On the Brink of Passion--Snow & Ice Games

by Tamsen Parker

  I’ve tried to figure out what it is that keeps her from enjoying . . . anything. She doesn’t seem at all religious, so it’s not like laughing is the work of the devil. I don’t know if she’s punishing herself over what happened to Stephen—which was in no way her fault—or maybe she’s got a case of survivor’s guilt, but whatever it is, the woman lives as though having fun is a crime punishable by death.

  Before she can talk herself out of it, I take her stuff and leave it on the bar stool I just vacated, and then grab her hand, the way I have a million times before. Off the ice, it feels different. I don’t let it bother me, or the disappointed looks and death glares some of the people I’d been chatting with shoot me as I drag Jubilee toward the dance floor. Yeah, it had been fun, but they’re people in a bar, and Jubilee is my partner. Not like I could go home at the end of the night with one of them anyhow. I promised, and I’ll keep my word.

  So onto the dance floor we go, and I can’t ignore the people who clearly know who we are. By ourselves, Jubilee especially, we don’t usually get noticed. Me and that speed skater Blaze Bellamy could probably vie for most recognizable hair, so we get recognized more often, though still not always. But given the context and that Jubilee and I are together? Yeah, people know who we are, and they make space around us, as if they’re expecting us to launch into a choreographed routine.

  We don’t have one.

  What I do have is Jubilee pressing her face into my chest as if she’s trying to hide, and maybe she is. She mumbles something and I have to lean down to ask her to repeat herself.

  “I’m . . . not actually a good dancer. You know that, right?”

  How is that possible? “What do you mean? You’re one of the most elegant, flexible, athletic people I know. How can you not dance?”

  “Being able to pull a Ginger Rogers with knives on my feet and get tossed around like a Frisbee doesn’t mean I can jam out to the Top 40,” she hisses.

  “Okay, fair.” Now that I’ve put her in this position how can I get her out of it? Or maybe more importantly, through? I can’t help with the skates, but I can help with something else. “How about you just do what you always do and let me lead?”

  She looks up at me with that sweet little scowl on her face. “I have so much fuck you in my heart right now.”

  I bet she does, but in mine, I’ve got some kind of toxic goo made out of affection, protectiveness, amusement, and I don’t even want to know what that green thing floating over there is. It feels a little like I really, really like this woman, which would be great if it were literally anyone except Jubilee, and if it had waited until I was done skating competitively. It’s her and now, though, so I slam a lid on it, wrench the lock tight, and start to move my body. Bodies are easy, we do that just fine. It’s the whole swamp of feels that I shouldn’t go wading into.

  Despite her furious protests, she aligns her body with mine in a way that’s going to help her take cues.

  I won’t let you down, Jubilee.

  We might look kind of crazy, positioned like we’re about to start a waltz but with our bodies pressed together, but I’ll start her off someplace she’s comfortable. Finding the beat isn’t hard, so I set us to moving from foot to foot, side to side, and with that small latch onto a thing she feels comfortable with, I can feel the confidence returning to her body.

  After a few intro beats, the song moves into something slightly more chaotic, the vocals starting. With it, I put a hand to her back and swivel our hips together. While her eyes pop wide at the motion, she lets me do it, tightens her grip on my hand, and follows. After a couple of full circles, I press her out and use our extended arms to pull her back with a twirl. She ends up against me with my arm around her, her free hand pressed against my chest, a tiny smile on her face.

  “See, this isn’t so bad, is it?” My taunting is met by a roll of her eyes, but also a shake of her head. Got her.

  The beat isn’t quite right to be a cha-cha, but when we’d first started pairing together, we’d practiced a program with some cha-cha elements, and it’s as close as I’ve got to something to work with. Spinning her out before pulling her back in, I put my hands on her hips and guide her into the rolling, rocking hip motion. She picks it up easily, and then starts to add things on, improvise, and it’s then I realize she’s not bad at dancing. She’s just maybe never connected it with the skating she’s done before.

