#The Ice Skaters | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

avatar-anna · 1 year ago

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When You Fall In Love...

so i've been reading icebreaker and it's been putting me in the hockeyrry mood

part one, part two, bonus, bonus

Harry watched from the empty stands as Y/n ran through her routine for the fifth time. Her teammates had gone home, her coach asked Harry if he would lock up on the way out, and now it was just the two of them in the empty rink. There wasn't even any music playing anymore, Y/n was just skating and performing her tricks as if there was.

Every time she did it, it was flawless. Her routine was fast and intense and incredibly difficult, but Y/n performed with ease every time. She landed her tricks like they were nothing, tricks which Harry now knew the names of and could tell the difference between a lutz and an axel. She was incredible, and he was in awe of her every single time.

But even in her perfection, Y/n had yet to smile once.

Harry decided she'd had enough after she finished her fifth run-through, quickly jogging down to the edge of the rink before she could skate out to the middle again. He leaned over the barricade and kissed the top of her head. This close to her, he could see her rosy cheeks and heaving chest, a sign that her routine did wear her out, despite making it look so effortless.

"You were phenomenal as usual, baby," Harry said while he gathered her things.

"I bobbled a landing and my timing was off for a whole four counts," was her reply.

Harry frowned, not pleased by her recent negativity. Any athlete could be critical of their ability, but Y/n seemed uncharacteristically hard on herself lately, and he had no idea why. "Everything okay?" He asked, shouldering her duffle bag as they walked away from the rink.

"I'm fine."

She certainly didn't sound fine, but Harry decided not to push. Not now, anyway. Changing the subject, he said, "I got an email from the recruiter. I should be receiving my contract soon."

Excitement didn't even begin to cover how Harry had been feeling lately. Last week, he'd met with an agent of a minor league hockey team, one that was a feeder to an NHL team. He expressed their interest in Harry moving to the east coast after graduation and join them for spring training. And after giving it some thought, Harry accepted.

He was over the moon, thrilled that years of hard work was finally paying off. He'd made his passion into a career, and had the potential to really make a name for himself. Life couldn't have been better.

But where Harry seemed to be flying high, Y/n seemed stuck. She was happy for him when he told her the news, had gone out to celebrate with him that night. But something felt off between them. Harry couldn't put a name to it, but he just knew.

"That's great," Y/n said with no amount of enthusiasm in her voice. Harry tried not to take it to heart, she was clearly in a mood from her practice. She was under a lot of pressure too, he reminded himself, and sometimes had a knack for not knowing how to express herself with words.

"Is there something on your mind? You've been quiet recently," he said, hoping he wasn't overstepping her delicate boundary.

Y/n shook her head as she approached her car, sliding into the driver's seat without a word. Harry couldn't help but feel more and more like there was something on her mind, but he let it go again.

Before pulling the car out of the parking lot, Y/n rested her hand over his and leaned in to kiss him. "I'm sorry. I've just got a lot on my mind."

"It's okay. As long as you know you can talk to me about it."

Her throat bobbed, but she nodded, then turned her focus toward the road. Harry filled the silence with rambling. He talked mostly about the NHL, about his contract and where he wanted to live and how everything was happening so fast.

So caught up in trying to break the tension, he didn't notice Y/n's white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.

*.*

"Styles! What the hell are you doing? Focus up! Let's go!"

Harry rested his hands on his knees, breathing heavily during the brief pause in the game. His eyes flicked up to the stands, searching the crowd for a familiar face, but he didn't see the one he needed the most.

Despite being recruited by a minor league hockey team, Harry was probably having the worst game of his life.

Not one pass connected, he was letting second-rate players get by him, and he'd spent more time in the penalty box than in the actual game. Nothing about this was right, and still all he could do was look for Y/n.

She wasn't there, and even though things had been weird between them recently, he was still surprised. When she wasn't at a competition of her own, Y/n came to every one of Harry's games. It had started out as Harry wanting to impress her, maybe show off a little, and then as time went on and they grew closer and their relationship became more than two people having sex in secret, he wanted her to be there just because it felt good knowing she was watching him play. All his nerves floated away when Y/n was sat in the stands, sometimes in his jersey, cheering him on.

And of course there were times when she couldn't come, but this wasn't one of those times. Y/n had purposely not shown up. He knew they'd fought before the game, but he didn't think she would abandon him just to be petty. They were past that now.

His sole focus should've been on the game he was playing, but instead his mind kept drifting to the fight.

Harry could feel Y/n pulling away from him. He finally felt like he was getting everything he wanted—a spot on a minor league hockey team on the east coast that would eventually lead him to the NHL, graduating with semi-decent grades thanks to Y/n, and of course being with his dream girl. At first, she'd seen him as some douchey athlete that was only good for one thing. He remembered seeing her for the first time their freshman year, performing tricks on the ice that he'd only ever seen on TV, and when he whistled and clapped loudly—perhaps a little obnoxiously—after she'd finished, she'd rolled her eyes at him and told him to fuck off.

