From Lukov with Love

by Mariana Zapata

  While I hadn’t.

  There was a reason he had his name on banners all over the LC, and I didn’t.

  The microwave beeped, and I finally felt so defeated and… sad. Just so fucking sad, so fucking fast, it almost took my breath away. Standing with just one hip against the counter, he was holding a cup in his hand and a spoon in the other, stirring something. But he was looking at me expectantly. Waiting.

  And it just made me sadder that I was this person he expected to fight him over everything.

  Be better. It was never too late, was it?

  I pinched my lips together for a moment and tried to wrangle it all in, my anger, this fucking sadness, my disappointment. And I thought I’d done a decent job as I said, almost weak, definitely weird, “I didn’t know you had your own room.” I swallowed. “Must be nice.”

  Did that sound as fake as I thought it did or…?

  His face didn’t change at all. Neither did that tone I didn’t know what to think of. “I don’t bring people here.”

  The “huh” out of my mouth sounded about as flat as I felt.

  He kept on stirring, his eyes going nowhere. “It’s my quiet place.”

  That had me flicking my gaze at him, surprised by his comment.

  “It used to be a conference room and a storage closet, but I had it renovated a few years ago, when some fans snuck into the facility and went into the changing room while I was showering.”

  What?

  “They took pictures of me. Georgiana”—the general manager—“had to call the police,” he told me, his gaze steady on me even after he shrugged. “It had only been a matter of time anyway. Some nights back then, I was too tired to go home, so I’d stay here,” he explained, catching me even more off guard. “I don’t do that anymore.”

  I wondered why.

  Then I remembered it wasn’t any of my business. Friends, or whatever the hell we were, or not.

  Ivan didn’t say another word as he came toward me, the mug still in his hand, the spoon in his other. I didn’t say anything either. I just watched him, trying to figure out what he was doing.

  When he stopped directly in front of me, so close that for anyone else who wasn’t used to the lack of personal space, would have been too close, I still said nothing.

  He didn’t sigh or make a face when he held out the cup toward me and kept it there just an inch or two away from my chest. The fact that I didn’t ask him if he poisoned it popped into my head as quickly as it popped back out. I wasn’t in the mood to be a pain in the ass. I really wasn’t. Not anymore.

  And that’s how I knew there was something wrong with me.

  I peeked inside of the mug, taking in the milky brown liquid inside… and then sniffed it. And I glanced back at him.

  Ivan raised his eyebrow and moved it half an inch closer to me. “It’s the packet stuff,” he explained in a damn near murmur like he didn’t want to say the words or something. “I don’t have any marshmallows, if you like that kind of thing.”

  He…

  He….

  Oh, hell.

  “And I made it with almond-coconut milk. You don’t need the extra dairy,” he kept going, still holding that damned mug half an inch from my chest as I stood there.

  He’d made me hot chocolate.

  Ivan had made me fucking hot chocolate. Without marshmallows according to him, but he wouldn’t have known that I only treated myself to hot cocoa with marshmallows on very rare occasions.

  How he knew—why he even had the mix—I couldn’t handle. I just couldn’t process it. It was like that moment when he and Lee had asked me to first partner up with him, like I was on drugs and didn’t realize it.

  Ivan Lukov, the greatest frenemy in my life after my siblings, had made me hot cocoa.

  And suddenly, for some fucking reason that I would never, ever understand, even years from then, I officially felt like the biggest piece of shit on the planet. That was the last straw. It was in the record books.

  My eyes began to sting almost instantly, and my throat suddenly felt drier than ever before.

  He had come here because Coach Lee had called him.

  Ivan had given me a Hershey’s kiss.

  He had dragged me to his room.

  And then he’d made me hot cocoa.

  My hand went up on its own, my mouth still staying shut, as I wrapped my fingers around the warm ceramic and took it away from him, glancing back and forth between the mug and that face that was so beautiful, so annoyingly perfect, it made my unclassicness difficult to appreciate for once. When he dropped his hand away, I brought the cup up to my mouth and took a sip, even as my eyes burned worse than before. It wasn’t as sweet with the non-dairy milk he’d used, but it still tasted great.