  Spins, steps, and a dip or two into the song, she actually looks happy, and it makes that whole cocktail in my chest feel like it’s going to erode the cap I’d sealed it with, just let everything gurgle out and spill all over everything, which is not a good idea at all. No leakage. Leakage is bad. Jubilee doesn’t take kindly to . . . kindness.

  So I make this more about athleticism, upping the difficulty of the moves, but making them mirror things we’ve done on the ice before, and I get her moving pretty good, even laughing. Toward the end of the song, there’s a few seconds where the percussion takes a break and lets the melody slow down and shine. I take the opportunity to pull her in close until we’re pressed together practically from shoulder to knee, off a bit given the height difference between us. And then she’s bending backward, sweeping her laid-back form from one side to another, which happens to make her pelvis grind against me, and I have to grit my teeth against the intimacy of it.

  This isn’t on the ice, so it’s not our job, but I still shouldn’t be having pants feelings. I mean, for god’s sake, I’ve seen her naked, touched every inch of her body, been inside her, and yet this feels like the closest we’ve ever been.

  As she sweeps up to standing, she’s got a smile—a big one—on her face, and it cracks something inside me. I reach a hand up to cup her face and am so frigging close to bending down to kiss her. But that road only leads to heartbreak, to my partner feeling she has an unreasonable amount of control over me, and a shanked performance we can’t afford. Luckily for me, the beat is back, and launches into the hectic last thirty seconds of the song, and I take the opportunity to move my grip like quicksilver down her body, grasping at her waist and tossing her into the air.

  It’s not as much height as she gets on the ice, but she still tucks her limbs in and her rotation is perfect and lovely, allowing me a text book catch but also forcing her body to slide close down mine since we have no momentum, no movement. Yep, definitely pants feelings as her small breasts end up in my face. No man should be tortured like this.

  We finish off with a dramatic dip back, and I can feel her ribs heaving in the cradle of my arm. It wasn’t as strenuous physically as our usual routines, or any of our practices, but she was nervous starting out and that must have taken a toll. I ease her back up and grab her into a hug that she returns, pressing her face into my chest, and her arms sliding up my back until her hands are resting over my shoulder blades. Her breath is hot against me, and she’s not moving away, maybe even pressing herself to me, letting herself be held and for no good reason besides maybe she’s enjoying it.

  I’m yanked away from cataloguing every detail of this moment by applause. What the hell? We’re in a bar, there’s no live music, who the hell are—

  Oh. Right.

  Given the heat I’m feeling in my face, I’ve probably turned a blaring shade of red. This is . . . not what I meant to do. The point wasn’t attention, and it wasn’t admiration. The point was to get Jubilee to have fun for a minute or two. Mission accomplished and all that, but now she’s looking around like a deer in headlights.

  “We can leave now. Let’s go.”

  She shakes her head but doesn’t look mad. “We can’t do anything. The rumors would be out of control if we left the bar after that hand in hand. You bet your ass there’d be headlines on Celebrinews and half a dozen other places that we’re a couple, and I can’t . . . I mean, we’re not, so . . .”

  Of course we’re not. Before we got to Denver we spent 80 percent of our waking hours together, and since we got here it’s more like 95 percent, plus our s
leeping hours since the roommate debacle. We know each other better than any other living person, and we have sex regularly. Yeah, nothing about that says “couple.” And yet I know what she means.

  I give her a squeeze, pick her up and swing her around like I’ve done after our performances. “I get it. You head home now since you’ve been asking to go, and I’ll follow in like an hour or so. No questions, no suspicions.”

  There’s a hesitation as if maybe that’s not what she actually wants to do, but then she’s nodding against my shoulder. I set her down and then she reaches up and ruffles my hair. Mostly she does that to get my goat, but this time it feels like gratitude, so I’ll take it that way.

  Chapter Eight

  Jubilee

  The walk back to the village is cold. It’s also full of drunken revelers, and my brain immediately brings Beckett to the forefront of my thoughts. Is he polishing off his beer and having another? Why should I care if he is? Why should I care, even, if he flirts with that woman who was hanging on him when I tried to tell him I was leaving? Will he dance with her, too? So what if he does?

