“What if I want to?” Both his eyebrows go up. Really? Is he the only person on earth who can’t raise a single eyebrow? “Not like, romantically, maybe, but you’re basically my whole life, you took care of me when I was sick, and—”
The panic strikes me quick and hard, like a punch to the chest. Knocks the wind right out of me. I want to warn him, tell him to run far and fast, because that is a terrible idea and he should never let any single person become so valuable to him. Ever. Because when you lose it all—as you undoubtedly will—it feels that way. Like your whole world has gone dark and silent. There’s no joy, there’s no color, there’s nothing. You may as well be dead. And it starts with shit like darling unicorn pajamas.
“No.” That time my snapped-out word gets him to shut his pie hole. “Get them off my bed. Now, Beck. I’m not kidding.”
He comes over and picks up the pajamas. They look ridiculous in his big hands, and I can only imagine what kind of store he had to go to to get them, and how he must have looked wandering around, probably fumbling helplessly with his choices. I don’t think Beckett picks out gifts for women very often, and why is that? Certainly he’s good-looking enough, and kind. Not to mention apparently considerate, which I kind of want to throttle him for. How dare he get me a present I actually really like? That’s just plain rude.
His jaw tightens, and I want to tell him to get the fuck out if he’s going to argue with me any more. Or maybe I should get the hell out of here, because it feels like the walls are closing in around me. In a way that gives me vertigo because I’m not sure if I should be terrified or not. In some ways, it’s almost . . . nice? I didn’t mind taking care of Beckett yesterday, and aside from being worried that he was going to get worse and cost us a medal or that he’d contracted some new flu that had hopped from, I don’t know, elk or mountain goats or something and he was going to deteriorate and die on me. So far so good, though, and it had even felt kind of cozy? Domestic? Caring for someone the way Stephen and I had cared for each other. Which is precisely why the pajamas are not okay. Too many echoes are rippling through my head and I’m going to get lost at sea and drown.
I’m about to grab my jacket and head for the door when there’s a noise. A sound like someone’s just tossed something on a bed. My vision goes black, and fiery red starts to creep in from the margins, because what the fuck did I just tell him?
I turn on my heel, oh-so-slowly, and there Beckett is, standing next to my bed with his arms folded across his chest. The damn pajamas are back on my bed.
“Beckett Don—”
He cuts me off with a slash of a finger through the air. “No.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Oh yes, I am spoiling for a fight now.
“I said no. I got you these because you did something nice for me and I wanted to do something nice for you. Also so that I’d have something to strangle you with in case you didn’t stop hovering over me and making me drink cup after goddamn cup of that disgusting bone broth. The place I got them from doesn’t take returns, and they were kind of expensive for pajamas with fucking unicorns on them—”
Whoa. Beckett hardly ever raises his voice. Like, ever. I’m trying to think of the last time I heard him yell if it wasn’t a happy exclamation or to be heard over a crowd. He’s not even really yelling now, more like frustration is nudging the volume dial that he’s trying to keep turned down to his normal level of speech. Also, his cheeks are getting kind of red.
“—And they sure as hell aren’t going to fit me, so no. I’m not taking them back. They’re yours. You can do what you want with them; burn them, throw them away once you’ve hit the airport, use them as dust rags or donate them to charity or what the fuck ever. But all you really had to do was say thank you and leave it at that.”
That is entirely fair. And if my good Southern girl of a momma were here, she’d hiss the same thing in my ear. No matter how hideous the gift, you always smile, and say thank you. How backwards is my relationship with Beckett that I’ve forgotten the most basic of manners that were drilled into me as a kid?
As hard as it is because I don’t hate them, I like them very much, and that makes me feel as though I’ve got bugs crawling all over me, that’s not Beckett’s fault. It’s not exactly mine, either, but the way I act because of it is.
I take a deep breath and stand tall before giving him a decisive nod. “You’re right. I was rude, and I’m sorry. That was very thoughtful of you and I appreciate it.”
