We pick up some flowers, wave at the cheering crowds. I blow kisses, and Beckett clings to my hand until we have skated over to the exit and grab our guards from Daphne, pull them onto our skates before we go sit in the kiss-and-cry. Daphne’s on one side, Beckett’s on my other, and I’m a disaster. I hold hands with the both of them and when Beckett kisses me on the cheek, I try to hold myself together, not crack into the million pieces that are threatening.
We have to sit there, waiting, waiting. Of course we have a decent idea of what our score will be because of the elements we included and because we didn’t screw any of them up, but until the numbers come down, you can never be completely sure.
Just as I think I’m about to die, here they are. In total, a 79.62. Which is good enough to land us in first. Granted, with another team to go after us in this round and a flight of four pairs after that, but still. First. Some people don’t like being in first; can’t take the pressure. I, however, enjoy it. I don’t mind people nipping at my heels, because especially with Beckett on my team, I pretty well feel like I can outrun them.
Beckett and Daphne are going nuts, and I let them. Keep the smile plastered on my face and try not to look too out of it. I’m here, but it hasn’t completely sunk in yet. Nor will it until there’s more to sink in. Like tomorrow, when we’ll get the number that really matters. Sure, there’s only so far you can be behind and realistically make it up, but tomorrow is the big day with the big guns, and everything could still change. Likely will.
We stand and wave, and accept the cheers and adulation from the crowd, knowing it’ll only last so long. If I let myself get bogged down in exactly how fleeting this moment is, it’s depressing. So I shove that thought away for now, and let the joy flood my heart. The feeling of being on top of the world for this brief moment.
Eventually, we’re beckoned away from the kiss-and-cry, and we head back to the staging area where we’ll wait out the rest of our competitors, waiting for Daphne to tell us how they did. If it were up to me, she’d come back after each performance, but Beckett can’t take it, only wants to know at the end, so that’s what Daphne does.
In the meantime, he’s got that gleam in his eyes. I know what that means. He gets closer, close enough to kiss, and that’s what he wants from me. If it were safe to, that’s what I’d want, too. To kiss him, curl up in bed with him, meld our bodies until we know each other as well from making love as we do from skating together for hours upon hours, days upon days, week after week, month following month, and finally year after year. That’s how I want to love Beck, and that is very much why I cannot.
I stop him with a hand which I hope to pass off as a not-here-not-now rejection that won’t smart, but he knows better. Can sense it. And with the way his face forms angles where there’s usually softness, I feel like we’re going to talk about it now.
“Why are you pushing me away?”
“I’m not.” It’s a poor excuse, more like a flat-out lie and he knows it. “It’s just, you know, public.”
“And what’s so bad about that?”
When I’d been with Stephen? Nothing. Not like we were all PDA all the time or anything, but I wouldn’t hesitate to hug or kiss him in public. Athletes tend to be affectionate people, we speak with our bodies. And besides, Stephen and I were . . . together. Married. There was no earthly reason for us not to be a little affectionate when we’d been victorious. But Beckett . . . “I just can’t, okay?”
Pouty Beckett is back, but unlike that first day in our ill-fated suite, he actually looks hurt. Deeply. And I’m planning to drive the knife deeper.
“That’s not okay with me. I want more from you.”
And that, Beck, is the one thing I can’t give.
Beckett
“I trust you with my life every damn day, isn’t that enough?”
“No.” If only. “I want you to trust me with your heart.”
Jubilee looks like I’ve stabbed her. She clutches the space over her heart, and turns so pale I could swear her blood is rushing out of her body. I half-expect her to faint, and I’m ready to close the gap between us to catch her if she falls.
“I can’t. You don’t understand, what it’s like. When Stephen died, I lost everything. Everything. I lost my partner who I’d been skating with for twenty years. I lost the man I’d been with for ten. And not only that, but I had to deal with an injury at the same time. One that could’ve ended my career. And then what would I have had left? Really nothing. At least I could keep skating. All I wanted from you was a body.”
Well there’s a gut punch.
