Fire on the Ice

by Tamsen Parker

  It’s a good thing I know she was trying to make me lose it, otherwise I’d feel bad about busting out laughing over that. “But if it’s okay, then do you date someone and fuck a lot of people?”

  “Sometimes. Or sometimes I have one primary partner and a couple of other people I date more casually. Sometimes I see three or four people and none of them are more important than the others. Depends on what everyone is okay with and what my life looks like. Whatever is going on, everyone knows about it and everyone’s okay with it.”

  She studies my face, and I hope I don’t look as though I’m thinking too hard. It’s just not something I come across every day. But why would I? I’m basically a hermit who sneaks the occasional lay during competitions. “Do you have any other questions? I’ll try to answer them as best I can. Communication is part of what makes the whole poly thing work.”

  Right. Do I? “Not now. I think that was enough Poly 101 for one day.”

  “Okay.” She uses the hands that have been gripping my biceps to chafe my arms instead, and it loosens something inside me, making me slump slightly in gratitude and exhaustion both. “Long practice?”

  “Yeah.”

  Blaze’s gaze darts up the stairwell in the direction of her suite. “I’d invite you in, but . . .”

  “Your roommate’s socking it to an Israeli figure skater?”

  She snort-giggles at my horrible pun, and it makes me feel even better. Looser. “Yeah, probably.”

  We smile at each other. There’s still a buzz of conflict, but it’s settled into a muted hum now, and feels as though it could—with time and steadfastness . . . But what am I talking about? There’s no such thing. We’re here for another ten days. All I have to do is not be a fucking idiot for ten days and I’ll get to keep her for as long as this lasts. Then we’ll go about our own business, separately. Better that way, because I’m not sure how that conversation Blaze mentioned earlier would go.

  “Maisy, I’d like to see other people.”

  Insert me bawling because I am not, in fact, perfectly sufficient. Yeah, I can’t see that going super well. Also, we’re busy, travel a lot, have our own obligations, training schedules, lives to figure out after we’re no longer in fact, fit to compete at the SIGs.

  But when I think of Blaze sleeping with other people? It doesn’t bother me as much as I’d think it would. Or maybe as much as it ought to. But again, moot. Irrelevant. There’s an egg timer on this, and that’s how it should be.

  For now, though . . . “We could go to my place. Kristie might be there, so we might just be chilling.”

  My offer is hesitant, because I don’t know that I’ve ever seen Blaze chill, but a grin splits her face. “Can we watch the women’s skeleton finals on your laptop? I’ve got kind of a thing for girls who dive in headfirst.”

  I roll my eyes, because of course she does. “Yeah, let’s go.”

  And so we do.

  Chapter Ten

  Blaze

  “Oh come on, it’s not that bad.”

  “It’s not bad, it’s just . . .” Maisy sighs. “Why must we always go to a race? There are other forms of competition, you know.”

  “Yeah, but—” I shut my pie hole real hard. Nothing I was going to say next would’ve earned me anything but a well-deserved lecture. God love Maisy for only giving me a withering look instead of punching me in the face. “But this is what I got tickets to.”

  She rolls her eyes because she damn well knows why I got tickets to snowboard cross instead of say ice dancing or curling or something. “Fine. Give me a minute, though, I need to brush my teeth.”

  Because of course she does. I give her a double-thumbs-up with a big, cheesy-ass grin, and she shakes her head before heading into the bathroom. While she’s there, I take my phone out of my pocket to check my messages. There’s one from Yancey, of course, because he’s been texting me at least once a day asking me what I’m up to.

  Hey Cherry Bomb, have you taken a vow of celibacy or what? You’re not really giving me or anyone else anything to cover and that’s a damn shame.

  I should be hurt or insulted. I mean, yes, it stings because I am quite aware that I haven’t done anything to make the sports pages—yet—but I can’t blame the guy. It’s true. Normally I’d be getting coverage one way or another. I guess I’ve been a little distracted with all the coverage I’ve been getting from a certain sex bomb of a figure skater, but still. This is my time. This is my chance. I should be getting my face and my sport in the press by any means necessary.