  These thoughts, they aren’t helpful. So I focus on the cold, because cold always reminds me of work, of what I’m here to do. Ice. Skates. My programs. My life. Dancing and cavorting is for other people. I need to maintain focus. Although, after this is over . . . maybe I could pick up a guy in a bar. Maybe I could meet someone new?

  When I think about it, though, something constricts around my heart, tight as my skate strings. It’s been almost four years since Stephen died, and yet he’s still very much in my thoughts. Maybe moving on will be easier after this is over. After my career is over. But am I ever going to be so far removed from the skating world that I won’t feel his ghost everywhere I go?

  It’s not like I have a college degree and could go be an accountant or something. No, I’d always assumed after our competitive career was over, we’d tour as part of a show, and when we’d finally worn out our welcome on that circuit, retire to teach and coach. Buy a little house, have a couple of babies and be local celebrities. When we’d first move to town, people would point at us in the grocery store. “Is that . . . ? Didn’t they used to . . . ?” But then they’d get used to us because we’d be so normal and boring, and we’d only be a novelty to tourists who passed through.

  I haven’t bothered to come up with a new plan. Mostly because when I look past the SIG horizon, there’s nothing there at all. Blackness. My life is just . . . over. I fall off a cliff.

  I show my ID to get in the village, and the guard waves me through with a smile. Unlike the city outside the village, inside is relatively quiet. Yes, there are masses of people moving around, but quietly. No one’s in a hurry to be that jerk who made a ruckus when everyone else was trying to rest up for their events. Not yet, especially.

  Back in the suite, it feels empty without Beckett there. I should be grateful for the time alone, and the space. The lack of his . . . everything. But it’s maybe too quiet? Too empty? Like I’d expect there to be an echo if I spoke. But there’s no one here to talk to, and I’ve never been one of those people who talks to themselves.

  “Until now.”

  Nope, no echo. And now I’m just a weirdo who’s talking to herself. Stellar.

  To distract myself, I get undressed and ready for bed, tugging on my favorite mermaid pajamas, going through my night routine, turning off the light, and settling into bed with my Kindle. I’m not actually all that interested in the book I’m reading, so it’s no surprise that I don’t remember falling asleep when the door eases open what turns out to be an hour later.

  “Beckett?”

  I hear him suck air through his teeth, though I can barely see him in the low light. “Sorry, I was trying really hard to be quiet. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

  “You didn’t,” I say, even though he kind of did. But it’s not his fault. He wasn’t actually being loud. “You can turn on a light if you want.”

  “No, no. I can get ready without bothering you more.”

  It’s sweet of him to concern himself, though it kind of backfires when he walks into something in the dark, causing something on it to fall over, and also causing him to start cursing prolifically because he’s stubbed his toe. Oh, Beck.

  “Are you sure?”

  He laughs, and even in the middle of the night, I don’t feel so lonely anymore. “Apparently not. I’m—”

  “You don’t need to apologize again. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  Then there are some footsteps, a door opening and closing, and a seam of light opens under the bathroom door. I could go back to reading my book, but instead I lie there listening to the comforting sounds of another person getting ready to go to sleep. More specifically, a man, one with whom I share space, and who I suppose is the person I’ve been most intimate with most recently. One I call my partner. No, not just call. One who is, in fact, my partner.

  I like the sounds of Beckett brushing his teeth, even the sounds of him taking a piss, because I anticipate the sound of the seat thunking down and am not disappointed. Followed by the washing of his hands, and since the water is on so long, I can only imagine his face as well.

  Then the line of light winks out, and the door opens. Beckett manages to shuffle around without stubbing a toe again, and I expect to hear the faint squeaking of his weight landing on the bed, followed by him wishing me a quiet goodnight.

