. Nothing else mattered.

Mike rolled his shoulders slightly, loosening the tension in his muscles as he leaned casually against his stick.

“What, Sinclair?” he called out across the ice with a crooked smirk. “Jealous you can’t hit like that?”

Lucas clapped him hard on the shoulder pad. “Nah, man,” Lucas said. “I just prefer my opponents conscious.”

Mike snorted. “Overrated.”

Lucas shook his head, still grinning. “Seriously though,” he added, lowering his voice slightly as he glanced around the rink. “Playoffs are coming. Maybe don’t turn practice into a demolition derby.”

Mike shrugged. “Tell that to Carter. He skated into it.”

“Uh huh.” Lucas tilted his head toward the far side of the rink. “And if Coach benches you because you flattened half the roster before playoffs even start?”

Mike followed Lucas’s gaze. Near the boards stood Dustin Henderson, the team’s manager and unofficial chaos coordinator. Dustin’s curly hair stuck out in every direction like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times already that morning.

He was hunched over a clipboard, scribbling something furiously while muttering to himself.

Every few seconds he’d glance up at the ice, push his glasses up his nose, then write something else down.

Mike smirked. “What’s Henderson writing?” he asked. “My list of victims?”

Lucas laughed. “Probably.”

Right on cue, Dustin suddenly looked up. “HEY!” Dustin shouted across the rink.

Mike and Lucas both turned. Dustin pointed the eraser end of his pencil at Mike accusingly.

“That hit counts as excessive force in three different leagues, Wheeler!”

Mike lifted his hands innocently. “He was asking for it!”

Dustin shook his head dramatically. “I’m adding it to the incident report!”

“You don’t have incident reports,” Lucas called.

“I do now!” Dustin fired back.

Mike chuckled quietly. The whistle suddenly shrieked across the arena. Practice was over.

Players immediately started coasting toward the benches, the aggressive energy dissolving into tired chatter and clattering gear. Steam rose faintly from their jerseys as they stepped off the ice, the warmth of their bodies meeting the cold air of the rink.

Coach barked a few final instructions, but most of the team was already peeling off helmets and gloves. Mike stepped over the boards last, his skates clunking onto the rubber mat.

The adrenaline was fading now, replaced by that deep, satisfying ache in his muscles that came after a hard practice. Lucas nudged him with his elbow as they headed toward the locker room.

“Seriously though,” Lucas said. “You’re gonna get yourself scouted right out of the league if you keep playing like a wrecking ball.”

Mike shot him a sideways glance. “They scout wrecking balls too.”

Lucas raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. For demolition jobs.”

Mike shoved him lightly as they pushed through the locker room doors. Inside, the familiar chaos of the room wrapped around them instantly. Lockers slammed open. Gear thudded onto benches. Someone blasted music from a speaker in the corner while two players argued loudly about a missed pass during the last drill.

Mike dropped onto the bench in front of his locker and started peeling off his equipment. Helmet first. Then gloves. Shoulder pads followed with a heavy thud as he tossed them onto the floor. Each layer he removed made the ache in his muscles more noticeable—but it was the good kind of pain.

The earned kind. He rolled his shoulders again, wincing slightly before leaning forward to undo the straps on his leg pads. Across the room, Dustin appeared in the doorway, still clutching his clipboard like it contained classified government secrets.

“You guys realize,” Dustin said loudly, “that we’re playing Indianapolis next week?” Several players groaned. Mike looked up slightly.

The Indianapolis team had been chirping nonstop in interviews lately, questioning the Hellhounds’ defense and—more specifically—Mike’s discipline.

One reporter had even called him “a liability with a temper problem.” Mike grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from the back of his neck.

Good. He liked having something to prove. The upcoming game sat in his mind like a challenge waiting to happen.

A chance to shut the scouts up. A chance to remind everyone exactly what kind of player he was. Across the locker room, Lucas tossed his gloves into his locker and glanced over.

“You’re thinking about it already, aren’t you?” Lucas asked. Mike smirked slightly. “Maybe.”

Lucas sighed. “Wheeler…”

Mike leaned back against the bench, stretching his sore arms. The faint hum of the arena echoed through the walls.

The locker room had settled into its usual post-practice chaos.

Gear clattered into lockers, the air thick with the smell of sweat, tape, and damp equipment. Someone had turned the speakers up too loud again, blasting some aggressive rock song that rattled the metal benches. Players shouted over the music while peeling off pads and arguing about plays from practice.

He liked this part of the day. Practice over. Adrenaline fading. Nothing left to worry about except the next game. At least, that’s what he thought—until a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“Mike! Buddy! Got a sec?” Mike didn’t even look up at first. He already knew that tone.

Scheming. Excited. Dangerous. Slowly, he lowered the towel from his face and glanced to his right. Dustin Henderson stood there clutching his clipboard like it contained the secret to world domination. His eyes were practically glowing behind his glasses.

Mike groaned. “If this is about that energy drink endorsement again—”

“Better,” Dustin interrupted immediately. He waved both hands dramatically, nearly smacking another player walking past. “Way better.”

Mike narrowed his eyes slightly, suspicious.

Dustin only looked more excited. “Publicity gold,” he continued, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “Like—career-making stuff.”

Mike sighed and tossed the towel into his locker. Dustin’s ideas usually fell into one of two categories:

Brilliant marketing moves.

Or

Complete disasters that nearly got the team banned from three different events.

Still, Mike humored him. He pulled on a clean shirt and glanced over. “Alright,” he said. “Spit it out, Henderson.”

Before Dustin could answer, another voice joined them. “Yeah, Mike,” said Lucas, stepping up beside them with his phone in hand. “This one’s actually partly from me.”

Mike looked between them. That was… concerning.

Lucas jerked his thumb toward the phone. “My girlfriend Max—you know, the skating manager?”

Mike nodded vaguely. He’d met her once or twice when Lucas dragged her to games. Loud, confident, terrifyingly organized.

“She’s in a bind,” Lucas continued. “One of her skaters had an accident today.”

Mike leaned back slightly against the locker. “And this involves me how?”

Lucas hesitated for half a second. “They need a temporary fill-in for nationals.”

Mike blinked. “…Nationals what?”

“Figure skating,” Lucas said.

The silence that followed was immediate. Mike slowly bent down to tie his sneakers. “Skating,” he repeated flatly. “As in figure skating.”