  And he was still standing there, watching me.

  And I felt… I felt shame. I felt ashamed of myself for this small kindness he’d just paid me that he didn’t have to. A small kindness I wasn’t sure I’d do if we were in opposite situations, and that just made me feel worse, worse, worse. My throat grew tighter than before, and it was honestly like I’d swallowed a giant grapefruit.

  “What happened?” he asked again, patience punctuating every letter out of his mouth.

  I glanced away and then glanced back at him as I pressed my lips together and fought the softball-sized turd pressing down on my vocal chords. You’re a piece of shit, Jasmine, some part of my brain whispered, and my eyes stung even more badly.

  I didn’t want to tell him. I didn’t. I didn’t want to say anything.

  But…

  You’re an asshole, that voice reminded me. A self-centered asshole.

  I turned away from him, taking a sip, the hot liquid soothing the tightness along my vocal chords, and then I said, sounding so fucking hoarse I almost stopped talking but didn’t, “Do you ever feel guilty for making this,” he knew what “this” was—it was everything, “a priority?”

  Ivan made a noise that sounded like a thoughtful one, and I was almost tempted to turn around and see his facial expression before he replied, “Sometimes.”

  Sometimes. Sometimes was better than never.

  You don’t care about anyone or anything but figure skating, my ex-partner had said to me one day weeks before he’d jumped shipped and abandoned me. I had ripped him a new one when he’d texted me the night before to say he thought he was coming down with a cold, one week before nationals. You’re so cold.

  But I wasn’t cold. All I wanted was to win, and I’d always told myself there was nothing I wouldn’t do for it. I didn’t expect or want to be mediocre. When I wasn’t feeling well, I sucked it up and still showed up. Was that so wrong?

  Was it so wrong to love something you’d dedicated your life to that you wanted the best? No one ever became good at something without repeatedly working at it. Like Galina had told me once when she’d been really mad at me as a teenager, natural talent only takes you so far, yozik. And like with so many other things, she hadn’t been wrong.

  I had just made some stupid fucking decisions. Really stupid decisions that painted everything black.

  “Do you?” Ivan asked when I didn’t say anything else after his response.

  Shit.

  I took another sip of the warm drink and savored the taste, a lie at my chest, ready for us…. And I hated it. So I told him the truth, even though it felt like sandpaper. “I didn’t. Not for a long time, but now….” Yes. Yes.

  There was a pause. Then, “Because you started doing other things when you took the season off?”

  Took the season off. That was the prettiest way of saying it.

  “That’s what started it,” I admitted, keeping my gaze on the mug even as my eyes began to sting again. “Maybe that’s why I see everything now better than I ever did before. I see how much I missed out on.”

  “Like what?” he asked gently, and I couldn’t help but snicker.

  “Everything. High school shit. Prom. Boyfriends.” Love. “The only reason why
I went to my sister’s college graduation is because my mom made me go, you know. I was supposed to have practice that day, and I hadn’t wanted to miss it. I’d thrown a fit.” Acted like an asshole, but I was sure he could reach that conclusion all by himself. “I forget how obsessive I am.”

  I could hear the soft breath he let out. “You’re not the only one. We’re all obsessive in this sport,” Ivan replied softly. “I’ve given up my whole life.”

  I shrugged my shoulders and swallowed hard, still not facing him. He was right. If I thought about it, I would realize, but it didn’t make it any easier to swallow the truth.

  I was obsessive. I had ignored my family for the last ten plus years. Nothing and no one else had mattered as much as figure skating had… at least on the outside. I had taken them for granted until I thought I had lost this sport. Nothing else had mattered as much as the chance to win something. To be someone. To make them proud. To make everything worth it.

  But mostly, everything I had done had been for myself. At least at first. It had all been for me and how it made me feel. Good, strong, and powerful. Talented. Special. It had made up for all the other things I didn’t have and wasn’t any good at.