It was love at first sight.

Harry had been so careful around Y/n. He played by her rules and followed her lead, trying not to let the comments about them not dating get to him too much. He liked their initial dynamic, finding it funny when he got under her skin because she made it so easy. It became a kind of game, this push and pull that was fun and exciting and eventually led to their arrangement.

He knew that she cared about him on some level, he just needed to bide his time and show her he wasn't who she thought he was. Not entirely, anyway. And when she finally did, and they became more than just people who screwed around, everything was perfect.

They'd been through so much together. Y/n pushed Harry to be better, and he worked with her to master new tricks and nail her routine. There wasn't anyone else who understood his level of commitment to hockey, but she did, and that just made him love her more.

So when he got the call offering him a spot on the minor league team, Y/n was the first person Harry told. She'd been happy for him, and he was over the moon, his mind already making a million plans—where they'd live, her coming to his games, him helping her find a new rink to train at. It felt like the doors to a new and exciting world had opened for them, but she then she started pulling back, and Harry practically watched as that door slammed shut.

Harry pushed himself to focus back on the game, on the hockey stick in his hand and the ice beneath his skates. He felt like it took more effort than it should've to get his head back in the game, but his team managed to pull out a win, and he managed not to get benched before it happened. That didn't stop his coach from ripping him a new one in the locker room, but Harry sat there and took it, shaking his head and promising his piss poor performance would never happen again.

Exhausted both physically and mentally, he trudged out of the locker room and toward the parking lot, debating whether to take the bus home or call an Uber. Even in his senior year, he still didn't have a car, but Y/n was usually there to give him a ride home. To their home. Moving in together for their last year of school seemed like a no-brainer, and it had been amazing so far, though the last week had been kind of a disaster. Harry could feel the tension between them growing, but every time he asked Y/n about it, she'd say she was fine even though they both knew everything was not fine, and the cycle continued. He wanted to be excited, he wanted to celebrate the success he'd managed to create for himself, but he felt rather deflated instead.

To Harry's surprise, Y/n was waiting for him in the parking lot. He didn't hesitate putting his gear in the trunk and coming around to sit in the passenger seat. Y/n leaned in to kiss him immediately holding onto the sides of his face fervently.

"I'm sorry," she breathed. "I'm sorry for not being here tonight and I'm sorry for acting strange, and I'm sorry for—"

"Y/n, what's going on with you?" Harry couldn't help but ask.

"Can we wait until we get home to talk?" She asked. I want to be able to talk to you properly, and I can't if I'm driving.

When Harry nodded, Y/n must've deemed it enough. She peeled away from the rink, silent tension filling the air between once again. It had been following them around all week.

That ended tonight, though. He didn't care how much Y/n hated confrontation or hard conversations. They couldn't move forward if they didn't move past this roadblock first. Harry loved Y/n more than he ever thought possible, and stubborn as she was, he knew she loved him just as much. He would get to the bottom of this, no matter how hard she tried to fight him on the way down.

*.*

"Y/n, you know I would be ecstatic if you'd told me you qualified for the Olympics. This is a huge step in my career! Why can't you be happy for me?"

"I am! God, Harry, I am."

"Then why are you pulling away from me? I feel like I can't be excited about this around you when you're the one person who should understand how this feels."

"I can't do this. I can't have this argument with you," you said, trying to step away from him.

Harry was quick to grab your hands in his, keeping you from walking away. "What aren't you telling me? Do you want to break up?"

"No!

"Do you not love me anymore? What? What is it, Y/n?"

"God, I didn't—I didn't ask for this," you cried, feeling like a damn had burst inside you. It was out now, and now you had to see it through to the end. "I didn't plan on falling in love with you. I wasn't prepared to love you this much. You're the one who wanted to take things further, and now you're—"

You're leaving me, you couldn't bring yourself to say. You really were happy for him. All of his dreams were coming true, and he had an ambition that matched yours, which made you love him more. And now that ambition was taking him far away from you, and you weren't handling it as well as you thought you would.

"Y/n—"

"I'm happy for you, H, I'm so happy for you that I could burst. And maybe even a little jealous," you joked, though there was some truth to what you said. "But I guess I just...I guess I didn't expect to love you this much. And I don't—I don't know what to do because you're going soon and I'm..."

You had no clue, and that alone was terrifying.

At the start of all this, you never imagined falling in love with Harry. He drove you absolutely insane, and despite your physical attraction to him, you kept your distance. But he kept doing these things that made you like him, and eventually care about him, and finally made you fall in love with him. It just wasn't something you saw coming. Love was definitely not on the brain when you met Harry.

Because you knew this moment was inevitable. The moment when one of you would be given an opportunity you couldn't refuse and would pull you away from each other. Once upon a time, you thought you would be given your dream job of a lifetime—competitive skating and hopefully the Olympics—but somewhere down the line, skating stopped bringing you joy, only pressure and anxiety. And now Harry had his dream job on the other side of the country, and you were left to flounder and wonder how you would survive waking up without him next to you.