Lucas nodded cautiously. “Yeah.”

Mike tied the knot, pulled the laces tight, then sat up again. “Yeah, I’m gonna have to pass on that.” A grin spread across his face as he tried—and failed—to hold back a laugh. “There is no way in he—”

“WAIT,” Dustin burst out. He stepped forward like he was about to present the greatest idea in human history. “Okay, okay, just hear me out first.”

Mike rubbed his face. “That sentence has literally never ended well.”

Dustin ignored him. “Alright,” he said, launching into explanation mode. “So—Will Byers. You’ve heard of him, right?”

Mike shrugged. “Maybe.”

Lucas snorted. “You’ve definitely seen him. The guy’s like the golden child of skating.”

Dustin nodded vigorously. “Exactly! Hotshot pairs skater. Huge following. Nationals contender.”

Mike gestured impatiently. “And?”

Dustin leaned forward like he was revealing a secret. “His partner got hurt today. Bad ankle injury.”

Mike shrugged again. “Okay. That sucks.”

“They need someone strong for lifts,” Dustin continued. Mike blinked.

Dustin pointed at him dramatically. “And BOOM.”

Mike stared. “…Boom what.”

“Hockey brute strength meets skating elegance!” Dustin announced proudly. He spread his arms wide like he was unveiling a movie poster. “Imagine the headlines!” He started pacing excitedly. “Ice Worlds Collide! Hellhound Enforcer Takes On Figure Skating! Man I'm talking Interviews, Sponsors, Endorsements, Media coverage for the team! This would be great for the team Mike!” Dustin pointed at Mike again. “And especially good for you.”

Mike stared at him for a long moment. Then he burst out laughing. A loud, sharp bark of a laugh that made a couple nearby teammates glance over. “You cannot be serious.”

Dustin was completely serious.

Mike shook his head, standing up and grabbing his bag. “Hell no,” he said. “Absolutely not.”

He slung the bag over his shoulder and looked between them like they’d both lost their minds. “Me? In figure skating?”

Lucas lifted his hands defensively. “I’m just passing along the message.”

Mike scoffed. “Are you kidding?” He pointed to himself. “I hit people for a living.” He mimed a body check. “I don’t prance around on ice.”

Dustin opened his mouth to argue.

Mike held up a hand. “And before you say it—” He pointed a warning finger at Dustin. “—there is no universe where I’m putting on tights and twirling around in front of judges.”

A couple teammates nearby overheard that and immediately started laughing.

“Yo Wheeler in figure skating?” one of them shouted. “I’d pay to see that!”

Mike shot them a glare. “Shut up.”

He turned back to Dustin. “Find some ballet guy,” he said. Because the image forming in his mind was already horrifying enough. Him. On a rink. In some ridiculous glitter costume. Spinning around like— Yeah. Absolutely not. Not happening. Not in this lifetime.

Mike grabbed his water bottle and took a long drink, still shaking his head. “Hard pass,” he said.

Lucas let out a quiet chuckle, leaning back against the row of lockers as he watched Mike’s reaction unravel exactly the way he’d expected. “Come on, man,” Lucas said, holding up his hands like he was negotiating a ceasefire. “Relax. Nobody’s asking you to join the ballet.”

Mike Wheeler shot him a look. “That’s exactly what it sounds like.”

Lucas pushed off the lockers and stepped closer. “It’s temporary,” he said. “A few weeks. That’s it.”

Mike grabbed his bag off the bench, clearly preparing to end the conversation before it went any further.

Lucas kept going anyway. “Max says this guy—Will Byers—is basically a machine,” he explained. “Total pro. Nationals contender. She says he’d carry most of it.”

Mike snorted. “Yeah? And what part of this plan involves me not looking like an idiot?”

Lucas shrugged. “You’re strong. You can skate. That’s already half the job.”

“Yeah,” Mike muttered. “Hockey skating.”

Dustin suddenly stepped forward again, nearly blocking Mike’s path as he tried to leave.

Dustin looked like a man refusing to let his master plan die. “Okay but listen,” Dustin said quickly, words tumbling over each other. “Think about the exposure.”

Mike groaned. “Not the exposure speech again.”

“Just hear me out!” Dustin insisted. He waved his clipboard in the air like a prop in a presentation. “Sports media eats this stuff up. Hockey player crosses over into figure skating? That’s headline material.”

He started pacing excitedly again. “Morning shows, interviews, highlight reels. Sponsors love crossover stories like that. It humanizes athletes.”

Mike stopped walking. Slowly, he turned back around. His expression had gone flat. “I don’t need sponsors,” he said.

The words came out sharp as he slammed his locker door shut with a loud clang that echoed through the room. “I need to win games.” For a moment the room went quiet around them. A couple teammates glanced over before going back to their own conversations. Mike grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on, irritation settling deeper in his chest.

The whole idea grated against him.

Figure skating. Everything about it felt… soft. Delicate. Artistic.

And none of that fit anywhere in Mike Wheeler’s world.

His world was speed, collisions, bruises, and the roar of a hockey crowd after a brutal hit.

Still, Dustin wasn’t done. He never was.

“Look,” Dustin said, following him as Mike started toward the locker room exit. “I’m just saying it could help with the… you know.”

Mike shot him a look over his shoulder. “The what.”

Dustin hesitated. “The rumors.”

Mike stopped walking again.

Lucas winced slightly.

Dustin pushed on anyway. “You know… the whole ‘attitude problem’ thing scouts keep whispering about,” he said carefully.

Mike’s jaw tightened slightly. He hated that word. Attitude. Like being aggressive on the ice was somehow a flaw instead of the reason he was good.

Lucas stepped in quickly before Mike could snap back. “Look, man,” Lucas said, voice calmer now. “We’re not saying you need to do it.”

Mike crossed his arms. “Good.”

“I’m just saying,” Lucas continued, “it wouldn’t be the worst PR move in the world.”

Mike rolled his eyes.

Dustin hurried to keep up as Mike pushed open the locker room doors and stepped into the hallway leading outside. “Just… sleep on it,” Dustin pleaded.

Mike kept walking.

“I’ll send you some clips of Byers,” Dustin added quickly. “Seriously, the guy’s incredible. The lifts, the spins—”

“Dustin.”

“—you might actually change your mind—”

“Dustin.”

“—and imagine if you two actually pulled it off—”

“DUSTIN.”

Dustin stopped talking.