And then for a change, I listen to that tiny voice inside that’s been yelling at me for weeks, telling me to just fucking let him make me feel good, make me happy. It’s a stupid voice, but is giving in this one time really going to kill me?
So with Beckett watching me, I unwrap the packaging, shake out the stiff-from-the-manufacturers pajamas, and put them in my laundry pile. I’ll wash them before I wear them, because I have standards, but I hope he gets the significance of what I’ve just done.
“Okay,” he mutters, and the color is slowly fading from his cheeks. He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck and mutters something under his breath I can’t hear. “I’m sorry I yelled.”
That one’s easy-peasy. “Apology accepted. We should start heading over to the dining hall so we won’t be late to meet Daphne.”
I have to resist the temptation to throw in a load of wash on our way out of the building.
Chapter Eleven
Beckett
The ice always feels crowded to me during competition warm-ups. Yes, I realize that with four pairs of us out here it’s not, compared to say a hockey game, or even singles warm-ups. But when you’re slinging your partner around the ice, and therefore have the momentum of two people instead of one, it seems crazy. Like a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos, but . . . without the hippos. Never mind. The point is that the warm-up always freaks me out.
Lucky for me, Jubilee knows it, and unlike some of the other pairs who warm up entirely separately during this time—some don’t even look at each other—we always skate together. A point of contact between us unless we’re practicing our twist lift or one of our throw jumps. You’d think it would be the other way around, what with her being strung taut like a bow and me super chill, but I’m actually the one who gets worse jitters before we compete. She’s never teased me about it, though, just found a way to make it better. And that way is apparently me having a hand on her at all times while frigging demolition derby on skates is going on around us.
At least I have my hands on her, and my feet are gliding on the ice like they’re supposed to be. I imagine most people would feel more stable on grass or concrete, but like a sailor who only feels wobbly when he gets off his ship, I’m on a more even keel on the ice. I know what I’m doing here, unlike in the rest of my life, and I’m one of the best in the world. Plus, I’ve got this sexy-as-hell, tough-as-nails, and completely kick-ass woman who believes in me enough to have her name next to mine on the board. That’s got to be good enough, even as one of the German skaters goes whizzing past us. Seriously, why do warm-ups have to be so treacherous? I feel like we’ve got a better shot at getting injured now than we do when we’re actually skating our program.
In the last segment of the warm-up, our program music comes on and I try to let everything else go—all the other people on the ice, because we’ve got the right of way until the warm-up is over; all this stuff with Jubilee, because it can wait until we’re off the ice. All the worry, it’s all gone. Daphne’s always telling us to leave that shit off the ice, so I imagine tossing it out into the crowd, the reverse of what’ll happen when we’re done: stuffed animals, flowers, and god knows what else littering the rink.
For now, it’s me, Jubilee, our music and the ice. Nothing else matters.
We go through a couple of the stickier bits in our program, but I’m feeling good. My feet are moving the way I’m telling them to, Jubilee’s hands and her body feel right under my fingertips, and she’s got on her fancy skating dress that she’s worn so ma
ny times I could recognize it with my eyes closed. Our movements feel pinned together, or maybe Velcroed. We’re not coming apart.
Over the speaker comes the announcement that the warm-up is over. I shake out my hands, my legs, my head. Perfect amount of tension in my body, and it’s go time. I love the way Jubilee smiles at me as we skate off the ice hand in hand. This is our time. This is our chance.
Jubilee
Last team in the second-to-last flight. Beck must be losing his mind, but he seems to be hanging in there. A little out in la-la land like he always is during warm-ups, but he’ll come back to me and be laser-focused when we get on the ice to skate our program. He always is. It doesn’t matter so much to me when we skate, but he likes to be either last of the last or first in whatever flight we end up in. Oh well.
We don’t watch the other skaters go but stay off in the staging area where we both slip on noise-cancelling headphones that are connected wirelessly to a player in Daphne’s pocket. She has our program playing on loop. Stephen had liked to chat right before our skates, but this is easier on me. All Beckett requires is my physical presence, not my mental one, so we help each other keep limber while we wait for Daphne to let us know we’re on.