"You're making it seem like it's a bad thing that you're in love with me," Harry said quietly, but the low tone of his voice didn't hide anything. You knew he was getting upset. After all the avoidance the last week—on your part—yours and his emotions were coming to a head.

"It's not! It's just that you're leaving!" you said, resisting the urge to run a frustrated hand through your hair. "And all week you've talked about how excited to get out of here and leave this all behind and start a new chapter in your life. I mean, would it kill you to act like you're a little torn up about leaving?"

It was so selfish, and you knew it was. It was why you'd been avoiding Harry, this conversation. Harry had every right to be proud and ecstatic for leaving to play in the professional league. He worked so hard, pushed himself farther than anyone you'd ever met, except for maybe you. Your pain was clouding your good sense, and now you'd shown just how horrible you could really be.

You couldn't look him in the eye after saying what you did. Even if it was how you felt, you still felt ashamed for raining on Harry's parade. "Y/n—" he tried to say when you hastily wiped a tear from your eye.

"I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry," you said, getting up from the couch and scurrying off to your bedroom.

Flopping on the bed, you pulled the covers over you, trying to hide from everything happening around you. It was too much. Your senior year was supposed to be fun and full of unforgettable memories, not arguments and heartache.

You weren't sure how much time had passed before the door opened and Harry slipped inside. He slid into bed next to you, and you didn't fight it when he rested his face in the crook of your neck. Because despite everything you were feeling, this was all you really needed.

"I'm not leaving you behind," he murmured gently. "You mean too much to me."

You sniffled, and Harry pulled you closer to his chest. "You're going to be thousands of miles away."

"Says who?" he said, kissing your cheek. "Who says you aren't coming with me?"

"And do what?" you huffed, even though the thought slightly lifted your spirits. "Be one of your...puck whatevers and follow you around like a puppy? I need a life of my own too."

You were being stubborn and argumentative and you both knew it. There was some relief in knowing Harry wanted you with him, but you also didn't want to just move because Harry was. You needed purpose, you needed to feel like your life had some sort of direction in it. But it was unfair to put all of that on Harry, and you didn't know how to express how you felt without sounding insane, so instead you said nothing, and that obviously went over brilliantly.

Harry chuckled. "See, because you just said how in love you are with me, I can tell that you're frosty attitude is just an act. Now turn over and look at me."

You reluctantly turned over, brow furrowed exaggeratedly because you couldn't cross your arms over your chest. It used to infuriate you how easily Harry could get under your skin because he knew you so well, that he knew just what to do or say to pull you out of a bad mood. In this moment, you were thankful. He could see past all the harsh words and see to the root of the problem. You'd said some things that were perhaps out of order, but Harry understood. Despite everything, he understood.

"You've worked just as hard as me, Y/n. I want to be there for you the way you've been for me. You can achieve your goals too."

"I just...I don't know if I want to achieve them anymore," you said quietly.

It was the first time you'd said it out loud. Since you'd learned to skate, there had only been one goal: the Olympics. Getting there wasn't just a matter of training, it was about devoting your life to your craft, it was barely having a life outside of training and competitions and giving all your time to winning. And after spending nearly your entire life doing it, you felt yourself slowly burning out. You'd go through your routines flawlessly, but your heart wasn't in it. All you could think about was the future—the next competition, the next training session, the next qualifier. It took seeing Harry so happy about being drafted to the minor leagues to realize the fire had gone out in you. Thinking of Olympic qualifiers and training and affording coaches and costumes and picking the right music only filled you with dread when you should've felt joy.

"Oh."

"But I don't know who I am if I don't have skating."

"You don't have to compete to skate, you know," Harry said. He rested his hand against your cheek, rubbing his thumb along your temple lightly. "You can c—"

"Oh God, don't say coach," you groaned. "It's perfect. You'll be a hockey superstar and I'll be the washed-up figure skater who couldn't handle the pressure of being an athlete and wound up coaching instead."

"I know you're being like this because you're scared, and that's okay," he said. "But I'll help you find a new dream, Y/n. I promise."

You had to blink away tears because your heart couldn't take how much he cared about you. "Even when I've been a complete bitch?"

"You haven't been. I'm sorry if you felt like I was leaving you behind. I guess in my mind we would always be together, no matter where we ended up."

"God I hate how much I love you sometimes," you grumbled while flinging yourself on top of Harry and holding him tight. "It's too much, you're too much, and I can't stand it—"

"There's a compliment in there somewhere, right?" Harry asked, but you could hear the grin in his voice.

Sitting up, you perched yourself on him, your legs straddling his waist. Dipping down, you made sure your noses were brushing, but you didn't close the distance. Not yet. Your heart was racing simply because Harry had been so kind to you, because he knew you so well and said exactly what you needed to hear. It felt ridiculous to know that there was a time when he pissed you off so much you saw red, that his teasing remarks and cocky grin grated on your nerves. Now you didn't want to imagine a life without him.

