Now the choking sensation is coming from the lump in my throat, but I clear it, and looking at the ceiling, blinking as fast as I can so traitorous tears don’t roll down my cheeks, I put on my best chipper voice. “I’m good. I’ll be out in a few.”
“Okay,” he mutters, not seeming convinced. But the thing is, he leaves. Yes, he’s left because I’ve told him to, but the reality is, he’s still left me alone. Which is why I can’t even try for this. Have to extinguish any ember of hope.
I lever off the floor, scrub my hands over my eyes, and then go actually use the toilet.
Beckett
It’s like fifteen minutes before Jubilee comes out of the bathroom. I’m not sure what she’s been doing in there, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned during my twenty-six years, it is not to ask women what the hell took them so long.
After doing my best to make sure she was actually okay—not believing her rambling excuse about UTIs and pee, but not knowing what else to do, because if Jubilee really doesn’t want to do something you’re not going to get the woman to do it—I did what she said and went back to bed. I’d stood there for a good while though, trying to decide which bed to get back into. I chose mine, but I’m still not sure it’s the right call.
When the door finally cracks open, and Jubilee comes out in her fluffy robe with the flamingos on it, I’m still not sure, because an expression flits over her face so quickly I can’t read it.
She doesn’t climb into my bed, which I would be totally fine with, but into her own, still wearing her robe. If she thinks that’s going to make me forget what she looks like naked, she is sadly mistaken.
I half-expect her to face the wall, pretend the whole thing never happened—it did, Jubilee, it totally did, and it was epic—but she doesn’t, instead turning on her side to face me, tucking her hands under her head, looking like she expects me to tell her a bedtime story. I mean, I guess I could, but—
“Why did you and Sabrina end it? You got really close, like a hair’s breadth from Sapporo. Another four years of working together, and unless one of you got hurt, you should’ve made it.”
Oh. She wants to talk about skating? I can do that, though I’d rather not talk about Sabrina. Not a good history there.
What Jubilee’s said is maybe true. But now Sabrina is skating with Todd Everhardt, and they’re here too. Maybe we just didn’t have the chemistry or maybe we were a bad match skill-wise. Whatever it was, when she was my partner, she didn’t make the SIGs, and now that I’m not, she did. I’m sure she sees the math as very simple.
As for me, it was a way to get out of a relationship I didn’t really want to be in anymore.
“Yeah, maybe. Sabrina wasn’t willing to risk it. She ditched me. Told me straight up it was my fault we hadn’t made it. Threw quite a fit, actually. Like throwing shit and everything. You could learn a thing or two from her.”
I smile at her, and from across the couple of feet separating us in our narrow beds, Jubilee scowls back. I knew she would. But from a scowl, her face crumples, her nose wrinkling and the skin between her brows creasing. “That doesn’t even make any sense. I saw your performance at the qualifiers. You were not the problem in that pair.”
It’s kind of dumb that her words make me feel so good—obviously Jubilee hadn’t thought I was the weak link, otherwise she would’ve never agreed to try partnering with me, but she could’ve stayed silent. Instead, she’s defending me. And we’re the only two people here, so it’s not to put on a good show for the press or the SIG committee or anyone else who’s invested in how we perform. It makes me feel good.
“Doesn’t really matter when you’re at your partner’s mercy, does it? If she says it’s your fault, it’s your fucking fault. That’s how this works. You know that as well as I do.” Fuck. Should’ve watched my tone or not said that at all. I don’t feel that way about Jubilee at all, and I hope she doesn’t think I’m implying that I do.
Jubilee’s face goes still, and her gaze is looking off someplace far away, somewhere I can’t follow her. But soon enough she shrugs it off. “Sabrina was paying for everything?”
“Yeah.” It’s not unusual in pairs, actually. There are so many more women than men that if a girl can latch onto a dude who doesn’t suck, she pays for everything from the time they’re kids—gear, coaching, travel—even if the guy can afford it. Which I couldn’t. Especially not when I was dating Felicia, who was jealous of every cent I spent on skating. Hell, Jubilee is paying for most of our stuff too.