Mike shoved open the arena’s main doors and stepped outside. The evening air was cool and crisp after the heat of the locker room. The sky had already started darkening into deep blue, the parking lot lit by tall lamps humming faintly overhead.

Mike inhaled deeply, letting the cold air clear his head. Behind him, Dustin and Lucas stepped out as well.

Mike turned around, walking backward a few steps toward his truck.“Not happening,” he said firmly.

Lucas crossed his arms but didn’t argue. Dustin still looked like he wanted to.

Mike pointed a finger at him. “End of story.”

Dustin sighed dramatically. “Fine,” he muttered. “But when you watch the clips tonight and realize how cool it would be—”

Mike groaned. “I’m not watching them.”

Dustin smirked slightly. “I’m sending them anyway.”

Mike shook his head, climbing into his car. As he started the engine, the conversation replayed in his mind. Figure skating. Nationals. Partnering with some guy he’d never met.

Mike scoffed to himself. Yeah. There was absolutely no chance he was doing that. None at all.

…Right? 

Back at the rink, the quiet felt heavier than before. The arena lights had dimmed slightly for the evening sessions, casting long reflections across the ice. The earlier chaos—the medics, the shouting, the stretcher—felt like a distant echo now, but the tension it left behind still clung to the building.

Will had retreated to the small training gym attached to the rink. It was one of his usual escape spots. Rows of treadmills and weight machines lined the walls, the air smelling faintly of rubber mats and disinfectant. The low hum of equipment filled the room, but otherwise it was quiet—mercifully quiet.

Will ran hard on the treadmill, his feet pounding against the belt in a steady, relentless rhythm. Each step hit like a release valve for the frustration coiling inside him.

Sweat dripped down his back, soaking through the thin fabric of his black tank top. His breathing came out in controlled bursts as he pushed the speed higher, legs burning as he forced himself to keep pace.

Max is optimistic… He wiped a strand of damp hair away from his forehead, staring straight ahead at the blank wall. But realistically?

His thoughts churned restlessly. Who wants to jump into this mess?

Three weeks before nationals. A broken partner. A routine built around lifts that required years of trust. He increased the speed again. The treadmill whined slightly under the change. His lungs burned now, but he didn’t slow. Running helped him think. Or at least helped him burn off the panic threatening to spiral.

Across town someone might’ve thought of this as a simple injury. But in the world of competitive skating? This kind of disruption could end a season. Or a career.

Twenty minutes later the gym door swung open. Max stepped inside, still clutching her phone. Her red hair was slightly disheveled from the cold outside air and the rapid-fire calls she’d clearly been making.

She leaned against the wall, catching her breath for a second. Will didn’t even notice her at first. His focus stayed locked forward as he ran. Max watched him for a moment. “Okay,” she said finally. “Update.”

Will hit the emergency slow button without looking, the treadmill gradually easing down from a sprint to a jog. “Jane?” he asked immediately.

Max nodded once. “Hairline fracture,” she said.

Will’s stomach dropped.

“Six weeks minimum.” The treadmill slowed further until Will stepped carefully off the belt, grabbing the side rails as he caught his breath.

Six weeks. Nationals were in three. His shoulders sagged slightly. Max noticed the shift instantly but didn’t give him time to sink into it.

“But,” she added quickly.

Will looked up.

“I’ve got a lead.”

That caught his attention. Max crossed her arms, leaning back against the wall like she was about to pitch the wildest idea imaginable. “Through Lucas Sinclair,” she said. “Apparently their manager—Dustin Henderson—is tight with the hockey crew.”

Will frowned slightly. “You were serious about the hockey thing?”

Max nodded slowly. “And,” she continued, “Dustin and I may have been… brainstorming.”

That word immediately made Will suspicious. “Max.”

She pushed off the wall. “Cross-sport partner.”

Will blinked. “…What?”

Max started pacing slowly across the gym floor. “Think about it,” she said. “Someone with power. Balance. Leg strength.”

She ticked points off on her fingers. “Hockey players already know how to skate. They’ve got insane lower-body strength. And they’re used to reacting fast on the ice.”

Will stared at her. “You were actually serious about that earlier.”

“Very.”

He grabbed a towel from the nearby rack and wiped the sweat from his face. “Max,” he said carefully, “hockey players are… a bit—”

“Crazy?” she finished.

He gave her a look. “Yeah.”

Max shrugged. “I know.” She leaned back against the wall again, completely unfazed. “But hear me out.”

Will tossed the towel over his shoulder. “This sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”

“It’s unconventional,” Max admitted. Then she smirked slightly. “But the federation loves a story.”

Will sighed. Of course they do.

“And publicity?” Max continued. “We’d eat it up. National finals suddenly becomes ‘figure skating meets hockey.’”mShe spread her arms dramatically. “Sports media would lose their minds.”

Will rubbed the back of his neck, trying to picture it. A hockey player… in their routine. Hockey players were built differently. Bulkier. Rougher. Used to collisions instead of choreography. Could someone like that actually sync with his style? Could they learn lifts safely in time?

His mind automatically started running through the mechanics. Weight distribution. Timing on the arabesque lift. Edge control during transitions.

It would be chaos. Absolute chaos. But… If it worked? Nationals wouldn’t be lost.

He sighed. “Is someone actually interested?” he asked.

Max shrugged. “Henderson is pitching it now.”

That alone made Will nervous he thought for another moment. Then finally nodded once. “Fine.”

Max’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Fine?” she repeated.

“If they bite,” Will clarified. He pointed a finger toward her. “But I need someone who can learn fast.”

Max nodded. “And no big egos,” he added. “If they can’t listen to direction on the ice, someone’s getting dropped on their head.”

Max grinned slowly. A slightly predatory grin. “Byers,” she said. “This is my specialty.” She pushed herself off the wall with renewed energy. “I’ll make it happen.”

Will narrowed his eyes slightly. That level of confidence usually meant trouble.

Max clapped her hands together suddenly, the sound echoing around the gym. “Alright!” she said brightly. “Enough brooding.”

Will groaned. “Max—”

“Shower up,” she interrupted. She was already walking toward the door again.

“We’ve got a press statement to craft.”

Will blinked. “…A press statement?”

Max turned around, practically bouncing with excitement now. “Oh yeah,” she said. “If this thing goes public, we control the narrative.”

She pointed at him. “Resilient skating duo refuses to quit after injury.” Another point. “Nationals dream still alive.”

