The Hockey Prince's Secret Ice Queen

Kaleigh POV:

"Get me my bat!" Analia's head popped down from the top bunk, her bright red curls a chaotic mess, her eyes wide as saucers. "He got you to trade a kiss for data? The Julian Andrews?"

I sat at my desk, staring blankly at the ecological model on my computer screen. "Technically, it was a kiss on the cheek. And he's Professor Beaumont's nephew. A computer genius."

Analia slid down the ladder and rushed to my side. "Oh my god, Kaleigh, baby! That's not the point! The point is Julian Andrews, the ice prince who's never had a single rumor about him, kissed you for a bet!"

She shook my shoulders. "Do you have any idea what the Puck Bunnies on the campus forums will do? They'll eat you alive! Especially Brooke Sterling and her cheerleading squad—Brooke's spent two years acting like Julian is her personal property. If she catches wind of this, she'll come for your throat!"

I pushed her face away. "I don't care. I only care about Havenwood Creek. If he can solve my pollutant dispersion model, I'd do more than give him a kiss. I'd do a striptease on the ice."

Analia gave me a look that said you're a lost cause, then snatched my phone. "He texted you!"

I grabbed for it. On the screen was a message from an unknown number:

"It's Julian. As a thank you—and honestly, for a favor. Coach is making us do cross-training to improve our lateral edge transitions, and I'm a stiff hockey brute who keeps tripping over these damn figure skate toe picks. Word is you know your way around an edge. Free to coach a desperate captain at the rink this weekend?"

I frowned. Figure skating cross-training? Edge transitions? What did that have to do with my data?

Analia snatched the phone back, her thumbs flying. "She's free! We're both free! What time?"

"Analia!" I lunged for the phone, but it was too late. The message was sent.

Julian's reply was almost instant. "Saturday at two. My friends will be there too. You can bring yours."

Analia held up the phone like an Olympic gold medal. "Done! A perfect double date!"

"It's not a date," I argued weakly. "It's a preliminary project meeting. He's just finding an excuse to meet and discuss the model."

Analia rolled her eyes. "Baby, you know nothing about men. If he wanted to talk about the project, he'd meet you at the library, not an ice rink. He's obviously trying to create more opportunities to hang out!"

My phone buzzed again. It was Julian. "About the data model, we can find a chance to talk in detail at the rink. The coffee there is pretty good."

I showed the message to Analia. "See? He mentioned the model."

Analia stared at the text, lost in thought. "Okay, maybe you're half right... but this is definitely a two-birds-one-stone plan."

On Saturday afternoon, when Analia and I arrived at the rink, Julian and his two friends—Beckham Mckee and Landon Hayes—were already there.

Julian was wearing a simple gray hoodie and black track pants. But on his feet were a pair of stiff, rented figure skates. Standing over six-foot-two with broad athletic shoulders, he looked distinctly out of his element without his heavy hockey armor.

He saw us and pushed off, trying to power-glide over to the boards. But his instinct took over—he leaned aggressively forward into a classic hockey stride.

Big mistake.

The jagged front toe pick of the figure blade bit violently into the ice. His massive momentum was abruptly stopped, pitching him forward. With a heavy, resounding thud, he hit the ice and slid a few feet, sprawling out across the surface.

Beckham and Landon immediately leaned against the glass, howling with laughter.

"Dude!" Beckham yelled, slapping the boards. "You can't hockey-stride on figure blades! Watching a two-hundred-pound power forward get taken down by a quarter-inch toe pick is the highlight of my week!"

Julian, propped up on one elbow, looked up at us with a wry, self-deprecating grin. "See? I told you. These blades are an absolute menace."

Analia whispered in my ear, "Oh my god, he wasn't kidding. A killer on the hockey rink, but completely useless on figure skates."

I couldn't help the ghost of a smile tugging at my lips. As someone who had spent half her life on the ice, I understood his problem instantly. Hockey blades had a curved rocker, built for aggressive forward weight and rapid cuts; figure skates were flatter, requiring an upright core, and punished forward-leaners with vicious front teeth.

Still, I watched him struggle to find an edge to push himself back up. A strange sense of responsibility washed over me.

He was, after all, the key to unlocking my project. I couldn't let Briar's star captain break a wrist before he solved my fluid dynamics equations.

I laced up my skates, Analia clumsily following my lead.

Stepping onto the ice, I glided over with effortless precision and held out a hand. "Need a hand, 'data expert'?"

Julian looked up, my reflection captured in his striking ice-blue eyes. He reached out and took my hand. His palm was warm, rough, and engulfed mine completely.

I pulled him up. His immense weight tilted toward me, and I had to lock my core and set a deep edge to keep us both upright.

"Thanks," he murmured, his breath warm against the chill of the arena. He kept one hand firmly on my forearm to steady himself, his proximity sending a sudden ripple of static down my spine. "Looks like I really do need a coach who knows how to tame these things."

Landon skated over, a smirk on his face. "Kaleigh, you look like a natural. Unlike Captain Crash over here," he teased, winking at Julian.

I shook my head, keeping my expression guarded. "Just messing around." I had no intention of digging up the ghost of my past.

Julian kept one hand resting lightly on the boards, moving with cautious, upright glides, fighting his natural forward-charging habits with visible concentration. There was something undeniably captivating about watching our university's lethal hockey prince forced to move with such careful restraint.

Beckham and Landon, meanwhile, were chasing each other on their own hockey skates on the far side of the rink, cutting sharp, effortless arcs. The contrast between them and Julian—stubbornly struggling to master figure skating edges for the sake of his "cross-training"—couldn't have been sharper.