It used to bother me, especially when Felicia was playing her head games with me, but I can’t afford to have a real problem with it. Especially since resentment is one of those things that’s harder to hide on the ice. All it takes is one slip of a hand because you don’t feel like putting in a thousand percent of your effort to catch a person who humiliates and emasculates you on a regular basis, and . . . well, it could look an awful lot like what happened to Jubilee. Not that bitterness had anything to do with that. Just really fucking awful luck, and she paid for it. Over and over and over.
There’s that funny pinching feeling in my chest again and I have to send up a prayer that it’s not actually something physically wrong with my heart, because if I die on her, Jubilee is going to be more of a head case than she already is, and will probably give up skating, which is the only thing that matters to her now that Stephen is gone.
Even before Sabrina ditched me for not making the SIGs, I’d gotten blamed. My first partner, Sloan, who I skated with for eight years—the same thing had happened. When we didn’t make the junior finals, she told her parents it was my fault because I hadn’t taken it seriously enough, which was a heap of bullshit and they fucking knew it. She was the one who would eat junk food she wasn’t supposed to, who would cut out of practice early or skip conditioning to go out with her friends. After a super bad practice right before the juniors, I’d told her, “Look, I can carry you, but not the entire performance.” She’d gotten so mad I thought she was going to hit me.
When it was over and done with, I was the one who got dropped, natch. Can’t deny I’m a little pleased that she dropped out of competitive skating two years later. My fucking fault, was it, Sloan? Fuck you. Ever since then, I’ve worked my ass off so no one could blame me ever again. One of the things I like about Jubilee is that she holds her faults. If we lose here, yeah, we might end our partnership, but it won’t be because she thinks she can do better than me. It might just hurt too much. She won’t throw me under the bus to the press or to anyone else. I like her for it. Respect her for it, maybe even more than I respect and admire her athleticism. She might come across as a bitch, but the woman has ethics, standards, honor.
“I’m sorry that happened. You deserve better than that.”
We stare at each other, and I wonder if we’re going to talk about what just happened between us. You know, the awesome sex. But even if she’d been thinking about it, and with those parted lips, she might’ve been, she ends up with, “It’s, um, getting late. We should get some sleep.”
And I can’t disagree at all.
Chapter Ten
Jubilee
As it does every day, my alarm wakes me up at six thirty. And just as reliably, it does not wake up Beckett, who is still sleeping with abandon, half his limbs hanging off the bed. I know underneath the coverlet and sheet he’s got his boxers on, but that doesn’t stop me from picturing his bare and perfectly round ass being revealed should I yank off his bed linens. Really, that brawny arm and thick, sculpted leg just hanging out are teasing me. Tempting me. Mocking me. Because after Beck had dropped off into dreamland last night, I’d lain awake thinking about what we’d done, and how under no circumstances should we do it ever again.
Not sleeping together again shouldn’t be that difficult. I’ll tell Beck no, he’ll give me that uber-charming grin that makes me want to have him against the closest sturdy surface and tease me about it. I’ll give him serious-face and tell him for realsies, no
, and because he’s a decent human being, he might be hurt but he’ll drop it. If he really wants sex, it would be easy enough for him to walk out the door, make an announcement, and have dozens of people come running to take him up on the offer.
And what could I do but let him, because it’s not fair to hold him to his end of the bargain if I’m dropping mine like a hot potato.
The avoiding each other that would usually be part of my plan is going to be a little trickier. Not only because of practice and conditioning, which are places where I know we can remain utterly professional, but because of this whole sharing a suite debacle. Which reminds me that I should harass Daphne again to see if anything’s opened up. Yes, she said she would keep checking, but I think after the first few days she gave up, and since I haven’t been on her about it, she hasn’t tried again. Even if I can’t get switched out—or Beckett can’t—I can still find ways to be here not as much. Like spending time . . . anywhere but here.