  At least until I had gotten into my late teens, and then everything had gone to shit, and I became my own worst enemy. My own most critical judge. The one and only person who was guilty of sabotaging herself.

  I spun the bracelet on my wrist and rubbed the pad of my finger over the inscription.

  “I used to regret not going to school like everyone else,” Ivan added almost hesitantly. “The only time I genuinely spent with other children was when I would visit my grandfather during the summer. My only friend for a long time was my partner, but even then, it wasn’t really a friendship. The only reason I knew what a prom was, was because of television. I used to watch reality shows to know how to talk to people.”

  Something tickled at my eyeball, and I reached up to wipe at it with the tip of my index finger. It came away wet, but it didn’t scare me or make me mad. I didn’t feel weak.

  I felt pathetic.

  I felt like shit.

  “Everyone, Jasmine, everyone that’s an athlete—that’s successful—has had to give up a lot. Some of us more than others. You’re not the first person, and you’re not the last person that sees that and feels bad about it,” he started to say, his voice steady and even. “You don’t get to become good at anything without sacrificing something to make time.”

  I didn’t look at him as I pressed my middle finger against the same eye, feeling the wetness on there too. I opened my mouth and felt a choke in there, so I closed my lips. I wasn’t going to cry in front of Ivan. I wasn’t. When I opened them again. I made myself say, “I—” and my voice just… cracked. I pressed my lips together and closed my eyes and tried again. “Successful people, Ivan. It’s worth it if you’re successful, not if you’re not.”

  And we both knew I wasn’t. Everyone knew I wasn’t. Not even a little bit.

  More wetness formed at the corners of my eyes, and it took the pads of every other finger to dab the liquid away.

  Everything had been for nothing, I had told myself a year ago when Paul had left. And it had cut me open.

  And it did the same thing again right then.

  Everything had been for nothing, and I couldn’t justify all of my sacrifices anymore.

  The sniffle that came out of me, embarrassed me. Humiliated me, but I couldn’t do anything to stop it, even as my brain said, Don’t do it. Don’t you fucking do it. I was better than this. Stronger than this.

  But I sniffled again anyway.

  I wanted to walk out. I didn’t want to talk about this anymore. But if I left, it would look like I was running away from Ivan. Running away period. And I didn’t run away. Not ever.

  Maybe turning away so you wouldn’t see something wasn’t exactly the same as running, but it really was at the end of the day.

  And I wasn’t my dad.

  “I’ve never won anything,” I said, fully aware my voice sounded watered down and lame, but what was I going to do? Hide it? What the hell did I have to be proud of? Of making my mom feel like she didn’t want to bother me after she had been in an accident and had to go to the hospital? You’re a piece of shit, Jasmine. I had no reason to hold on to my pride. None. And it wasn’t like Ivan didn’t know that. Like he wasn’t aware of how much of a loser I’d turned into. How much of a loser I really was. That’s probably why we were only in this together for a year. Why would he want to get stuck with me? Natural talent only took you so far. I was the fucking poster child for it. The poster child for being a letdown of a human being, daughter, sister, and friend.

  And it burned me. Oh hell, it burned the fuck out of me so bad, I couldn’t stop the words from coming out of my mouth. Little pieces of glass sharp along every jagged, broken edge. “So what’s it all been for then? Second place? Sixth place?” I shook my head, bitterness swelling up inside of me, crowding out everything; everything, everything, everything. My pride, my talent, my love, fucking everything. “That doesn’t seem worth it at all.” I hadn’t been worth it at all. Had I?

  There was no response, but when there was it came in the shape of two big hands landing on my shoulders, curling around them.

  My entire life had been for nothing. Every goal for nothing. Every broken dream and promise for nothing.

  The hands on my shoulders squeezed, and I tried to shrug them off, but they didn’t go anywhere. If anything, they got even tighter.

  “Stop it,” Ivan’s demand was gruff in my ear. At the same time, I felt the heat and length of his body come up behind me.