"I'm sorry for saying all of those things," you murmured. "I really am proud of you. No one deserves this more than you do."

Harry's hand reached up and threaded through your hair, his fingers gentle as they passed over your scalp. "I know you are. And I mean it, Y/n. I'll help you. I know you love to skate, we just have to find a way to channel that into something else. If not coaching, maybe performing?"

"What? Like Disney on Ice?" you asked skeptically, your nose wrinkling at the thought.

Harry shrugged as his hand dipped beneath your shirt to stroke your back. "You'd be a cute princess."

"With my luck, they'd make me a tree."

"Then you'd be the cutest tree there ever was."

Shaking your head, you nudged your nose against his again. "Can we hit pause on talking about the future? I just want to be with you here. Right now."

"Course," Harry said, one corner of his mouth turning up into a crooked grin. "And then maybe we can circle back to you being my puck whatever."

"Shut up."

"Make me!"

And that was something you knew how to do better than your skating routine.

#harry styles #hockey player!harry styles #ice skater!y/n #harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfic #harry styles oneshot #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x you #harry styles fluff #harry styles writing #harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #hockeyrry

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hoe4hotchner · 2 months ago

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Chapter 1 - First impressions

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x figure skater (fem)!Reader

Summary: The story follows you a figure skater training for nationals and Aaron Hotchner as your lives intertwine during an investigation into the abductions of young athletic women, including the your close friend, Leah. As the BAU delves deeper into the case, you find yourself captivated by Hotch’s quiet strength and protective presence. When Leah’s body is tragically discovered at the rink, the tension escalates, surrounding you in an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty.

Word count: 4.7k

Warnings: Case talk, mansplaining, mentions of murder, mentions of kidnapping.

A/N: Here ye here ye!! Chapter 1 is here for everyone to read. The amount of times I mention the word "discipline" and "weight" in this chapter is crazy.

Masterlist

The conference room at the BAU was buzzing with a quiet and anticipatory energy as the team filed in, each member cradling a cup of coffee and carrying their files. It was early - earlier than usual - but no one seemed surprised. It was not unusual for them to be called in early. This was routine. Yet, something felt different. They didn’t have all the details, but the call for a briefing sounded urgent and hinted at a case that would require every ounce of their focus.

Hotch stood at the front of the room, his expression unreadable as usual, but the slight tension in his posture was enough to make the others take notice. Morgan slid into his seat, casually glancing at the iPad in front of him while Reid shuffled through his usual pile of notes. Emily and JJ exchanged brief, curious looks shot towards Hotch, their voices hushed as they speculated about the case.

"Alright, listen up," Hotch said, his voice cutting through the hum of the room as he moved in front of the screen. The screen was still blank behind him, it stood like a canvas waiting to be filled with the details of their current nightmare. He clicked the remote in his hand, the screen flickering to life, displaying the images of young women. One by one, their smiling faces filled the frame - each picture a snapshot of life before it looked to have been ripped away.

"These women," Hotch continued, gesturing toward the images, "have all gone missing from the same local area over the past month." The room fell eerily silent, eyes fixed on the screen. The women were similar, maybe a little too similar - each in their 20's, all athletic, with the same builds. Their smiles, once vibrant and full of life, now seemed haunting as pictures of the first two victims' dead bodies flashed onto the screen and painted a grim picture.

The team’s focus sharpened, the weight of their faces settling in. Reid leaned in slightly, eyes darting over the patterns he could already see emerging. Each woman had lived a life filled with potential and discipline.

"Athletes," Hotch added, his voice quieter now but firm. "Every one of them. Fit, disciplined, and otherwise healthy." His words hung in the air as the team began to form their own theories. A disturbing pattern was taking shape, though none of them knew yet just how far the darkness stretched.

He clicked again, bringing up a detailed map on the screen. Red markers indicated the precise locations where the women were last seen and likely abducted. "As you can see," Hotch said, gesturing toward the first two marks, "the first two victims were last seen leaving local gyms in the early evening. Both were alone, security cameras showed them heading to their cars, and when their car leaves the frame that is the last image we have of each victim."

He paused, then pointed to the third marker. "Leah Connors, our most recent victim, was taken from this parking lot outside the Ice Pavilion, where she trained late at night, four days ago. She had just finished her skating practice when she was abducted. The security cameras in the lot were offline, and no one reported seeing anything suspicious in the neighborhood at the time."

Morgan leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied the map intently. He traced the lines connecting the crime scenes with his finger, the pattern beginning to form in his mind. "So, what we're dealing with here," he said, voice low but firm, "is someone who's deliberately targeting a specific type of woman. These aren't random grabs Hotch; he’s choosing women who are strong and fit, and certainly doesn't lack discipline. They likely represent something to him, something personal."