She clapped again. “This is going to be great.”

Will stared at her. Meanwhile, in his mind, one thought repeated itself over and over. A hockey player. Will just hoped—

If it actually happened—

That whoever showed up wouldn’t drop him mid-lift.

As Will headed toward the locker rooms, the noise of the rink slowly faded behind him—the scrape of blades, the distant echo of a coach’s whistle, the hum of the cooling machines beneath the ice. The quiet hallway felt almost too still after the chaos of the last hour.

His legs ached from the treadmill, muscles burning from pushing himself harder than usual. It hadn’t really been about conditioning. It had been about burning off the frustration clawing around inside his chest.

He pushed open the locker room door, the familiar scent of cold air, rubber mats, and damp gear greeting him. Normally the place buzzed with conversation after practice—laughing skaters, music playing from someone’s phone—but tonight it was mostly empty.

Will dropped his gym bag onto the wooden bench with a dull thud and dragged a hand through his sweat-damp hair. Six weeks. Jane being out for six weeks felt impossible. They’d never been apart that long during a season—not for competitions that mattered. Nationals were supposed to be their moment.

He had just started unlacing his shoes when his phone buzzed in his pocket. The sound cut through the quiet locker room. Will frowned slightly, pulling the phone out. The screen lit up with a message that instantly made his chest tighten.

Jane: I’m sorry, but I know you can do this. Kick ass for us Will!

For a moment he just stared at the message. He could practically hear her voice in it—bright, stubbornly optimistic even when things went wrong. Jane had always been like that. Even now, sitting somewhere with her ankle wrapped and probably elevated, she was worrying about him.

Will let out a slow breath through his nose, shaking his head softly. “Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He typed back quickly.

Will: Always. Get better. I’m going to need my partner back soon. Already missing you.

He hesitated for a second before hitting send, thumb hovering over the screen. The message felt lighter than what he actually felt. His phone chimed as it sent, and he slipped it back into his pocket, the small smile fading almost immediately. Because the truth was—he had no idea how he was supposed to pull this off.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, staring down at the rubber floor between his shoes. Jane wasn’t just his partner.

She was the rhythm he moved with, the person who anticipated every turn before he made it. Years of practice had built something almost instinctive between them. He didn’t have to think during lifts or throws—his body just knew where she would be.

Replacing that—even temporarily—felt like trying to skate with one skate missing.

And now Max was talking about bringing in a hockey player. Will let out a quiet, humorless laugh under his breath. “Yeah,” he murmured to the empty locker room. “That’s going to go great.”

He imagined it for a second—some huge hockey guy barreling across the ice, all power and aggression, completely out of sync with the precision of pairs skating.

Still… if Max was pushing for it, that meant she thought it could work. And Max didn’t usually gamble unless she saw a real angle. Will sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as tension settled deep between his shoulders.

Nationals were weeks away. If he pulled out now, their entire season—years of work—would collapse with it. And Jane deserved better than that.

Slowly, he pushed himself up from the bench and grabbed his towel. “Alright,” he muttered quietly, heading for the showers. “Guess we’ll see what kind of disaster Max cooks up.”

But as he walked away, the knot in his stomach tightened instead of loosening. Because no matter how hard he tried to stay positive for Jane… He couldn’t shake the feeling that everything they’d built was suddenly balancing on the thinnest edge of ice.

Meanwhile, Mike arrived back at his apartment a little after sunset, the sky outside the windows fading into that deep winter blue. He tossed his keys onto the counter without looking, the metal clinking loudly in the otherwise quiet room.

The place wasn’t fancy, but it was unmistakably his.

Hockey was everywhere. A signed stick from his junior league days hung above the television. Framed photos from big games lined the walls—one of him mid-check, another of the team celebrating a championship win, faces half-hidden behind helmets and sweat. A shelf near the kitchen held a few trophies and medals he claimed he didn’t care about but had still bothered to display.

Mike kicked off his sneakers near the door and wandered into the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge. The cap hissed when he twisted it off. He took a long drink before collapsing onto the couch, stretching his legs out onto the coffee table with a tired groan.

“Finally,” he muttered to the empty room. For a moment, everything was quiet. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant traffic outside. But it didn’t last. Because Dustin’s voice—loud, excited, relentless—started replaying in his head.

“Publicity gold, Mike!” “Ice worlds collide!” “Career-making stuff!”

Mike groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ, Henderson,” he muttered.

Figure skating. The image popped into his head again—sparkly costumes, choreographed spins, dramatic music. And apparently he was supposed to just jump into that world like it made sense.

“Yeah,” he said dryly to the ceiling. “Because that’s totally my vibe.” He took another drink, trying to shake the thought off. Didn’t work. Instead, his eyes drifted to his phone sitting on the coffee table. Mike stared at it for a few seconds, jaw tightening. Curiosity itched at him in the most annoying way.

“Just to see what the hell they’re talking about,” he muttered, grabbing the phone. “That’s it.”

He unlocked it and typed the name Dustin had thrown at him earlier. Will Byers.

A bunch of results popped up immediately—competition clips, interviews, highlight reels. Mike snorted. “Wow. Someone’s popular.”

He tapped one of the videos. The clip opened with bright arena lights and orchestral music swelling dramatically through his speakers.

Mike already looked skeptical. “Alright, ballet boy,” he murmured. “Let’s see what you got.”

On the ice, Will pushed off smoothly, gliding across the rink like it barely took effort. His posture was straight, movements precise, every turn sharp but controlled. Mike frowned slightly.

“…Okay.” Then came a spin. Not just a normal spin.

The guy launched into this ridiculous, blindingly fast rotation, body folding and unfolding in ways Mike was pretty sure violated several laws of physics.

Mike blinked. “What the hell?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, beer forgotten for a second. The video kept going.

Will skated into a jump—high, clean, landing perfectly without even wobbling. Mike squinted. “Alright, hold on.”

He rewound it. Watched it again. The jump looked even higher the second time.

“Damn.” The word slipped out before he could stop it.

He immediately frowned at himself. “Alright, relax,” he muttered, leaning back again. “It’s still figure skating.”

Another clip autoplayed. This one was a pairs routine—Will lifting his partner overhead like she weighed nothing, spinning smoothly while holding her in the air.

Mike’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay, that’s actually—”

He stopped himself. “…Nope.”