Time warps while we’re waiting—more so than it even usually does inside the SIG snow globe. It’s as though the effect is somehow ramped up in here and I wonder if other athletes feel the same way about their venues. Regardless, it feels like we’ve only been back here for a few seconds, but also like it’s been forever, when a hand alights on my shoulder. I turn, knowing it’s Daphne, and there she is.
One hand on my shoulder, and one giving the thumbs up. It’s our turn.
We keep our headphones on until the last possible moment, and then we’re handing them off to Daphne along with our skate guards just outside the boards. I’ve often wished there would be a more elegant way to enter the ice, but this is all we get. Stepping on from rubber mats. At least once my skates hit the ice, I feel like grace incarnate.
After heading to center ice, we get into position, striking a pose as though we’re about to launch into a ballroom dance, and we breathe. It might be—okay, yes, it is—a freakish thing to notice, but with my hand on Beckett’s shoulder, I can feel him breathing. Can tell that, yes, we are together. When I look up into his eyes, they tell me the same thing. Baby blue but somehow still intense, they’re familiar, and I can feel the connection—the one that is so wonderful and precious, but that’s also a step away from shredding my heart back into pieces when I’d only begun to stitch it up again.
Don’t go there.
As the music starts, I correct the hitch in my breath, and we’re in sync as we skate off. The first of our elements, as it is for almost everyone, is our triple twist lift. There’s some artistry of course, making it look easy to dance on this slick surface with knives on our feet, changing grips as we pick up speed, all the while with smiles on our faces.
We get into position for Beckett to toss me into the air, him gliding behind me with his hands tight around my waist. I lay my own hands on his wrists to support the insane thing we’re about to do. I’m not nervous. We’ve done this lift a hundred thousand times, and Beckett’s hands are sure. He’s never let me down, not even in the very beginning when we were new to each other.
At the cue in the music, I dig in my toe pick to help me launch into the air, but a lot of the momentum comes from Beckett pressing me skyward, launching me with all the faith in the world that I in fact know how to fly. I do. Not like a bird. More of a projectile than that, I tuck my arms into an X over my chest, cross my legs to create an extended line through the air, and when I’ve completed my rotations and am coming back to earth from where he’s flung me into the atmosphere, he’s there.
Beckett’s hands grasp my waist and he eases me down to the ice. It takes a ridiculous amount of trust, but I’ve always believed in him here. Which is why I don’t cling to him for dear life, but extend my limbs into lines that will look lovely to the judges. One foot on the ice, both arms in the air as we come so close face-to-face we could almost kiss. The crowd erupts as soon as it’s clear we’ve made it. It’s clean.
There are only a few seconds before we’re setting up for our next element, and it’s another big one. Our side-by-side double axels. Beckett can reliably land a triple, but this isn’t singles skating. There was one day at practice when we’d been working and working on our axels. Daphne was satisfied with the double, but I fucking wanted that triple. There are women who can do that, and I wanted to be one of them. I tried, and I tried, but I couldn’t do it. I got so frustrated, I had to excuse myself. And by excuse myself I mean step off the rink, turn a corner, and rage cry.
Beckett had found me, offered me a tissue, and when I’d dabbed sufficiently at my eyes, he said something I’ll never forget. “Hey. I know you’re frustrated, and I know you’re angry, but it doesn’t matter. We don’t need a side-by-side triple axel to win anything.”
I had opened my mouth to tell him it would make us more competitive, put us at the top of the heap for sure, and he’d put a finger over my mouth. One of the only times he’d touched me outside of purely professional reasons. “Are there things you can do that I can’t?”
I’d rolled my eyes at that. Of course there had been. Still are.
“When I can’t do something, do you feel like I’m holding you back?”