Morgan’s eyes lingered on the photos of each victim, each woman’s face radiating vitality and ambition. His gaze hardened as he thought through the unsub’s motives. “These women... they could represent control, strength, maybe even perfection to him,” he said, his voice heavy with the thought of what they were about to unravel. "Whatever it is, he’s fixating on women who push their bodies to the limit - athletes who excel physically, women who embody discipline and hard work." His hand gestured toward the images.

He paused, searching for the right words to capture the darkness of the unsub’s obsession. "It’s like he’s trying to take something from them. Maybe it’s about proving something to himself - dominating women who represent everything he can’t be or control."

Hotch nodded, stepping forward to add to Morgan’s analysis, his expression grim as he clicked through more slides, each woman’s profile now paired with disturbing notes on their abductions. “According to the initial eval from the field office,” Hotch began, his voice steady but sharp “the unsub may otherwise also be fixated on women he perceives as physically perfect. This could be about asserting dominance over women he feels are unreachable - and as you said Morgan - out of his control.”

He pointed to the reports beneath each victim’s image. "His method of abduction supports that theory as well. There are no signs of a struggle, no chaos left behind. He’s quick and efficient, which suggests planning. He's organized and methodical." He looked at the team, the weight of his words settling in. “There’s no indication that these women had any chance to fight back. He took them swiftly, without warning - meaning he’s done this before, and he knows how to overpower them.”

The room was tense as they absorbed the initial profile, each member of the team seeing the chilling precision with which this unsub operated. The victims weren’t just targets - they were symbols, reflections of something he needed to control, no matter the cost.

“There’s another possibility we need to consider,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “The precision of these abductions suggests he might be more familiar with the victims than we might initially think. Since there’s no sign of a struggle, it’s possible these women knew the unsub, or at least didn’t perceive him as a threat when he approached them.”

Morgan nodded, leaning forward. “Maybe he’s someone from their world. A coach, trainer, someone who works behind the scenes - someone who blends in.”

“It would explain why there are no signs of force near the abduction sites. If they trusted him, or at the very least didn’t suspect him, they wouldn’t have their guard up.” Reid added quietly.

Hotch glanced back at the board. “If that’s the case, the unsub may have been watching these women for a while - learning their routines, embedding himself in their lives just enough to get close without raising suspicion. We need to find out if any of them had contact with the same person before they disappeared.”

It was a chilling thought, and the room seemed to grow heavier as the possibility settled in. The unsub wasn’t just a predator lying in wait - he could be someone they knew, someone they had trusted.

Hotch clicked the remote again, and Leah’s photo appeared prominently next to those of the other victims once again, their smiling faces a stark contrast to the grim reality of the case. “Leah’s abduction is what ties us to a new lead. Her figure skating coach, Mark Branson, has a documented history of controlling behavior. Several athletes he’s worked with have come forward with complaints about his intense training regimens, which they described as bordering on abusive. He pushes them beyond their limits - physically and mentally - creating an environment that fosters both fear and dependency.”

He paused for emphasis, letting the significance of the information settle in the room. “Despite these allegations, he’s never faced charges, but his name came up during Garcia's background check, and we can’t afford to overlook him when time is running out. He’s a potential link to the victims that needs further investigation.”

“How do we know Branson's not just a demanding coach?” Prentiss interjected, tapping her pen thoughtfully against the table. “That’s pretty common in high-level sports. Coaches often push their athletes hard to achieve success. It could be a case of bad coaching practices rather than anything sinister.”

Morgan leaned forward. “That may be true, but in high-pressure environments, there’s a fine line between motivation and manipulation. If these athletes felt threatened or coerced, it could indicate a deeper issue. We need to dig into his past and see if there are patterns in his behavior beyond just coaching.”

“Exactly,” Hotch conceded, his tone measured as he acknowledged Morgan's point. “But we also have a witness who claims she saw someone matching Branson’s description near one of the gymnasiums where one of the other victims trained, just days before she was taken. This isn’t just speculation; it’s a significant lead that connects him to the timeline of these disappearances.”

Rossi leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed thoughtfully over his chest. The creak of the chair echoed in the quiet room as he contemplated the implications. “Sounds like we need to dig into Branson’s background more thoroughly. We should look for any history of obsession or unusual behavior, particularly any connections to the victims that go beyond just being their coach. If other athletes trained under him, we might uncover more troubling patterns.”

Reid, flipping through the file in front of him with a sense of urgency, added his insights. “Branson’s control issues could align with the profile. He might see them as a challenge - individuals he needs to break down in order to feel powerful.”

Morgan nodded in agreement, his expression serious. “And if that’s the case, we need to act fast. He’s likely not going to stop with just these three victims. If we don’t catch him soon, another woman could easily go missing. We have to get ahead of him before he strikes again.” The urgency in his voice emphasized the gravity of the situation, rallying the team’s focus on the task ahead.