He took a quick drink of beer like it might reset his brain. Because the annoying truth was starting to sink in. That lift wasn’t easy.

Balance on skates was already tricky. Add another person—and spinning? That took serious strength. And control.

Mike rubbed his jaw, watching another few seconds before catching himself again. What was he doing? This wasn’t his world.

Didn’t matter how graceful the guy looked. Didn’t matter how many spins he could pull off. Mike scoffed, shaking his head as he locked his phone and tossed it back onto the couch.

“Still not happening,” he said firmly to the empty room.

He leaned back, grabbing his beer again. “Not in a million years.”

But a few seconds later… His eyes flicked back toward the phone.

Just sitting there. Tempting him.

Mike stared at it for a long moment before muttering under his breath— “…One more video.”

Back at the hockey center, long after the players had filtered out and the rink lights had dimmed to their nighttime glow, Dustin sat hunched over his cluttered office desk with a paper cup of burnt coffee in his hands.

The place smelled faintly of stale popcorn, sharpened skate blades, and whatever mystery cleaner the janitors used on the locker room floors.

Dustin stared into the coffee like it had personally betrayed him. “He said hell no,” he muttered flatly.

Across from him, Lucas leaned back in the office chair, one boot hooked over the other knee as he scrolled through his phone.

Dustin dragged a hand down his face dramatically. “Not even a maybe. Not even a let me think about it. Just straight to hell no.” He pointed a finger accusingly at the desk like Mike was somehow hiding under it. “Stubborn asshole.”

Lucas chuckled without looking up. “What did you expect even I knew it was a long shot.”

Dustin groaned, leaning back in his chair until it creaked dangerously. “I swear to God, Sinclair, if that guy wasn’t one of the best players on the ice I’d have strangled him years ago.”

Lucas snorted. “You say that like you haven’t tried.”

“Emotionally, yes,” Dustin said, taking another sip of coffee and immediately grimacing. “Physically, I enjoy breathing.”

Lucas finally looked up from his phone, raising an eyebrow. “So what now?”

Dustin rubbed his temples, already feeling the beginnings of a headache. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe I find another guy for it. Someone with size who won’t panic the second they hear the words ‘figure skating.’”

He sighed, staring up at the ceiling. “But man, I was counting on Mike.”

Lucas tilted his head. “Because he’s strong?”

“Because he’s Mike,” Dustin said immediately, gesturing wildly with his coffee cup. “The guy’s got presence. Personality. The media already watches everything he does.”

Then his expression darkened slightly. “And if he wants his career to keep growing, he needs something good attached to his name for once.”

Lucas’s smile faded a bit. “Yeah… the rumors.”

Dustin nodded heavily.

“They’re not small ones, Lucas,” he said quietly. “Teams notice that stuff. Sponsors notice that stuff. One more story about Mike losing his temper or causing trouble and suddenly everyone’s asking if he’s worth the headache.”

He pointed toward the rink beyond the office window. “Talent only gets you so far.”

Lucas sat up a little straighter, thinking about that. “Mike knows that?”

Dustin gave him a look. “Mike thinks he can punch his way through every problem in life.”

“…Fair.” Lucas’s phone buzzed in his hand. He glanced down at the screen. “Speaking of problems.”

“Max?” Dustin asked immediately.

Lucas nodded, already typing. “Yep.”

His thumbs moved quickly across the keyboard. A moment later another message came through. Lucas read it, then let out a small whistle. “Well. That sounds promising.”

Dustin leaned forward instantly. “What?”

Lucas turned the phone so he could see the text. “Max says Byers is desperate,” Lucas said. “Nationals are coming up fast and they’ve got nothing right now.”

Dustin rubbed his chin thoughtfully “Desperate is good.”

Lucas smirked. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m resourceful,” Dustin corrected.

Lucas read another message and laughed quietly. “She says if we can even get Mike to watch the guy skate, there’s a chance he’ll reconsider.”

Dustin blinked. Then slowly, a grin began to spread across his face. “Oh.”

Lucas saw that expression and immediately leaned back. “Oh no.”

Dustin sat up straighter, eyes suddenly shining with dangerous enthusiasm. “That’s it.”

“That’s what?” Lucas asked cautiously.

“We don’t convince Mike,” Dustin said, already pointing like a man unveiling a master plan. “We show him.”

Lucas stared. “…You want to drag Mike Wheeler to a figure skating rink.”

“Exactly!”

Lucas rubbed his face. “Dustin, he’s going to kill you.”

“Maybe,” Dustin admitted cheerfully. “But not before he sees Byers skate.”

Lucas stared at him for a long moment before slowly starting to grin. “Okay… but how do you get him there?”

Dustin leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head like a criminal mastermind. “Easy.”

Lucas waited.

Dustin smiled. “Team-building exercise.”

Lucas burst out laughing. “You’re evil.”

“I prefer strategic,” Dustin said smugly.

Lucas shook his head, still chuckling as he sent another text. “Max is going to love this.”

“Tell her to have Byers practicing tomorrow afternoon,” Dustin said. “Full routine if possible. Something impressive.”

Lucas typed quickly. “Done.”

Dustin stood up, grabbing his jacket. Lucas raised an eyebrow.

“Where are you going?”

Dustin grinned. “To set the trap.”

Lucas laughed again, shaking his head. “You realize Mike is going to figure this out eventually.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Dustin said, heading for the door. He paused and looked back with a wicked smile. “But by then?” He pointed toward the rink. “He’ll already be hooked.”

Lucas leaned back in his chair, watching the door close behind him. Then he muttered to himself with a grin— “This is either going to work… or end in a fistfight.”

His phone buzzed again. Max: If this works, I owe you coffee.

Lucas typed back instantly. Lucas: If this works, Dustin deserves a medal.

Then he added: Or a helmet.

Just in case Mike figured it out early.

The next morning, Will arrived early at the rink, the empty ice calling to him. He laced up, stepping out alone. The solitude was bittersweet—no Jane to bounce off, just him and the cold. 

He started slow, basic edges, building speed. His mind cleared with each stroke, thoughts turning inward. I can do this solo if I have to. But it just won’t be the same. As he launched into a solo routine, arms flowing, legs extending in a spiral, he lost himself. The ice became his partner, unforgiving yet familiar.

Unbeknownst to him, across the barrier of worlds, Dustin was already scheming the collision course.