  I almost jump out of my skin when someone sits on my bed. My brain conjures the ridiculous idea that somehow an intruder has snuck in without me or Beckett realizing and is now going to murder me. It’s the kind of reaction I used to have to any bump or creak in the night right after Stephen died. I think it was partly because I was so used to having another person with me at basically all hours.

  Soon enough though there’s a hand heavy on my shoulder. “Hey, Jubilee, it’s me. Beckett. Don’t freak out.”

  Right. Beckett. Obviously. Which is the conclusion I would have come to if I were a normal person.

  He strokes my arm with his big hand, the one that can almost circle my biceps, one that catches me after he’s flung me into the air, and I drop my head back onto my pillow, breathe a sigh of relief. He keeps petting me, and his strokes get longer. Instead of being restricted to my upper arm, he’s rubbing from my elbow to my neck and back again. On the next pass, he cups my face and I know what’s coming next: though I can’t see it, I can feel him, and he’s leaning down close. I tip my chin up ever-so-slightly to give him permission and he takes it, pressing his lips to mine in a kiss.

  Since we’ve started our . . . arrangement, we haven’t kissed. I haven’t wanted to, because this isn’t romance. This is not love. This is Beckett being a hornball and needing an outlet for the sex he usually has when he competes. It was my choice not to let him do what he usually does and go out and find someone to fuck. The thing is, I’m not really sorry about it. It’s kind of nice to have the warm body of someone I know and like next to mine instead of some random dude’s I’ve picked up who doesn’t know who I am. It’s nice that he knows me, icy chill and all, and still wants to go to bed with me. And while I’m certainly efficient at getting myself off, there’s something about another person dedicating themselves to your pleasure that makes given orgasms nice in a way that taken ones aren’t.

  As sweet as this is, though—and it is, his lips warm and soft and his tongue licking gently at the seam of my lips, coaxing me, pleading with me—I know where sweetness leads. At least with someone who is my partner both on and off the ice. It leads to heartbreak and devastation, to red eyes and so many tears you turn into a dried-out husk. It leads to having nothing left, and to being achingly alone without the person who has stood by you in every second of your life. It leads to being half of yourself, and I can’t keep tearing pieces off myself like this. I understand that I could lose half of myself forever and ever, and there would always be something left, but . . . I can’t. I won’t.
>
  I promised myself when I even started considering being with someone else that it wouldn’t be my partner. I wouldn’t be so stupid and self-destructive again. If I ever was with someone with intent ever again, it wouldn’t be some who if they disappeared from my life would level it as surely as a natural disaster. I would put my eggs in more than one basket, I would hedge my bets. I would protect myself against reliving that gut-wrenching, soul-destroying period of my life, because while my body is adept at healing, my heart is not.

  Which would explain why I pull away from the best thing that’s happened to me in almost four years, and ask the man who’s giving it to me, despite having absolutely no evidence that it might be true, “Are you drunk?”

  Beckett

  Am I drunk? What the hell kind of a question to ask a guy who’s kissing you? Who you seemed not opposed to kissing back? I mean, really. The answer is no, by the way. No, I’m not. I had my two beers over the space of several hours and even though I don’t drink really at all anymore, I can still handle two beers. My metabolism that’s always chugging away like a freight train means it’s long gone, and even if it weren’t, two beers isn’t enough to make a guy my size drunk.

  I’m also insulted. First of all, did she really think I’d get wasted even this far out from a big competition? She’s counting on me to be my best, and we’ve worked literally for years for these, what, seven minutes? I wouldn’t fuck it up to get plastered. Also, does she think I’d come back here and get all up on her if I was drunk? I fucking wouldn’t. If anything, she’d probably find me out in the hallway in the morning because I’d be too afraid of waking Her Royal Ice Highness up to even come in. What the hell is she—

  Huh. Is she maybe hoping that I’m buzzed? That me kissing her is alcohol-induced idiocy? And not something I’ve wanted to do for . . . well, frankly a while now. Also, while I might have a little swagger about how I do in the bedroom, I’m not kissing her because I want to prove my sexual prowess. I wanted to, and now that I know what it’s like, I want to do it more. Like, a lot more.