Hotch's expression darkened as the weight of the situation settled heavily on his shoulders. “The field office has already questioned Branson, but we need to go in and talk to him ourselves. It’s crucial that we either rule him out as a suspect or dig deeper into his background. Morgan, Rossi and I will be heading to the rink as soon as possible to speak with him and gather more information.”

Reid, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scanned his notes, “Do we know if Leah’s body has been found yet?” The question hung in the air, filled with apprehension.

Hotch shook his head grimly. “No. Leah Connors has not been missing long enough according to the M.O. Every moment that passes decreases our chances of finding her alive. The longer she’s gone, the more likely it is that we won’t recover her.” His voice carried the weight of his experience and understanding of what this case demanded.

Prentiss glanced at the photos on the board, her expression tightening as the faces of the victims stared back at her. “If Branson’s involved, he might already be planning his next move,” she noted, her voice steady yet tinged with concern.

As the team began to gather their things, the air was thick with determination. Morgan turned to Hotch, a serious look in his eyes. “You think Branson’s our guy?”

Hotch paused, his expression contemplative as he narrowed his eyes slightly, weighing the implications. “I don’t know yet. But I want to be sure before we move on. We need every lead we can get. If he’s involved, we need to find out how deep it goes. If he’s innocent, we’ll need to look elsewhere, but either way, we can’t afford to waste time.”

Morgan nodded in agreement. “Then let’s go see what this guy’s all about.” His words carried a reminder of the stakes involved in their investigation.

The ice rink was surprisingly serene, a stark contrast to the storm brewing outside. The sound of blades gliding across the frozen surface echoed through the empty arena, creating a delicate rhythm that filled the vast, and chilly space. The agents stepped onto the concrete floor, their breath visible in the crisp air as they scanned their surroundings.

Hotch walked ahead, his expression unreadable, exuding an air of focus. "Morgan, with me," he said, his voice cutting through the faint melody playing over the rink’s speakers. The soft notes mingled with the sound of skates on ice, creating an almost haunting atmosphere. "Dave, see if you can find the rink manager. We need details on Branson’s schedule, especially who he coached the past couple of weeks and any unusual behavior." The agents dispersed.

As Hotch moved forward, his gaze lingered on the ice for a moment longer than necessary. There, moving with effortless grace, was a woman - you - performing a series of elegant spins and leaps, perfectly synchronized with the music that filled the space. Your concentration was palpable, every movement executed with the kind of precision that only years of practice could cultivate. You were completely immersed in your art, blissfully unaware of the agents and the investigation unfolding around you.

Hotch watched as you landed another jump, the smallest hint of admiration creeping into his thoughts. It wasn’t just your skill - it was the focus, the sheer dedication reflected in your every move. Something about your determination resonated with him, a reminder of the relentless pursuit of excellence he had valued in his own work throughout his career. Yet, he quickly pulled his attention back to the case, mentally chiding himself for allowing a moment of distraction.

"Agent Hotchner?" A voice broke through Hotch's concentration, pulling him back to the present. Branson had appeared at the rink’s edge, wiping his hands on a towel as he approached the team. He was older, in his mid-fifties, with a stocky build. His gruff demeanor was punctuated by a furrowed brow, a clear indication that he was not accustomed to or happy about being questioned.

"Mr. Branson," Hotch greeted, extending his hand firmly. "We need to ask you a few questions regarding our current investigation." His tone was professional but carried an undertone of authority that left no room for misunderstanding or protests.

The questioning commenced in typical BAU fashion - focused and direct. Hotch and Morgan exchanged glances, silently communicating their strategy as they probed Branson about his whereabouts during the timeline of the abductions. They inquired about his relationships with his skaters and whether he had any connections to the victims. Branson’s posture stiffened slightly at the mention of the girls, but he maintained eye contact, giving his responses with a defensive steadiness. "I don’t know anything about these girls," he insisted, his voice edged with frustration. "My only concern is my athletes and getting them ready for competitions. I have no interest in anything else. Leah's disappearance doesn't bother me as long as I have her" Branson nodded toward you on the ice.

Hotch studied him closely, noting the slight tremor in Branson's hands as he spoke and the way his gaze flickered when he mentioned the victims. While his answers didn’t raise immediate red flags, there was still an unsettling quality about his proximity to the victims that couldn’t be ignored. Throughout the years the team had learned that the most dangerous unsubs often blended seamlessly into the backgrounds of their targets, and Branson's defensive stance only heightened Hotch's suspicions. As the conversation progressed, Hotch sensed that there was more to Branson's story, a deeper layer lurking beneath the surface that demanded further investigation when time allowed it.

"He's clean," Rossi murmured, pulling Hotch aside as he returned from questioning the rink manager. "Alibis line up. I don’t think he’s our unsub."