  I’m headed to the snowboard cross competition. Will you be there?

  Seconds later, my phone buzzes in my hand.

  Wasn’t planning on it. Women’s luge starts today, hoping to snap Zane Rivera at the track rooting for his lady love. Gotta get my stories somewhere and since you’re not providing me with any scandals, I’m stuck covering America’s Sweethearts.

  Yeah, yeah. I don’t know who I’m more irritated with, Rowan Andrews for having a camera-ready romance that’s bringing all the press to the yard more so than she already was with her pretty blonde girl-next-doorness and perky charm, or Yancey for calling her Zane Rivera’s “lady love.” That’s some A-plus bullshit right there.

  Her name’s Rowan Andrews, dickwad.

  Whatever. Unless you can promise me a better show at snowboard cross, that’s where I’m going to be. No gossip rag in their right mind is going to be anywhere else.

  He’s right, which shouldn’t matter, because I’d rather get some attention from ESPN or Sports Illustrated, or some outlet with legit sports material, but the thing is . . . it doesn’t fucking matter who covers me. As long as I end up in the news, on some front page, that’s the important part. Get my face into people’s eyeballs, and they’re going to tune in. People watch short track once every four years, and I’d kill someone for it to be more than that. Like slit someone’s throat with my skate if I thought it would get my sport the recognition it deserves. Which is maybe too far. But only a little. Nothing else would get that kind of coverage. I should throw in the towel.

  . . . Could you?

  Could I what? What is Yancey on about? I’m starting to text out a question when he must realize his last message was rather cryptic.

  Promise me a better show? Because if I could get something good that’s not License to Game’s wonder boy or the Super Girl of luge, it would be a sweet scoop. It’d have to be something good, though. Kiss any smoking hot chicks lately?

  Have I ever.

  Oh.

  I bite my lip because Maisy’s not really into public stuff, but . . . she’s been going to races with me. People have seen us hanging out. It’s not as if it’s a secret secret. Right? I don’t want to be with someone who treats me like a dirty secret. Not for more than a one-night screw anyhow. I’m not something to be ashamed of. She didn’t seem too bent out of shape after we made out in the bar that first night. Nobody whose livelihood depends on performing in front of thousands of people can possibly be as self-conscious as she makes herself out to be.

  Oh yeah? What if I could promise you an international lesbian lip-lock?

  Maisy must be finishing up with her teeth because the girl is thorough, but it’s not as though she’s full-on going to the dentist. Though I wouldn’t put it past her to floss after every meal. I tap my foot a couple of times, but then my phone pings.

  Can you? Promise, I mean? Because if I miss out on America’s Sweethearts and don’t have anything to show for it, my ass is getting fired.

  Can I promise? I want to. But Maisy . . . well, Maisy doesn’t know what’s good for her career. She’s a damn good figure skater, obviously, but she’s got no flair. Hasn’t ever given anyone reason to pay attention to her, and even when she’s doing what she loves best, she may as well be performing a root canal. Determination I get, but there’s no passion, no oomph, nothing human there. So even if she doesn’t like it, this would be good for her image, too. She’ll thank me later when she’s got an
endorsement deal with . . . I don’t know, whoever wants to be endorsed by Canadian figure skaters.

  I guarantee it. If I don’t deliver, I’ll have a sex tape for you by the closing ceremony.

  With who, I’m not sure, but I’ll figure something out. Best to deliver what I’ve promised despite the niggling guilt at the back of my brain.

  Dude, you’d do that on a day ending in Y, but fine, I’ll be there. You better make it worth my while.

  I text him back with a winky-kiss emoji and slide my cell back into my as Maisy comes out of the bathroom. She’s not only brushed her teeth but put on some eyeliner and mascara as well, maybe slicked a bit of gloss on her lips. Good. She needs to get ready for her close-up.