Common rooms, the dining hall. I could . . . go to the salon, even though I don’t need a haircut and my stylist back home will probably tsk at me for letting someone who’s not her touch my hair. I think she would understand if I explained what kind of peril I’m in. And surely they’ve got to have bookstores here. And cafes. I could offer to do more press. Who’s going to say no to that? No one! So altogether, this is a very solid plan.
I’m feeling pretty good about it as I head to the bathroom, get myself in order to go for a morning run, but everything changes when I come back out. Beckett’s awake, sitting up in bed, his ridiculous abs looking lickable even as he’s slouched against his pillows. There’s something about him that doesn’t look quite right, but I can’t quite put a finger on it.
Until he sniffles. Sniffles.
I drop my stuff in a heap on the floor, and go right over to his bed, plopping myself down on the side. Something takes over in me and despite my promises to myself about avoiding Beck and only having physical contact with him in professional settings, I find that I’m pressing my hand to his forehead, and resting my other hand on the side of his neck.
He feels sleep-warm but not feverish, like someone who’s just climbed out from under the covers, and his bedhead confirms it. I don’t think he has a fever but that doesn’t mean he’s not sick. I search his face and his body for any signs of illness, and he just sits there, gaze trained on me while I do my poking and prodding.
“Hey, uh, Jubilee?”
“What?”
“What’re you doing?”
“You sniffled. You can’t get sick. Do you hear me? That is not okay. Not permitted. I do not allow it.”
A corner of his mouth twitches up. “You know, I don’t really think that’s how the whole sick thing works.”
“I don’t care. You’re not getting sick. Now stay there. I’m going to the dining hall to get you broth and hot lemon water and honey. There must be a drugstore around here too, right? They’d have a humidifier, and vitamin C drops, and echinacea, and zinc. I need to call Daphne and see if any of those are on the SIG no-no list.”
Mostly it’s stuff like illegal drugs and steroids, but a few people have been caught out and had their medals stripped for taking over-the-counter meds. That is not happening to us, no way.
I reach for my phone where it’s plugged in on the nightstand, but before I can unplug it and get on the phone with Daphne, Beckett snags my wrist, and brings my hand to his mouth, dropping a kiss on my knuckles.
“I’m not sick. You can stop playing Nurse Nightingale or whoever you think you are. It’s just—”
And then he sneezes. The bastard actually sneezes. Thankfully his parents taught him some manners and he does it into his elbow but that is the last straw.
“You are sick. So stop touching me, you disease vector. The only thing worse than you being sick would be both of us being sick. I’m going to get some supplies. Don’t you dare get out of bed. Unless you need to use the bathroom. Or take a shower. Actually, the steam would probably be good for your congestion. Go take a shower. Don’t turn the fan on.”
It would be really great if Beck would stop looking at me like I’m a crazy person, but my bar isn’t that high. I’ll settle for him following my directions. Which he isn’t doing, he’s still lounging there like some kind of invalid while claiming he’s not ill. You can’t have it both ways, Beckett.
I yank my hand out of his and point at the bathroom door, having half a mind to shove him out of bed like I did last night. He might see it coming this time though so it probably wouldn’t work. Although come to think of it, this is probably his fault for dragging us out to that bar. Goddammit. “Go. Now.”
He sketches a lazy salute and sits up straighter before swinging his legs out from under the covers, landing his big feet on the floor. I watch for him to sway when he stands, but he doesn’t, just lumbers over to the bathroom with his boxers clinging to his hips in that really aggravating way.
Christ. Because I didn’t have enough problems.
Beckett
Before I turn on the shower, I can hear Jubilee talking on the phone.
“Beckett isn’t coming to practice today. He’s sick so I’m making him rest. He’s getting in the shower now and I’m going out to get him a shit ton of vitamin C and some broth. Can you tell me—”
Then the door slams shut and I can’t make out her words anymore. Just that she’s still talking rapid-fire at poor Daphne.