She must see the look on my face, how much that hurts, because she starts to backpedal. “Beckett, I didn’t mean—You’re a brilliant skater. You know I went through a few other partners before I settled on you, and you’re wonderful. I wouldn’t trade you on the ice for anyone. Our short program was impeccable, and our free skate is going to be just as good, because you’re strong, you work harder than anyone I know except me, and you’re consistent. You take your responsibilities very seriously, and I—You’re not just a body to me. You’ve got to know that.”
I do. I know how good I am. I know how hard I work. And as much as she might say so, the sex we’ve been having for the past three weeks hasn’t been blow-off-steam kind of lays, it hasn’t been itch-scratching fucks. Maybe it started out that way, but it’s different now and I hate that she’s trying to take that away from me.
“Well, you’re more than a body to me. You’re more than the best skating partner I’ve ever had, you’re more than a sex doll. I like you, Jubilee, and I think you like me too. I get why you wouldn’t want to have your whole life depend on one person, but I’ve got to tell you, I’ve done it the other way, and what waits for you out there is a different kind of heartache.”
No, she’s not going to have her sexuality questioned or mocked, but . . . “Your partner won’t understand how you spend your time and money. They won’t respect and support your dedication the way I do. You won’t be able to talk to them about the nitty-gritty of your day. And they’re always going to wonder if you’re not a little bit in love with me. I know you wouldn’t be unfaithful, because that’s not how you’re wired, but they’d be right to worry, because I’d be in love with you and they’d be able to tell. And as much as you hate to admit it, I think you’d be in love with me too.”
I’m breathing hard, like I just finished another program, but I don’t feel victorious like I had earlier. I gave this performance my all as much as I had on the ice, and it doesn’t seem good enough. Jubilee seems pained, but not at all convinced. Her face screws into a mask of pain, her expressive features rendered into something like longing, something like regret—just the way she said she’d feel. I should’ve seen this coming, but I’m not a smart guy.
“And yet, that’s a chance I’m willing to take. But a chance on you?” She shakes her head and bites her lips between her teeth. “No. I’m sorry.”
I take a hard swallow, trying to clear the lump out of my throat, but the damn thing won’t budge. “So this is it? After tomorrow, we’re just over?”
“No! I don’t want to not skate with you. And if you end our partnership on the ice . . .”
“Say it, Jubilee, say it. At least give me that. Admit you’d be losing everything again, because that’s how I’ll feel.”
But she won’t. She fucking won’t. Her eyes get narrow and hard, and she sets her jaw. Ice princess indeed. She’s colder than that. What’s colder than ice?
“I would be upset, yes. You weren’t easy to find, and you’re irreplaceable. But . . . it wouldn’t be the same, and I resent you implying it would be. You’re not Stephen.”
The urge to resort to cruelty is so strong, but as angry as I am with her, as much as this unfairness is eating away at my gut, I won’t say it: No, I’m not, because I’m alive and Stephen is dead. She knows. She thinks about it every day. She’s probably still in love with him, and while I might have replaced him on
the ice, I’ll never take his spot in her heart. I don’t even want it. He can have it. I just want a little corner, that’s all. Surely he must’ve left a tiny piece available for the next guy?
She must take my silence for giving in, because her face gets softer, like she’s letting herself melt a bit now that she thinks she’s getting what she wants. “Hey. We’ll skate tomorrow, it’ll be great and we’ll make everyone proud. Probably bring home some hardware. And then we’ll take a break. You’ll meet some girl who’s not a moron like Sabrina or Felicia, and you’ll forget all about this. We’ll joke about it in a couple of years. Remember that time at the SIGs when we thought we were in love?”
So she does admit it. Just not in the way I want. And it kills me. I kind of wish she hadn’t said it at all. Which is probably why I can’t help myself anymore. “Yeah, that sounds great. Can’t wait. You’ll meet some frigging . . . hockey player or something. And he’ll send you roses when what you really want is a pillow shaped like a mermaid that has rainbow hair. That’ll be really fucking awesome.”