Hotch gave a brief nod, though his gaze remained locked on Branson, who was still speaking with Morgan near the rink’s edge. There was no immediate threat, no telltale sign of guilt, but something about the coach kept Hotch’s instincts on alert. "Still," he replied, voice low, "we’ll keep him on the list until we can be sure."

Branson had the right alibis and nothing overtly suspicious in his behavior, yet Hotch knew better than to dismiss him entirely. People like Branson, who operated in tight-knit athletic communities, often hid things beneath the surface - control issues, power dynamics, unresolved anger. There was always the possibility that something darker lurked just out of sight.

As the conversation wrapped up and the team prepared to leave, you finally noticed the group of agents lingering near the rink’s entrance as the last notes of your setlist faded. You had been completely absorbed in your routine, unaware of their watchful eyes until now. Slowing your pace, you glided to a stop, chest heaving with exertion but keeping your expression calm and composed. It wasn’t every day a team of federal agents appeared at one of your training sessions.

"Is everything alright?" you asked cautiously, stepping off the ice and reaching for your jacket draped over the railing. Your eyes flickered briefly to Hotch, catching his gaze just long enough to feel the intensity behind it.

"We’re investigating a case that might be connected to someone at this facility," Hotch replied in his usual clipped tone, offering no more information than necessary.

You nodded slowly, glancing toward your coach, who was still speaking with Morgan. Branson’s stern face gave nothing away, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. And something about Hotch’s posture - the way he stood with such composed authority, never fully relaxed - made you uneasy. It was clear that, even though your coach had been cleared, the FBI’s interest in this place wasn’t over yet.

"Should I be worried?" you asked, trying to keep your tone light, but the tension in your voice betrayed your real concern. There was a part of you that couldn’t help but feel that this investigation, whatever it was, might touch your life more directly than you’d like.

Hotch's gaze softened just enough to feel reassuring. "We don’t believe you’re in any immediate danger miss," he said, his eyes meeting yours with a steady intensity. "But it’s best to stay cautious. If you notice anything unusual - anything at all - don’t hesitate to contact us." Hotch handed you his business card, something so natural to him, but reassuring to you.

As you pulled on your jacket and gathered your things, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this wouldn’t be the last time you’d see Agent Hotchner.

The BAU's visit to the rink had been brief, but the weight of it hung heavy over the team as they regrouped in the conference room. The table was littered with new notes, files, and evidence photos, each one a potential piece to the puzzle that still remained frustratingly incomplete. As the team settled in, their usual energy subdued, Hotch found his thoughts drifting, his focus momentarily splintered in a way that felt unfamiliar.

It wasn’t like him to let his mind wander. Normally, he was able to compartmentalize everything - his thoughts, his emotions - keeping them all in neat, orderly boxes. Yet today, something lingered in the back of his mind, something that pulled him away from the stacks of files and images before him. It wasn’t just the case that weighed on him; it was you - the way you moved with an intensity and purpose, the way you'd looked so innocent, so angelic while practicing your routine on the ice.

It wasn’t just your grace on the ice, though that was undeniably striking. It was something more intrinsic, something about the way you carried yourself as if you had spent your entire life fighting through obstacles - physical, mental, emotional even. He saw it in your posture, the way you pushed yourself through the routine despite exhaustion, your expression tight with focus and determination. It reminded him of the same relentless drive that kept him going on the job, the way he forced himself to be stronger, to endure, no matter the pain and personal cost.

As he sat at the head of the table, files splayed open in front of him, Hotch couldn’t shake the image of you mid-leap, suspended in the air for what felt like a heartbeat. He could still recall the sound of the blades of your skates hitting the ice as you landed. Your face had been a mask of concentration, and in that brief moment, he recognized something deeply familiar. The discipline, the perseverance, the quiet strength - it was as if he had seen a reflection of himself. And though he couldn’t quite place why, an odd sense of admiration crept into his thoughts, catching him off guard.

“Hotch?” Morgan's voice cut through his trance, pulling him sharply back to the room.

Hotch blinked, momentarily disoriented, before clearing his throat and sitting up straighter in his chair. "Yeah," he said, his voice firm, though there was a slight edge to it, betraying the brief lapse in his usual composure. "What’s our next step?"

Morgan didn’t press Hotch further. "Garcia’s doing a deep dive into Branson’s finances and personal life," Morgan explained. "So far, nothing out of the ordinary, but we’re still waiting on some records. She’s combing through everything - credit reports, phone records, anything that could give us a lead."

Hotch nodded, but even as he listened to Morgan’s update, part of his mind still lingered at that rink. There was something about this investigation that felt different. Something that, for better or worse, had struck a chord in him.

“What about his connections?" Prentiss asked, her voice laced with curiosity. "Any personal relationships with the victims beyond coaching?”

“None that we’ve uncovered so far," Rossi replied, "but there’s definitely a pattern forming. Even if Branson doesn’t have direct ties to these women, all of them were deeply involved in their athletic circles right before they vanished. It’s possible the unsub may be targeting these communities, using them as a hunting ground.”