  Maisy

  Sometimes Blaze’s focus on timed events as the only sports worth watching can be tiring. Yes, there’s certainly artistry involved in going fast, and I have nothing but respect for guys like Miles Palmer who have been doing this for half their lives and are still at the top of their sport. Sadly, figure skaters aren’t built that way. We have to have the speed of a hockey player, the flexibility of a gymnast, the grace of a dancer, and the durability of a rugby player. And yet people think we just lace up our skates and look pretty. We do—look pretty—but we also kick some pretty serious ass and are pros at multitasking.

  To be perfectly honest, sometimes I look down at the speed and strength sports. I understand there’s some stuff going on with their technique, too, but from the outside it seems a whole lot as though all they have to do is go fast or be strong. Whoop-de-doo. But I wouldn’t say that to Blaze because it would hurt her feelings.

  So here we are at snowboard cross, watching people go fast. And of course Blaze likes it. It’s not so different from short track, but with boards strapped to the competitors’ feet instead of blades. Also, a variable track. To give credit where credit is due, it is fun to watch, though it’s frustrating you can’t see the whole course from any vantage point. I suppose that’s one of the advantages of competing on a rink.

  It’s cold out, but luckily we’re prepared with our parkas and boots, hats and mittens. I feel likewe’re incognito because neither of us is wearing any team gear, though Blaze keeps looking around the crowd.

  After the latest run of snowboarders flies past us and we cheer even though there isn’t a Canadian or an American in this heat, I elbow her. “Expecting someone?”

  She’s so distracted craning her neck, she doesn’t hear me properly. “Hmm? What?”

  “Are you expecting someone? You keep looking around like you’re waiting for someone. I hate to break it to you, but with that toque over your hair, the odds of you being recognized are not so good. If you want to be swarmed by your adoring fans, you’re going to have to take it off.”

  I’m teasing, but I don’t get even a smile for my trouble. For being such a good-time girl, Blaze can be awfully serious, and I’m not sure why she’s doing so now. This is supposed to be fun. Is she seriously relying on me to remind her of that? This seems entirely backward. But what’s a girl to do?

  I bump her hip, and when she turns, her face has gone back to the expression I’m more familiar with: excited, fun-loving, and yeah, a little devious.

  “Sorry, sorry.” She puts an arm around my waist and I do my best not to recoil. If we were in private, by all means, but we’re in a crowd, and though we don’t exactly have spotlights on us, it wouldn’t surprise me if we were recognized. I like Blaze, I do, but I have enough on my plate without my father calling me up later and tsking at me for being out in public with “that girl.” Likely asking more questions about how I know her, why I know her, what am I doing with her when I should be putting in more practice hours because I clearly have some time on my hands and I should be devoting all waking hours to the only thing I’m good for, the only respectable way for me to present myself and ask for attention.

  Before I can politely put a couple of inches of distance between us, at least as much as the crowd will afford, she’s pressing me forward.

  “I want a better look.”

  I feel as though we have a perfectly good view, and Blaze is tall so I don’t want to get much closer—she’ll no doubt block someone’s view if we move up too much, but she’s unlikely to be dissuaded, so I let her pull me along up to where the plastic netting keeps the spectators out of the circle at the bottom.

  People are buzzing, and I realize it’s because we’ve reached the medal events. I feel guilty, but I don’t recognize any of the names coming up on the board. If it were women’s figure skating, or men’s, pairs, or ice dancing, I’d recognize most if not all the names. As it is, I clap and whoop when a Canadian flag pops up on the screen.

  A few minutes later, we’re cheering wildly as the finalists make their way down the mountain. Snowboard cross reads like controlled chaos, and not all that controlled to be honest. They have to stay within the boundaries of the course but aside from that, it doesn’t seem to me like there are any rules at all. It’s still fun to watch the women fly over the obstacles, and maybe more so—because skaters well know how fricking hard it is—land the damn things.

  As the small crowd comes racing toward us, one of the girls takes a turn too sharp, and wipes the hell out. The crowd, including me and Blaze, gives a collective wince and sucking of air between our teeth. That blows. To be so close to glory, have one wrong step and tank it all. I don’t know if Blaze feels the same way, but for me watching people spill is particularly painful. Not just the empathy, but also I feel a phantom gut punch—how close are we every single time we go out on the ice to having the exact same thing happen? So close. Too close. One wrong move, and it’s all over. Everything you’ve worked for, everything you’ve sacrificed for, and it’s gone in the blink of an eye. It’s enough to make a person want to puke.

