On the Brink of Passion--Snow & Ice Games Read online

  Apparently, we’re not the only people with that idea, because there are voices coming from behind some of the ducts and pipes and wiring. The sounds of the HVAC and the plumbing must cover up our footsteps, because the people don’t stop talking.

  I don’t eavesdrop. Sure, who hasn’t on occasion, but in general, I don’t want a piece of other peoples’ conversations. Except that at the moment, I will take any distraction I possibly can get, and if this is a lovers’ quarrel between rival skaters or some classic SIG romance, then I want in on that action.

  The closer we get, though, the more obvious it is that that is not what’s going on here. Raised voices, and one of them sounds downright on the verge of panic.

  “Why are you even telling me this?”

  “It’s not like I could tell anyone else.”

  “How about you maybe tell no one? Or even better, do nothing. Fucking hell, what were you thinking?”

  They sound familiar somehow, and while Beckett is trying to hold me back, I need to get close. Want to see who it is. So I creep as best I can and peer over an enormous pipe just in time to hear the woman speak.

  “The question isn’t how could I, it’s how could I not? Best outcome here and we’ll get the bronze. Worst and most likely? We get a fucking certificate and a quick trip home. Of course I tried to do something about it.”

  “You sure this has nothing to do with your mad jealousy?”

  The man is taunting her, and that’s when I know who we’re overhearing. It’s Sabrina and Todd. What are they on about?

  “Don’t even go there, Todd. If you’d been more on your game, I wouldn’t have had to resort to this at all.”

  Up until a second ago, Beckett had been trying to pull me away, but he’s stopped now and is listening just as intently as I am. What is this, what did she do?

  “The whole village is talking about it, you know. How great Beckett looks with her. How perfect they are together. And what a moron you are for throwing him away.”

  I swear she stamps her foot, but it could just be one of those mechanical noises in a big building. Hard to say. What I do know is that Sabrina is seriously angry.

  “I wouldn’t have been a moron if you spent as much time on your skates as you spend trying to get laid.”

  “Don’t you put this on me. Don’t you fucking dare. I’m not the one who weakened that lace. What I should do is just fucking turn you in. You know as well as I do she could’ve been seriously injured if her lace snapped in the middle of the warm-up or during their performance. I know you hate her, but that seems extreme.”

  Holy. Shit.

  Beckett is grabbing my arm and shaking me, as if I didn’t just hear what Sabrina said. More accurately, confessed. I’m not sure how she did it, and I hope there will be some evidence because I don’t want to sound spoiled or paranoid if I suggest it, but Sabrina is the one who weakened my lace. And of all the times not to have my phone on me to record a conversation, holy hell. No one is going to believe us.

  And it suddenly matters a whole lot less when the metal door clangs open and a yell sounds down the rows of vents, pipes, and wires.

  “Jubilee? Beckett? Are you in here? You’d better get out here because people want to see some gold medal ass.”

  Daphne just said “gold,” and my stomach drops. I may have another gold medal to hang on my mantel, but no one to stand in front of the fireplace with to admire it. That one single word, a word I’ve been aiming for my entire life, has just delivered some not-great news and suddenly my heart and the rest of my internal organs ache. I may be brave enough to let Beck toss me across a good fraction of an ice rink, but no way am I going knowingly down this path again. Not a chance in hell.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Beckett

  It’s been one of the craziest nights I’ve ever had, and that’s not a low bar. We told Daphne what we’d overheard and she got the proper authorities involved right away, hoping Sabrina hadn’t had time to destroy the evidence of her sabotage or talk Todd into covering for her. Usually the SIG officials try to keep shit like that on the DL, but with time of the essence, they sacrificed secrecy for speed, which meant everywhere we went, people were buzzing about it—including the press.

  When I finally get back to our suite after we’ve fulfilled all of our press obligations, the medal ceremony, and somehow gotten split up after that, I’m not sure what to expect. Exuberant Jubilee? Drunk-as-fuck Jubilee? Depressed and withdrawn Jubilee? I wouldn’t be surprised by any of those things. I’m hoping for the best but preparing for the worst, because whatever she needs, I want to give it to her.

  Yeah, it’s my room too, but when I get to the door, I knock.

  There’s no answer, and it’s possible she’s in the bathtub, but the walls aren’t so well-built that she shouldn’t be able to hear me from in there. Unless she’s got her headphones on. Which she might. So I knock again, just to be sure, and when there’s still no answer, I twist the handle and go inside. At first, nothing looks odd, but then certain details jump out.

  Jubilee’s coat isn’t hanging over the back of her desk chair. The closet is open, not closed. There are no headphones or Kindle on her bedside table. There’s . . . nothing. Not exactly nothing, because everything of mine is how I left it, but every trace of Jubilee is gone.

  I’d thought I’d been prepared to deal with any outcome, but all of those outcomes had been predicated on Jubilee being here, and she’s gone. Just flat out gone. I can’t believe she didn’t say goodbye, but thinking back to the program we skated earlier . . . that’s exactly what she did. For those four and a half minutes. Gave her whole self to me, and now she’s taken it away.