Will's blades whispered against the ice as he transitioned into a series of jumps, each landing precise despite the emotional turmoil churning inside him. The arena's lights cast long shadows, highlighting the curve of his shoulders, the flex of his calves. He'd stripped down to just his leggings and a loose tank, the chill nipping at his exposed skin, but it grounded him. Focus. One move at a time. His thoughts were a mantra, pushing back the what-ifs that threatened to derail him.

From the stands, unbeknownst to Will, a small audience had gathered—not fans, but the coaching staff observing his adaptation. Max watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, nodding approvingly. "That's it, Byers Channel it." She muttered mostly to herself, phone vibrating with updates from Lucas. The pitch was out; now it was wait-and-see.

Will built momentum for a triple salchow, launching high, twisting in the air with arms tucked. He stuck the landing, exhaling sharply, but as he glided into a spread eagle—legs wide, body low—the door to the arena creaked open. He didn't notice at first, too immersed, but the faint murmur of voices pulled him back.

Who? Press already? Will straightened, skating to the edge. There, leaning against the rail, was Max, chatting animatedly with a curly-haired guy he didn't recognize. Dustin Henderson waved awkwardly, his enthusiasm palpable even from afar.

"Will! Come here for a sec!" Max called, beckoning him over.

He approached cautiously, blades clicking to a stop. Up close, Dustin looked younger than expected, his eyes wide behind glasses. "Hey, uh, Will Byers? Dustin Henderson, hockey manager. Heard about your... situation. I’m sorry about Hopper, I'm sure she’ll heal up just fine!"

Will nodded politely, wiping sweat from his brow. "Thanks. It's rough."

Dustin shifted, glancing at Max for backup. "Yeah, so Max filled me in. Crazy idea, but we're thinking crossover. Got a guy on my team—Mike Wheeler. He’s a beast on the ice. Strong as hell. He could handle lifts and all that, no problem."

Will's interest piqued, though skepticism lingered. "I've seen them play. It's... different. Are you sure he’d really be able to do this?" He gestured to the rink.

Max jumped in. "Listen, he'd have a lot to learn but that’s exactly why it's brilliant. Raw power meets your finesse. Publicity machine. And Mike's got the build—"

"But would he even want to?" Will interrupted, practical as ever. His mind raced: A stranger, from another sport. Trust issues from jump.

Dustin grinned. "That's the fun part. I'll convince him. Already working on it."

Their conversation flowed into logistics—schedules, contracts—Will half-listening, his gaze drifting back to the ice. If this works... Hope flickered, fragile but real. We would make history.

Meanwhile, Mike's day had dragged in team meetings, his refusal from last night still fresh. Dustin had texted nonstop: links to skating vids, stats on Byers' fame. Mike ignored most of it, but during a break, he clicked one. Will on screen, mid-lift with who must’ve been his partner—bodies intertwined,. Mike's jaw tightened. Looks intense. But not for me.

"Earth to Wheeler," Lucas teased, snapping fingers. They were in the weight room, spotting each other on bench presses. "You watching cat videos or what?"

Mike set the bar down with a clang. "Skating crap. Dustin's on a mission or some shit."

Lucas smirked, loading plates. "The partner thing? Come on, Mike. It's not forever. And Byers? Dude's super talented. It could be fun."

"Fun? Twisting like a pretzel? Pass," Mike grunted, lifting again. But his reps felt off, mind wandering to the video. Guy's got control. Grace under pressure. It mirrored his own world in ways he hadn't expected.

Post-workout, Dustin ambushed him in the parking lot. "Mike! Funny running into you.. Its almost like fate! Seriously perfect timing. So they’re having open practice at the figure rink tomorrow. Please come watch. See if it's as bad as you think. Whole teams coming. It'll be like team bonding!"

Mike unlocked his car, sighing. "Dustin—"

"Please? For me? If you hate it, I'll drop it. Promise." Dustin's puppy eyes were weaponized.

Mike hesitated, the seed Dustin mentioned taking root despite himself. One look. Then he shuts up. "Fine. But that's it Henderson I swear to god."

Dustin fist-pumped. "Yes! You'll see."

The next afternoon, Mike pulled his truck into the parking lot of the figure skating arena, already regretting every decision that had led him there.

He killed the engine but didn’t get out right away.

Instead he sat there for a second, staring through the windshield at the sleek building ahead of him, its glass front reflecting the pale winter sky. Cars filled the lot—compact sedans, a couple of luxury SUVs, even a few sporty imports that looked way too polished to belong anywhere near a hockey rink.

Mike glanced down at himself.

Jeans.
Gray hoodie.
Worn boots.

He looked like he’d taken a wrong turn on the way to a bar.

“Fantastic,” he muttered. He grabbed his keys and stepped out anyway, the cold air biting at his face as he walked toward the entrance. The sound of faint music drifted through the doors even before he pushed them open.

Inside, the arena buzzed with life. It was completely different from the hockey center.

The air still carried that familiar chill of frozen ice, but the atmosphere was lighter—music pulsing softly through the speakers, blades whispering across the rink as skaters practiced spins and jumps in controlled patterns. Coaches called out corrections from the sidelines while a few spectators sat scattered along the stands.

Mike shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, instantly feeling like the biggest, clumsiest guy in the building. And then he spotted Dustin. The curly-haired menace was standing by the entrance like an overexcited tour guide, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. The second he saw Mike, his entire face lit up.

“I knew you’d come!” Dustin announced triumphantly.

Mike rolled his eyes as he walked over. “Don’t make me regret it,” he muttered, following Dustin inside. Dustin clapped him on the shoulder anyway and started leading him toward the stands.

“Oh, you won’t! Trust me. You’re about to witness greatness.”

“That’s a bold claim,” Mike said dryly. They stepped into the seating area beside the rink, the cold air immediately sharper against Mike’s skin. The ice stretched wide and bright under the overhead lights, skaters weaving past each other in graceful arcs.

Mike leaned against the glass railing, scanning the ice. “So where’s this miracle skater you dragged me here for?”

The rink was alive—music pulsing, skaters whirling. Dustin led him to seats near the glass, pointing. "Over there is Byers! He’s soloing today."

Mike's eyes found him instantly. Will was in the center, building into a routine. Black leggings hugged his legs, tank top clinging to his torso as he spun. A layback spin—head arched back, body a perfect curve. Then a jump sequence, landing with poise. Mike leaned forward, arms crossed. Not bad. 