  Instead, I cheer for the medalists who are crossing the finish line. A Finn, a Brit, and an Austrian. The Canadian and the American slide in close afterward, but finish out of the medals, and that’s got to hurt. That’s it. It’s over. No do-overs, no take-backsies, no “hold on a second, I finally figured out that third jump.” It’s . . . done. And unlike the individual events where you don’t have to come face to face with your competitors in the moments so soon after a race, the women are hugging in various permutations. Some celebratory, but others more commiserating. The most awkward embraces are between medalists and non, which I get. A fraction of a second makes all the difference in the world.

  The gold medalist and the silver are almost right in front of where we’re standing in the oval, and basically crash into each other and fall to the ground while still being strapped to their boards. How . . . unrefined. Though the snowboarders have a reputation for being downright crude, so this shouldn’t surprise me at all.

  What does surprise me is an arm around my waist, and when I turn to protest, because, oh - my - god - people - are - watching, my protests are swallowed. By Blaze’s mouth. What the hell?

  Blaze

  Maisy tastes as sweet as she ever does, but I don’t get to enjoy it for long, because she’s shoving me in the pecs, and staring at me, chest heaving and eyes blazing. “What was that?”

  I open my mouth to answer her, to placate her that it’s not really a big deal, and I got caught up in the moment, and who cares about two girls kissing when people won medals or didn’t, and no one’s going to care, even though I know that to be untrue. Which makes me queasy, because I didn’t totally think this through. In fact, avoided thinking this through because I wanted something.

  Also, she’s noticed that I took off my hat. I might have been able to get away with the “got caught up in the moment” excuse if it weren’t for that, but I needed for Yancey to see me. See us. He had—is in fact the reason why I moved us closer to the nets—but I wanted to be recognizable in the photos. Otherwise, what the hell good does this do me at all?

  “You . . .”

  Maisy doesn’t even finish her sentence, but gives me a look like she
’d like to stab me with her toe pick. I would so rather that be a euphemism for an incredibly filthy sex act than a way to murder someone. Better luck next time.

  It’s not even close to silent because people are still cheering, but it feels as though there’s a bubble around us, in which no sound is penetrating. All I can hear is the rabbit-quick thump of my own heart, up against the pounding deep echo of Maisy’s. Almost like a throb, it hurts me.

  “I didn’t—”

  “Don’t even give me that, Blaze. I don’t know what your game is, but you absolutely did that on purpose. If you hadn’t, you would have kept your damn hat on. What, you didn’t want to take mine, too? Why didn’t you wear your team gear if you were going to give yourself away anyhow? Doing that behind the medalists? What the fuck? Even if they didn’t mean to capture it, you can bet that we’re making the press somewhere tonight, and I can’t fucking believe you.”

  Her look of betrayal stabs me right in the soul, even as I try to make my excuses. “Mais, it’s not a big deal.”

  Which it shouldn’t be. I wish it weren’t. On a small, personal scale, I wish this person who I admire and respect and yeah, have more than a passing interest in, unlike most of my bed partners, liked me well enough to tell the world. As it is, she’s made me feel as if I’m something to be ashamed of. Like all those people I’ve fucked. It’s a game, and somehow I’m the slut even though we were both involved? How does that even work? On a larger scale, I’d like her to stand up in front of everyone and shout, “I’m here, I’m queer, get used to it. I want things, I deserve things, and this loud-mouthed redhead is what I want.”

  Pretty Maisy Harper doesn’t look like a dyke. I mean, she obviously does, because she likes the ladies, but how can she be so complicit in homophobia that she lets the fuckers win? I get it coming from athletes in really conservative countries where people can still go to jail for being gay—hell, even I might keep my mouth shut there, who am I to say?—but she’s Canadian for god’s sake.