Hotch nodded in agreement as he sifted through the case files in front of him, his eyes scanning each piece of information carefully, dotting down a few scribbled notes along the way. “We need to broaden our investigation,” he said, flipping another page. "If Branson isn’t directly involved, then we could be looking at someone who’s still connected to these places. Maybe a spectator, a sponsor - someone who blends in at these events but stays under the radar.”

The conversation moved forward, focusing on logistics and the next steps, but Hotch’s mind wandered back to the rink, back to you.

But he couldn’t afford distractions. Not now.

Back at the rink, the air felt sharper than usual as you replayed the events of the day in your mind. The presence of the FBI had been jarring, a reminder that the world beyond the rink was far from safe. Your coach had barely contained his frustration during the questioning, his agitation palpable even after the agents left. It wasn’t every day that a federal investigation collided with your life so directly, and it certainly wasn’t every day that you crossed paths with someone like Aaron Hotchner.

His presence had been impossible to ignore, though it wasn’t in the way most people might expect. Hotch’s quiet intensity was unsettling, but not in a bad way - it was just that he carried himself with such calm authority, that it demanded attention. You couldn’t shake the feeling that his gaze had lingered on you during practice, though it never felt intrusive. If anything, it felt like he was studying you, but not in a way that made you uncomfortable.

As you completed another lap around the rink after your break, the sound of your blades slicing through the ice should have calmed you. Usually, the rhythm of skating helped clear your mind, the repetitive movements allowing you to focus. But today was different. The weight of the investigation, the fact that Leah seemed to have disappeared completely from the roster, and the FBI’s looming presence throughout the rink made it hard to concentrate. You couldn’t help but wonder if the investigation would interfere with your training in any way - if the agents would come back and disrupt your routine again.

Leah’s absence weighed heavily on your heart. She wasn’t just a fellow skater; she’d been your friend. You usually spoke at least once a day, but her sudden disappearance from your life had left a deep void, not only in your small circle but in the rink itself. Everyone was on edge, whispering about what had happened, if it had anything to do with the other athletes having gone missing, who would be next - as if skating wasn’t dangerous enough already. You shivered at the thought.

Your thoughts were interrupted by Branson’s gruff voice calling out to you from the edge of the rink. “Hey," he said, breaking through the fog in your mind as you slowed to a stop near the boards. "You alright?"

You nodded, though you weren’t entirely sure if that was the truth. "Just thinking about Leah," you replied, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself as you caught your breath. "Do you think... someone took her?"

Branson’s usual stern expression softened, but there was still tension in his posture as if the whole ordeal had him on edge too. He sighed heavily, running a hand over his face before replying, “I don’t know, kid. But the FBI’s involved now. They don’t mess around. If anyone’s going to find her, it’ll be them. You just focus on your routine. Nationals are in a few weeks, and we need you at your best.”

You nodded, though the reassurance did little to ease the gnawing unease in your chest. Leah’s fate hung in the air like a storm cloud, and no matter how hard you tried to focus on skating, the uncertainty remained, creeping into your thoughts with every glide. As you turned to skate away, you couldn’t help but glance at the spot where Agent Hotchner had stood earlier, wondering if you’d see him again - and if this nightmare would be over soon.

Later that evening, Hotch sat in his dimly lit office, the soft amber glow of his desk lamp casting shadows across the stack of files and reports spread before him. The weight of the case pressed heavily on his shoulders, but his focus kept slipping, drawn back to the rink. To the investigation. And, much to his frustration, to you.

He stared blankly at the notes scattered in front of him, but the words blurred together, failing to hold his attention. It wasn’t typical for him - he was known for his ability to set aside distractions and zero in on the task at hand. But something about today was different. He couldn’t shake the memory of watching you on the ice, the effortless way you moved. There had been such precision in your performance, every movement executed with an intensity and control that mirrored the way he approached his work. It stirred something in him, a recognition of sorts.

It wasn’t attraction - not in the usual sense, anyway. It was more of an understanding.

But this wasn’t about him, and it certainly wasn’t about you. Hotch closed his eyes briefly, exhaling deeply as he tried to push the distractions aside. Leah Connors was still missing, and every minute that passed made it less likely she'd be alive when they found her. This case was about her, about finding the truth before it was too late. Not you.

With a tired sigh, Hotch closed the file in front of him and leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under the shift in weight. Tomorrow, they’d return to the rink. Tomorrow, they’d dig deeper, unraveling the web that surrounded Leah and perhaps Mark Branson. They were running out of time, but Hotch was determined to get closer to the truth.

Still, as he sat there in the quiet solitude of his office, he couldn’t help but wonder why you kept lingering in his thoughts. What was it about you that had struck such a chord? Was it the way you reminded him of the person he used to be before the job consumed him? Or was it something else entirely? He shook his head, trying to push the thought away. Tomorrow, he told himself.

Tomorrow, he’d figure it out.

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