I may or may not have seen that exact pillow in a shop while I was out walking around Denver yesterday, and I may or may not have gone in and bought it for her and it may or may not be sitting in my bottom drawer, waiting for the competition to be over. I’m going to set that goddamn mermaid on fire.
I shouldn’t have done that—lost my temper. It lets her think she’s making a smart decision when she is so wrong, on a scale of one to wrong, she’s off the charts. She tips her head, and gives me that oh, Beckett look I hate, and her voice is all condescending patience when she says, “Perfect. Looking forward to it. But for now, we need to rest up for tomorrow. It’s a big day and I don’t want this—” She gestures between us, and it makes steam come out my ears that she can sum us up in that little wave. “To interfere with our performance. It won’t, right, Beckett?”
I want to yell at her to stop talking to me like I’m a child, but that seems . . . childish? So I won’t. Yes, she has a few years on me, but that doesn’t make her the smarter, more mature, wiser person in this partnership. If anything, this conversation is proving that in the ways that matter most, Jubilation Lee Buford is really fucking stupid.
Also, it is brought to my attention in a really unfortunate way that we’re in a public place when Daphne pokes her head around the corner. “The last flight is done. The Russians killed it, the Chinese had a bobble on their side-by-side triple toe, the Germans had a good solid program, and the Canadian put a hand down landing her throw triple flip. You’re in second.”
Chapter Thirteen
Jubilee
Second. That’s a good place to be. It’s not like the third and fourth place teams are nipping at our heels either. Yes, it’s possible they’ve got tricks up their sleeves that will put them in contention. It’s also possible (though highly unlikely) that the Russians will flub something in their program, just as it’s possible (though I also like to think highly unlikely) that Beckett and I will tank our program too.
A great deal of this sport is physical ability. Another large component of success is grace and elegance, not to mention the luck of finding a partner who’s a good match. What people don’t talk about as much is the psychological strain. You can do the same program a thousand times in a row perfectly, and then put a foot wrong on the thousand and first run. And then what do you do? A lot of people just fucking lose it. One step wrong and they’re lost. Recovery isn’t possible. Yes, they might get through the rest of their program, but you can see they may as well skate straight off the ice because they are done.
That’s one thing I loathe but respect about Daphne. From the first time we had a session together, she’s always insisted on me finishing what I start no matter how badly I fuck up. Her logic makes sense: there are no redos in competition. If you screw up, you just have to keep going and finish it off. You need to know how to rebound. I have learned this very well and pride myself on being able to get up off my ass and dust the ice shavings from my clothes—whether it be practice leggings or my swish little competition dresses.
These are the things I think about as we walk back to our suite. Beckett’s yammering on about . . . I don’t know, whatever he usually makes pleasant and inane conversation about. It’s music to my ears, his easy and excited tones. He’s easy. Easy to be with. When it’s not killing me, of course. This must be killing him, too, and yet he’s doing it anyway.
Back in our suite, I look around and realize that’s how I’ve been thinking of it: ours. For a while now, too. It’s become not my suite that Beckett has invaded with his stuff, and his big voice and his too-curly hair, but ours. That is far too close to comfort.
Which is why I distract him with sex as soon as we walk through the door. It’s certainly not that I’ve been thinking about him kissing me, touching me since we sat waiting for our scores.
He puts away his coat, and as per usual reaches out for mine without checking to see that I’m going to relinquish it. I hand it to him, but don’t walk away like I usually do. No, I have something else in mind. As much as I like Beckett’s chatter—which he’s still supplying though there’s no demand—I can think of a better way for us to occupy ourselves. I especially want to occupy Beckett, so he doesn’t feel so bad about me refusing him earlier. So I’ll give him what I can and hope he doesn’t notice it wasn’t what he was after.
When he turns, he almost bumps into me. I take advantage of his proximity to push him against the door, which he is surprised by, to say the least.