Will was alone in the middle of the rink, gliding across the ice with smooth, effortless momentum as music swelled through the arena speakers. He was clearly in the middle of a run-through.

Black leggings hugged his legs, emphasizing the long, controlled lines of every movement. A dark tank top clung to his torso, damp with sweat from practice.

Mike frowned slightly. The guy looked… smaller than he expected. Lean, not bulky like a hockey player. But there was something about the way he moved.

Will transitioned to footwork, intricate steps that made the ice sing. Sweat glistened on his neck, breaths visible in the cold. Mike shifted, an unfamiliar heat stirring. What the hell? It's just skating. But he couldn't look away—

He leaned forward slightly without realizing it, resting his forearms against the railing. The spin slowed and transitioned smoothly into a jump sequence.

Will launched into the air, rotating cleanly before landing with effortless control and gliding out like the impact hadn’t even happened.

Mike’s eyebrows lifted. “Not bad,” he murmured under his breath.

Dustin heard him and smirked. “Told you.”

But Mike barely registered the comment. His eyes stayed locked on the ice.

Will flowed straight into intricate footwork, his skates tapping out quick, precise steps that seemed almost rhythmic against the ice. Each turn was sharp but fluid, his upper body calm while his feet moved rapidly beneath him.

The ice practically sang under his blades.

Mike shifted his weight slightly, watching the way Will’s shoulders rolled through transitions, the way he carried his balance through each edge. The guy had serious control. And strength too, judging by the height of those jumps.

Sweat glistened faintly along the back of Will’s neck as he moved, his breath visible in soft clouds every time he exhaled into the cold arena air. Mike’s jaw tightened slightly. Something unfamiliar stirred in his chest. A strange warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature in the rink. “What the hell…” he muttered quietly.

As Will finished with a dramatic pose, applause rippled. He skated off, catching Mike's stare across the barrier. Their eyes met—Will's curious, Mike's intense. A spark, unspoken.

Dustin nudged him. "See? I told you he’s amazing isn’t he!”

Mike stood abruptly. "Yeah. Whatever." But inside, the seed sprouted. Wrong reasons or not... maybe this was a good idea.

Across the rink, Will stepped off the ice, the cold air biting at his flushed skin after the intensity of the run-through. His lungs still burned pleasantly from the routine, chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. He grabbed the towel Max held out for him and draped it around his neck, rubbing it over the damp curls at the back of his hair.

The applause from the coaches had already faded, the rink settling back into the quiet rhythm of practice—blades carving across ice, music shifting to another skater’s program somewhere in the background.

But Will wasn’t really paying attention to any of that. His eyes were still fixed on the stands. More specifically, on the tall guy standing beside the rail with Dustin.

Something about him stood out immediately. Maybe it was the way he carried himself—broad shoulders, arms folded like he was guarding the barrier—or maybe it was just the intensity of the stare he’d been giving Will for the last few minutes.

It hadn’t been casual observation. It had been… focused. Almost challenging. Will lowered the towel slightly and leaned toward Max. “Hey,” he said quietly.

Max followed his line of sight automatically. “Yeah?”

Will nodded subtly toward the seating area. “Who was the guy with Dustin?”

Max looked where he indicated—and immediately spotted him.

Mike Wheeler stood out like a wolf wandering into a ballet studio. Even from across the rink she could see the tension in his posture, the way his shoulders were tight as he turned toward the exit like he didn’t want to be caught lingering.

Classic. Max felt a slow smile spread across her face. “Oh,” she said lightly. “That?”

Will raised an eyebrow, glancing back toward her. “The one staring at me like some sort of stalker,” he said dryly.

Max let out a small laugh. “Yeah, that one.” She leaned her elbows on the rink barrier, watching as Mike muttered something to Dustin before starting toward the doors.

Will followed the movement with his eyes, curiosity growing. Up close the guy had looked even bigger. Definitely not a figure skater. More like the kind of guy who broke bones for fun during hockey games. “Friend of yours?” Will asked.

Max shrugged casually, though the amusement in her expression hadn’t faded. “Not exactly.”

Will wiped his face again with the towel, still watching Mike disappear through the exit. There had been something strange about the moment when their eyes met. Just a second or two, but long enough for Will to notice the intensity there.

Not judgment. Not exactly admiration either. Something in between.

He frowned slightly. “He didn’t look impressed,” Will said.

Max snorted softly. “Oh, he was impressed.”

Will looked skeptical. “That didn’t feel like impressed.”

Max straightened and crossed her arms, clearly enjoying herself now. “You have to understand something,” she said. “Guys like him don’t come into places like this. Different world.”

Will tilted his head slightly. “Then why was he here?”

Max’s smile turned almost mischievous. “Well,” she said slowly, “Dustin might have dragged him here under the excuse of ‘team bonding.’ ” she smiled while making finger quotes.

Will blinked. “…Team bonding.”

“Yep.”

“With figure skating.”

“Yep.”

Will stared at her for a moment. “You’re kidding.”

Max just laughed. “Not even a little.”

She nodded toward the exit where Mike had just disappeared. “That,” she said, crossing her arms again, “is Hawkins’ favorite hockey problem child.”

Will glanced back toward the doors thoughtfully. “Hockey player?”

“Enforcer,” Max corrected.

Will raised both eyebrows. “That explains the staring.”

Max leaned closer to him slightly, lowering her voice. “He’s strong. Fast on skates. Absolute nightmare temper from what I hear.”

Will frowned faintly. “That doesn’t exactly scream ideal skating partner.”

Max’s grin returned. “No,” she admitted. “But it does scream the only guy Dustin thinks can lift you without dropping you.”

Will let out a quiet breath, the idea settling slowly in his mind. Hockey player. As his partner. For nationals.

The image felt absurd… but not entirely impossible. Still, he shook his head slightly. “He didn’t look very interested.”

Max chuckled again. “Oh, he’s interested.”

Will gave her a doubtful look.

Max tilted her head toward the door with a knowing smirk. “Trust me,” she said. “That look he was giving you?” She paused for effect. “That's the look of someone who just realized they might be getting dragged into something they really didn’t expect.”

Will glanced once more toward the now-empty doorway. “…Great,” he muttered.

Max clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Relax, Byers.” Her smile widened just a little. “That,” she said, nodding toward where Mike had been standing moments ago, “could very well be your savior.”