  Jubilee

  Show me someone in sports who isn’t superstitious, and I’ll show you a liar. It’s like atheists in foxholes. Don’t exist. And while for the most part, it’s harmless stuff—lucky underwear, a guy not shaving his facial hair, having the same person put the blades on your skates—my superstitions happen to do with the man I love dropping dead after we’ve won a gold medal together.

  It’s all just a little bit of history repeating.

  It’s not rational. I know that. Otherwise everyone would be all, Fuck no, Jubilee, you can’t skate with Beckett! He will obviously drop dead in three months, and you’ll probably be at practice—because you’re always at practice—and you’ll get injured, maybe not in a way you can come back from this time.

  That whole second part, I don’t care so much about. If this happened twice, there’s no way in hell I’d try for a third. Nor would I probably be able to find a man willing to skate with me after what had happened to my former partners. I would clearly be cursed.

  Yes, I forced him to not throw the free skate, because doing that solely to be with the person you may or may not love, but you’re not totally sure because you haven’t had the chance to be together outside of the SIG snow globe, or outside this bizarre arrangement, would be flat-out idiotic. But now that it’s come to pass, now that I’m treading that familiar road that leads to heartbreak . . . I regret it.

  I’d make the same decision now, though, so how sorry can I possibly be? I am, though. Sorry for Beckett and how he must have felt coming back to an empty room. Sorry for myself because I can’t get past my worst fear to let myself have someone I very possibly love. And who is also as good in bed as he ever claimed to be. Jerk. I don’t even know if I can bring myself to skate with him anymore. To see him, and want him, and know he wants me too? To be the person who looks happiness in the face and says, “No thanks, I’m good being paranoid and miserable,” not just once but every day.

  I need a break. I’m glad we’re not scheduled for the exhibition because I don’t think I could take it. Yes, I will show up for all of our press obligations, all of our sponsorship and endorsement meetings. Since Daphne reported Sabrina to the SIG organizers and they found a blade hidden in her skate bag and Todd sang like a canary when they questioned him, we’ve had even more attention than
the usual gold medal flutter. I would know.

  It’s one of the biggest scandals to rock figure skating, and once they’ve gone through all the formal procedures, it’s likely Sabrina will be banned from the SIGs, and also the international tournaments that are used as feeders. In short, her competitive career will be over. I try to feel some kind of sympathy for her, but I don’t. I do try to keep my responses in interviews measured, and Beckett’s the same because he was—is—livid.

  While I’d go home and sit on my couch for a week if I could, that’s not an option. I will pose for pictures, wave my hands, sign anything people throw at me, and march in the closing ceremony, but I’m going to do it all without giving in to my urges where Beckett is concerned.

  There’s a knock on the door of the bathroom where I’ve been hiding for the better part of a half hour.

  “Jubilee, you okay?”

  Aside from my ass going numb from sitting on the cold, hard tile? “Yep, I’m fine. Be out in a sec.”

  When I’d showed up last night at Daphne’s hotel room door with all my shit, she’d been surprised, but she hadn’t turned me away. I’ll be sleeping on her floor until we leave. It’s not comfortable, but it’s a hell of a lot less painful than having to share space and air with Beckett. He’d be charming, and persuasive, and good at banging, and I am a total badass, but still . . . there’s only so much one girl can be expected to take. That would be beyond the call of duty.

  “Cool. We should leave in about five minutes. Don’t want to be late for the Hour 25 interview.”

  No, we don’t. We would like to not go at all, but that not being an option . . . I push up from the floor, dust off the seat of my pants, and get my smile on before I swing open the door.

  Daphne takes one look at me and wrinkles her nose. “Save it for the cameras, Buford, I know you better than that.”

  Thank god, because my face was about to break alongside my heart.

  Beckett

  It’s been five days since Jubilee cleared out of our suite. Five days of seeing her for precious minutes before interviews and other obligations, having to watch her out of the corner of my eye and wonder how she’s doing while she’s putting on a mask for the people we’re talking to. Five fucking days of driving myself crazy, asking if there’s something else I could’ve done to make this turn out differently.

  What I was willing to do, she wouldn’t allow, and now that I’ve had more time to think about it, I wouldn’t have wanted to do it either. Talk about cause for resentment. Even if we ended up together, would we always wonder . . .

  Right now, I’m sitting under hot lights in the studio the TV channel’s thrown up like a pup tent, sweating my ass off. I feel like the makeup they applied must be dripping off my face. Jubilee of course, looks perfect. Sounds perfect, smiles perfectly, and I want to strip her bare of all that and make her tell me the truth. That yes, she wants me but she can’t do anything about it because she’s scared. That’s why she’s running away.