“What are you—”
I cut him off by pressing myself up against up, going on tiptoes to kiss him. Thoroughly. At first I can tell he doesn’t quite know how to handle this, but soon enough he seems willing to go along with whatever I want, probably because it’s me, wanting, and showing him that I do. This is what he’s wanted all along, and though I can’t possibly give in on the actual romantic, relationship things, the sex? Sure, why not. May as well, it’s as good a way to distract ourselves as any other.
When I’m finished—for the moment—kissing him, I grab his sleeve and tow him over to my bed, shoving him so that he sits with a bounce on the mattress. I’m angry and twitchy and desperate and basically a mess. But I can ignore all that if I focus on Beckett. It’s not difficult to do with him sitting there all handsome and perplexed.
I reach out and take the hem of his shirt in my hands, and pull it over his head. The whorls of light hair on his chest are so tempting. I want to feel the coarseness under my fingers, so I do. Skim the pads over his pecs and toward the waistband of his pants.
“Stand up.”
He could tease me—Sit down, stand up, what do you want from me, lady?—but he silently follows my instructions and doesn’t blink an eye when I peel his pants over his hips and down his legs. He cooperates, lifting each foot in turn until he’s completely nude. He’s . . . He knows he’s an attractive guy. But his muscles and his power mean more to me than being pretty or fun to touch. They enable me to do what I do best, they let me do it better because I believe in his strength, trust him to use it to not let me fall. Maybe it’s narcissism to think so, but he looks this way for me. Not for my pleasure but for my safety and fulfillment. My appreciation for his form reaches into all the deepest parts of me.
Which would explain why I push him back onto the bed. “Lay down.”
Without a question, he does as I’ve asked, and I strip down to my bra and my underwear before straddling him. He’s hard already, his cock basically begging to be taken into my hand, rising up as it is. So I grip him at his base, stroke leisurely, and love the way his breath rushes through his teeth as he sharply inhales.
His skin is soft and smooth, interrupted only by veins that make him look more like a living, breathing being than a statue. He’s warm too; so very real and so very here. I want to distract myself, and experience more of him while I have the chance, so I shift back a bit, bestriding his leg so I can lean down and take him in my mouth.
As I do, he lets out a harsh and garbled exclamation, something that sounds an awful lot like “Jesus, Jubilee.”
The auditory show continues as I swirl my tongue around his crown and suck lightly. Beckett can be stingy with his praise on the rink, but still far more generous than I am. Here, though, he holds nothing back, telling me how much he loves this, how good it’s making him feel. It makes me feel good too, equal parts pleasure and craving curling in my belly and making me rock my hips against his leg while I fellate him.
Maybe I should be embarrassed about frotting against him, but it feels too good to care, the grinding of my clit on his knee is in time with how I’m fellating him. Can he feel the wetness gathering between my legs or does the thin strip of cotton prevent that? He’ll at least be able to feel my heat, and there’s no mistaking my desperation for him. In this, at least. Let me binge on him this way even if I can’t bring myself to nibble at the rest of what he’s trying to hand me on a platter.
Beckett
It shouldn’t surprise me that Jubilee is good at giving head. She could conquer anything she puts her mind to, and apparently at some point she determined that giving phenomenal blow jobs was something worth her considerable focus and effort. As much as I’m enjoying this, though—and goddamn, am I ever—I also want to touch her. Have some of her to myself, more than just the silky hair I have between my fingers so I can watch what she’s doing.
On the other hand, I am fricking loving that she’s grown so comfortable with me, with this, with us, that she’s basically humping my leg. Jubilee is always dignified, always in control, always has that pert little nose of hers stuck up in the air, and for her to be this . . . human, this uninhibited with me? Makes me come undone a bit.
Yes, I’d like to have her in my hands, make her feel good, but maybe this isn’t about me right now. I mean, it is, because I am getting some really fantastic head, but I don’t feel as though she’s keeping something from me. This is something she’s giving me, and I should appreciate that for what it is. Especially because the way the rub of her pussy on my leg is in time with how she’s bobbing up and down on my cock. We’re kind of fucking by proxy and it feels almost more intimate than when we’ve had intercourse.
On the Brink of Passion--Snow & Ice Games Page 12