His blue eyes had implored me, and I shook my head, which had been the truth. I get frustrated with him sometimes, but not as frustrated as he gets with himself, and I know we’re well-matched. If our skills didn’t align, who the fuck cares what we could do by ourselves?
“That’s because the only thing that matters isn’t what I can do, and it’s not what you can do. It’s what we can do.”
I always think of that when we’re heading off into the trickiest of jumps. With no toe pick to help on the approach for axels, it’s all leg strength, and we have to tune our bodies perfectly to each other. Beck has to hold back a touch and I have to give it my all, but there it is. A perfect side-by-side double axel. That we nailed.
Beckett
Jubilee is killing it. I’m not doing too shabby either, but there’s something about her that sparkles when the pressure’s on. She really is like a diamond—prettier under the immense weight of people’s hopes and expectations. The only person I’m really worried about right now is her, because I’m about to take her life in my hands. They don’t call it a death spiral for nothing.
I twist and twirl her a few times first, and god she makes it look easy. Basically backwards, in heels, and on ice. Take that, Ginger Rogers.
Then I grip one of her hands as she extends a leg nearly parallel to her torso with her other hand before laying it down on the ice and letting her feet glide out from under her into a spiral. It’s almost painful that she allows me to do this, but I think it might just be that the weight of her trust feels so goddamn good that it aches.
I plant my toe pick and rotate around it, making sure Jubilee has enough speed in the rotation that her head doesn’t hit the slick surface. With her head leaned all the way back till her pinned-up hair must graze the ice, my heart is always in my throat during this part. But my head is up, with my arm that isn’t Jubilee’s lifeline extended over my head. And then, because figure skaters are literally insane, I switch my grip, without stopping, from one hand to the other as she lets me spin her around in a circle. We’re like those things from geometry class—compasses? I’m the part that sticks and she’s the part that spins.
After transitioning out of that, it’s straight into our spin combination, during which I can’t help enjoy how she’s wrapped around me like a vine, and then it’s into our step sequence and a lift because there’s no rest for the wicked—or for figure skaters during their short program, at least. Finally, finally, when the audience must be wondering what in the ever-loving hell we’re doing, I get her in front of me, wrap an arm around her slim waist and try not to look l
ike I’m dying as I heave her into the air.
It’s not that she’s heavy, she’s downright tiny, but she’s also solid muscle, so she’s dense. And trying to throw a hundred pounds of anything while making it look easy and not falling out of step on a slippery surface? That takes some talent. And I’ve got the easy part. She’s the one who’s flying through the air at an incredible speed, as high and as far as I can manage—which, let’s face it, is almost as high as she is tall, and covering quite a bit of ice—and then has to come down on a piece of metal that’s three-sixteenths of an inch thick.
Which she does, with beauty and grace, and both hands in the air with not a wobble in sight. Bam, textbook throw triple twist. She’s incredible. And it’s over halfway through the program, too, which will score us some extra points. I catch up with her with a few quick strides, trying not to look hurried, and then the rest of our program passes by in a blur. Next thing I know, I’m holding her in my arms in nearly the same way we started and there’s a beat of . . . I don’t want to sound like a cheeseball, but a link, a bond between us as we look into each other’s eyes, and then she’s throwing an arm and a head back in a dramatic finish. All I have to do is stand there and support her.
Chapter Twelve
Jubilee
Breathing heavy in Beckett’s arms, I feel good. Exultant. That program could not have gone any better.
I fling my arms around him and he lifts me up, spins me around. It’s childish in its joy, but also safe compared to what we’ve been pulling. And his body against mine is a delight. Which reminds me that we cannot keep doing this. If we do, someone—me—is going to get hurt, and it’s not going to be okay. It’s going to be the end.
But I don’t want to ruin this for anyone, not yet anyway. It can wait. Heartbreak can always wait. Just another few minutes, another couple of hours, one more day of living in bliss. And then I can fuck it all up so it won’t be worse when it all goes to hell the next day, or the next.
On the Brink of Passion--Snow & Ice Games Page 11