When I do turn the shower on, I follow Jubilee’s directive and don’t turn on the fan, letting the steam fill the bathroom. I don’t know what exactly has Jubilee going so far off the deep end—I mean, she’s usually swimming pretty close to it but this is fully over the line, and she is freaking. Over nothing, because I am not getting sick.
Except then I sneeze and sniffle again, which I’m glad Jubilee’s not here for because she’d probably drag me to the SIG ER. As if they could do anything about a cold. Even I know you can’t do shit for the common cold except treat some of the symptoms and wait it out.
Jubilee was right about the shower though; the hot water feels good. It always does after a hard practice, but there’s not any reason for me to be sore now. Except if I am getting sick. Shit. That’s a piece of information I will very much be keeping to myself.
I take a leisurely shower, inhaling the steam and standing under the hot spray, and when I’m done, I pull on some sweats. Then I check the agenda Jubilee set up for us today. Maybe Daphne will be able to convince her she’s being irrational about me not practicing, but I doubt it. When Jubilee’s got a head of steam about something, you do not want to get in that girl’s way.
We’ve got some press stuff in the afternoon and evening, and maybe she’ll let me out of quarantine for that. It’s not like it’s a lot of work. Surely I can sit there and talk about stuff? I’m better at that stuff than she is, and I help humanize her. She always kind of seems like a frost queen, but I’m the guy next door, albeit one who skates really well.
About ten minutes later she bustles back in, lays enough foam coffee cups on her desk to fortify a whole team. And then she’s descending upon me, feeling my forehead again, looking me over. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Did the shower help? Do your lungs feel clearer?”
“My lungs were perfectly—” It’s a good thing I’m used to Jubilee’s death glares, and don’t take too much offense to how she’s looking at me. Or call the proper authorities, because seriously, she looks like if this cold doesn’t kill me, she’s planning to do the job herself. If she’s going to be like this no matter what I say, I may as well make things easier on myself. “Yes, the shower helped. Thank you for suggesting it.”
Ah, finally, she looks like the cat who ate the canary. Shoulders back, little smile on her face. “Good, now drink some of this.”
She shoves one of the cups in my face, and that is. . . . not coffee. “What the hell is this?”
“This one is bone broth. It’s reall
y good for you. Drink up.”
I look at her from under my brows, doubt painted on my face, but she just puts her hands on her hips. Not winning this one either, I see. So I take a swig, and it tastes kinda like chicken noodle soup except without the chicken. Or the noodles. Or anything else. It’s . . . not the best. But I smile and heft the cup before taking another sip.
Given that Jubilee is always a body in motion, I’d think she’d move on now that she knows I’m going to do as I’m told. But she doesn’t. She stands there and watches me. Which is when something occurs to me. She’s never this nice to me, never . . . takes care of me. Not in our two years of being partners. I’m a pretty healthy guy, but I’ve definitely had a cold or two in the past two years, and never has she acted like this. Something has changed. She can deny it all she likes, but I think Jubilee might actually like me. I’ll just have to keep nudging her in that direction, because I’m pretty sure I like her too.
Jubilee
“What the fuck is this?”
It’s the afternoon after Beckett’s sick day, and after a day of resting yesterday, he was better this morning. No sniffles, no sneezing, just healthy guy who I still made take an easy practice despite both him and Daphne rolling their eyes. Whatever, they’ll both be thankful when he’s a hundred percent in a few days. But at the moment, he is up to some sort of shenanigans, and I don’t appreciate it.
“What does it look like?”
It’s normal to want to punch your partner in the face on a regular basis, right?
“It looks like—” the most adorable, fluffy, perfect, unicorn “—pajamas.”
“You’re good at this. Maybe I should start calling you Sherlock. Or Inspector Jubilee. You could have your own show on like the BBC or something.”
“I hate you.”
He gets the same smile on his face he always does when I say things like that, and it makes my hands curl into fists.
“Just because we’re fucking doesn’t mean—” Ugh, I hate the way my hands flail around. I need to get control of myself. “It’s not necessary.”
On the Brink of Passion--Snow & Ice Games Page 10