The backstage area of the Hawkins Ice Arena buzzed with the low hum of activity—coaches murmuring strategies, skaters lacing up in corners, the occasional clatter of gear bags being zipped. Max weaved through it all like a shark in shallow water, her red hair catching the fluorescent lights as she clutched her phone. She'd just hung up from a call with Dustin, her lips curling into a satisfied smirk. The plan was gelling, piece by piece, and she thrived on that momentum.

She spotted Lucas near the vending machines, nursing a soda, his athletic frame relaxed but alert. As Max's boyfriend and a hockey player himself, he was the perfect bridge—"Sinclair," she called, sliding up beside him. "Dustin's pitch landed. Wheeler's on the fence, but he's watching clips. We need to seal this crossover before Will spirals."

Lucas turned, his dark eyes thoughtful, popping the tab on his drink. "Max, I can’t lie to you Mike isn’t too on board with the plan, but yeah, Dustin says hes going to wear him down eventually but im not so sure about that at his point..so I was thinking I'll mediate—set up a neutral meet, talk benefits without the fluff. No egos clashing on day one. If we want this to work we’re going to have to win Mike over."

Max nodded, leaning against the wall, her blazer creased from the day's hustle. "Good. Emphasize the win-win: exposure for the Hellhounds, saves Will's season. If i can’t fix this it’ll all be for nothing! I can't let that happen." Her voice dropped, conspiratorial. "And between us? Pairing those two? Sparks. I saw Will's eyes light up at the idea."

Lucas chuckled, low and knowing. "Sparks? Mike's mind is set. But if anyone can sell it, you can. I'll loop Dustin in—joint call tonight." He squeezed her shoulder, the touch grounding amid the chaos. The publicity of the crossover wasn't just logistics; it was alchemy, turning rivals into partners, and Lucas felt the weight of making it stick.

Will lingered in the hallway just beyond the backstage lounge, towel draped over his shoulders, still catching his breath from the session. His muscles hummed with post-practice ache, the kind that promised growth if he pushed through. He was heading for the water fountain when snippets of conversation drifted out—Max's sharp tone, Lucas's measured responses. He paused, ear tilting instinctively.

"...Wheeler stepping in..." The words filtered through, and Will rolled his eyes, a scoff escaping under his breath. He pictured it: some lumbering enforcer stomping onto the ice, blades wobbling, turning their elegant routine into a demolition derby. The idea was still ridiculous even to him, a publicity stunt dressed as salvation. His fingers tightened on the towel, frustration bubbling. Jane's out, and I can’t let her down.

But as he turned away, a flicker ignited deep in his chest—hope. What if? Power like that could elevate the lifts, make them soar higher than ever. He shook his head, dismissing it, but the spark lingered, warming the chill of uncertainty. One trial couldn't hurt. Or could it? Will pushed off the wall, striding toward the exit, mind replaying the possibility: unfamiliar hands gripping his waist, bodies syncing in motion. The thought sent a subtle thrill down his spine, one he buried under layers of practicality.

Across the arena, in the visitor section, Mike shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets, jaw set like concrete. Dustin's endless chatter grated, the "just one more look" turning into a full interrogation. The image of Will on the ice burned in his retinas— that lithe form cutting through the air, muscles coiling and releasing with precision that mocked Mike's own brute style. Too smooth. Too... open. It clashed with everything he knew, stirring a restlessness he couldn't name.

"Come on, man, at least talk to him," Dustin pleaded, trailing as Mike headed for the doors.

"Not happening," Mike muttered, voice rough, excuses tumbling out. "Got weights. Team drills. I’m too busy." He stormed through the exit, cold air slapping his face like a wake-up call. The parking lot stretched empty, his car a shadowed bulk under the lamps. He yanked the door open, sliding in with more force than needed, engine roaring to life.

But as he peeled out, Will's silhouette haunted him—the arch of his back in that spin, the flex of thighs landing a jump. What the fuck? Mike gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles whitening. Refusal felt solid in words, but the curiosity twisted it, coiling low in his gut. Just some guy skating. Nothing more. Yet the drive home blurred, mind wandering to forbidden what-ifs: pinning that body against a wall, not in anger, but something different, more consuming. More confusing.

The gym at the hockey center was Mike's sanctuary after hours—a dimly lit space reeking of rubber mats and iron, heavy bags swaying gently from chains. He'd ditched the team dinner, claiming he had a headache, but really, it was the itch under his skin demanding release. Stripped to a tank and shorts, sweat already beading on his broad shoulders, Mike wrapped his hands and faced the bag. The first punch landed with a thud, solid, echoing his frustration.

But Will's image intruded—graceful yet strong, body twisting mid-air. Mike's next jab came harder, glove smacking leather with a crack. He visualized it: Will beneath him, not on ice but here, pressed against the mat, breaths mingling in the heat. His skin, pale and taut, yielding under my grip. The thought fueled a hook, bag swinging wildly.

Punches rained—left, right, uppercut—each one channeling the tension. Mike's muscles burned, veins standing out on his forearms, heart pounding not just from exertion. Lifting him, my hands on his hips, pulling him close, his body sliding against mine. He grunted, driving a knee into the bag, imagining Will's legs wrapping around him, friction building in the dim light. Sweat dripped, soaking his tank, clinging to the ridges of his abs.

Wrong. Stop. But he didn't, the fantasy sharpening: Will's dark eyes locking on his, his lips parting in a gasp as Mike's body covered his, thrusting forward in rhythm. The bag took the brunt, chains rattling, until Mike stepped back, chest heaving, arousal straining against his shorts. He punched once more, lighter, then leaned his forehead against the cool vinyl. Curiosity sure is a restless bitch. he unwrapped his hands, the simmer unquenched, pulling him toward the inevitable collision.

Back at the arena, Will arrived home to his quiet apartment, the rumor still buzzing. He dropped his bag, stretching on the floor, hamstrings pulling taut. Some random Hockey player. How Absurd. But hope flickered brighter now, imagining the power, the new dynamic. His hand trailed absently over his thigh, mind sketching touches—rough palms contrasting his smooth glide.

Dustin texted Mike: 

Dustin: ‘Saw you bail. Have you been thinking about it at all Mike?’

Mike: ‘Gym. Later.’

Dustin: ‘At least meet the guy!’

Mike: ‘sure, whatever’

 Maybe he should meet him. What could be so bad about meeting the guy anyways. Sleep would soon evade him, Will's form etched in his dreams.