  “I’m a loser, Ivan,” I spat and took a step forward, only to come up short when the hands on me kept me from getting an inch away. “I’m a loser, and I gave up so much of my life and so much of my time with the only people who have ever loved me, for nothing.”

  I was a failure. At everything. At every single fucking thing.

  My chest ached. It hurt. And if I’d been dramatic, I would have thought it was breaking in half.

  “Jasmine—” he started to say, but I shook my head and tried to shake his hands off again as my chest hurt even worse at how my mom had tried to play her accident off. Like she was okay with me not making her a priority.

  Like my own mom thought she didn’t matter to me.

  My throat burned. My eyes burned. And I… I was a giant asshole. A loser.

  And the only person I could blame was myself.

  I almost didn’t recognize my voice as I kept on talking for some fucking reason I would never understand. “My own family thinks they don’t matter, and for what?” My voice cracked as anger and some other shit I didn’t know how to classify swelled up inside of me. “For nothing! For not a single fucking thing! I’m twenty-six. I don’t have a college degree. I have two hundred dollars in my bank account. I still live with my mom. I don’t have any functional career skills besides waitressing. I’m not a national champion, a world champion, or an Olympic champion. My mom’s gone nearly bankrupt for fucking nothing. My family has paid thousands of dollars going to competitions for me to come up in second place, third place, fourth place, sixth place. I don’t own anything. I’m not anything—”

  Was I dying?

  Was this what having you heart broken felt like? Because if it was, I was sure fucking glad I’d never fallen in love before because goddamn. My God.

  It felt like my organs were rotting away.

  My mouth watered and my throat was sore, but by some miracle, I didn’t actually start bawling. But I felt like it. I was doing it on the inside. Crumbling. Falling apart. Feeling like a piece of worthless, worthless, worthless shit.

  You can have all the talent in the world and still do nothing with it, my dad had told me once years ago, when he’d tried to convince me to go to college instead of pursuing figure skating full-time.

  I screwed my eyes closed and held my breath as the pain in my chest go
t so bad, I wasn’t sure I could breathe if I tried. And I sniffed. This tiny little sniff I only barely heard.

  “Come here,” was the soft whisper right by my ear as the hands on my shoulders tightened.

  The “No” out of my mouth sounded like two rocks sliding against each other.

  “Let me give you a hug.” His voice sounded even closer, his body warmer.

  Shame burned me inside out, and I tried to take another step forward, but the hands on me didn’t let me go anywhere.

  “Let me,” he demanded, ignoring me.

  I squeezed my eyes closed even more and said, before I could stop myself, “I don’t want a fucking hug, Ivan. Okay?”

  Why? Why did I do this to myself? Why did I do this to other people? All he was doing was trying to be nice and—

  “Well, too fucking bad,” Ivan replied a moment before the hands on my shoulders started to shift, to slide, going across my upper chest, right beneath my collarbones until his forearms were crossed over me in an X, and then Ivan was pulling me back—stumbling me back—until my upper back hit his chest, flesh to flesh.

  And he hugged me. He hugged me so tight to him I couldn’t breathe, and I hated myself. I hated myself for being a hypocrite. For not being nicer. For expecting the worst all the time. I hated myself for so many things, I wasn’t sure I could count them all and survive.

  And the arms around me somehow got even tighter, until every bone in my spine was curved into every bone in his upper body.

  “You’re the best figure skater I’ve ever seen,” this man whispered directly into my ear, his hold the strongest thing I had ever felt in my life. “You are. The most athletic. The strongest. The toughest. The hardest working—”

  I leaned forward to get away from him because I didn’t want to hear this shit… but didn’t go anywhere. “You know none of that fucking matters, Ivan. None of it means anything if you don’t win.”

  “Jasmine—”

  Dropping my head forward, I squeezed my eyes even tighter because the burning in them only got worse. “You don’t get it, Ivan. How could you? You don’t lose. Everyone knows you’re the best. Everyone loves you,” I croaked out, not able to finish the words, not able to say and no one loves me the same except the people I’ve let down over and over again.