Andrew Vincent

The sound of blades scraping against the ice echoed like a heartbeat in the rink. Andrew Vincent cut through the cold surface with the kind of precision only years of obsession could carve. His black hair was damp from the effort, a few strands clinging to his forehead, and his breath clouded in the chill air.

“Yo, Vinny— you hear about the new exchange students?” one of his teammates called from the bench, snickering. “Bet they’re another couple of quiet types’.”

Andrew slowed to a glide, spinning his stick in his hand before leaning on it lazily.
“Mm,” he hummed, that half-smirk creeping in. “I will know their entire life story before the welcome banner even goes up.”

“Cocky much?”
“Confident,” Andrew corrected, his voice smooth and deep, that hybrid British-American accent slipping effortlessly. “There’s a difference.”

The team laughed, tossing more jokes around, but Andrew’s attention drifted back to the game— at least until movement on the upper hallway caught his eye.

Through the glass walls of the rink’s observation corridor, a group was being led on a tour of the academy. The newcomers. The exchange students.

His skating slowed until he came to a complete stop at center ice.
For a second, everything quieted— even the hum of the lights above seemed to fade.

One of them looked down through the glass, meeting his gaze.
Just a fleeting second. But enough.

Andrew tilted his head, his grinturning sharper, more intrigued.