  Every time we’ve been together, she’s either scurried off before I could get a second or she’s given me the frozen perfect doll act. I don’t like it at all, and I can’t crack her. Or haven’t yet. I will, because I don’t give up. Not on the ice, and not when it’s come to anything else I’ve really wanted. Although what have I wanted more than I’ve wanted to skate and win a gold at the SIGs? What have I wanted more than I’ve wanted Jubilee Buford back in my arms, back in my bed? Whatever it is, it’s running a distant third.

  This time, though, I’ve got a plan. The closing ceremony is over, we’ve had our last official interview—in Denver, anyhow; we’ll probably have to go on morning shows or something in the coming weeks—so she’s got no place to rush off to.

  After we’ve wrapped another typical talk and the crew has stripped us of our microphones and other sound equipment, I run after Jubilee where she’s escaped off to a wing of the makeshift studio space. It’s a little hard on my ego that I have to run to keep up with her. She’s booking it but not looking like she’s trying to. It’s possible I should take the hint and leave her alone, but no one’s ever accused me taking a hint. Nope, pretty well have to spell shit out for me. And to be honest, probably have to do it twice, because I’m not the best speller.

  It’s dark in the hallway, narrower than I’d expect, but you learn pretty quick the only things that are glitz and glam on TV are the things they want you to see. Everything else is much more . . . functional. Plywood and linoleum and wires everywhere. This is where I’m going to try to talk a woman into loving me. Or, I’m hoping, admitting that she already does.

  “Jubilee, wait.”

  She doesn’t, but now I’m close enough to take hold of her arm. She’s really fucking strong, and can kick my ass at a lot of things, but brute strength isn’t one of them. I feel like kind of a brute, too, as I grab her, but I’m at a loss. I need to talk to her, and I don’t know how else to make that happen.

  As soon as I’ve got my hand wrapped around her biceps, she turns on me, whipping around so fast, her hair turns into a dark spiral. “Let go of me, Beckett.”

  There’s sickness burbling in my stomach, because I don’t like this either. I’m not that guy. I drop my grip, a prayer in my heart that she’s not going to run now that I’m not holding her fast. She doesn’t, though, just stands there, glaring at me and breathing hard.

  “What do you want?”

  Especially when we first started training together, Jubilee had a sharp tongue. I’ve gotten used to it, and when she realized it wouldn’t scare me away, she toned it down. Yes, she still says some shit, but so do I. It’s how we’re wired: to be competitive, to be harsh in the name of getting what we want so fucking badly. This, though, is different, and it slices at my heart.

  “I want to talk to you.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest and stands there with her hip cocked, glaring at me with hard eyes. “Well that’s too fucking bad because I don’t want to talk to you.”

  Okay then. That’s pretty direct, but—

  “I don’t want to talk to you, I don’t want to see you. I don’t want you to send me e-mails, or text messages, or presents, and I swear to god if you send me a singing telegram or some shit, I will tear the messenger limb from limb and send them to you in a box. I don’t want to have any contact with you whatsoever, so please leave me alone.”

  That doesn’t leave a whole lot of room for argument. I mean, I guess I could ask about the validity of smoke signals, but she’d probably use one of the nearby wires to strangle me. But she can’t mean this about all the time. Right?

  “Um, okay. But you’ll still have to see me at the rink. Can’t really be skating partners without, you know, looking at each other. I’m good, but it’s kind of important to look at you, say, during a triple twist lift. So, you’ll have to just deal with it then. But—”

  She shakes her head and looks at the floor. Her wiry arms that had looked defensive a minute ago now look protective, comforting, like she’s hurting and is afraid she’s about to hurt more. “No, Beckett. I can’t skate with you anymore.”

  There’s all kinds of noise in the studio, but I can hear her clearly. There’s no reason to ask what came out of her mouth, because I heard her. And yet. “What?”

  “You heard me, Beck.”

  Cool, just stick in a knife in my already bleeding heart. Just twist it and use it to pull it out of my chest, heft it in the air and let the blood run down your arm while I watch. I mean, fuck, that would be an awesome sequence in an action move and I’d totally watch it, but right now it sucks. If you’re going to tell me to fuck off and leave all this behind, at least don’t call me Beck while you’re doing it. Christ.

  “I heard you, I just don’t understand.”

  Her eyes flash at me, dark and shiny as she lifts her head just enough to see me. “What is there not to understand? I can’t skate with you anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “It doesn’t matter why
not. I just can’t.”

  “That’s ridiculous, and you know it. It took you months to find me. You think you’re going to find someone better? Who’s better suited to you? Who works as hard as I do? Who knows your body and your rhythms like I do? You honestly think you’re going to find someone who can make you as much of a contender as I have?”

  “I did it before.”

  My insides are going to be in ribbons by the time she’s through with me. If I were a different kind of man—less stubborn, less proud, maybe a better kind of man—I might fall to my knees and beg her to tell me I’m special. But despite having all the confidence in the world that I am in fact one of the best in the world at what I do, I also know I’m this good partially because Jubilee has always given me something to work with, against, and for. If some other guy had the raw ability and let her shape them like clay?

  “I guess you did.” And she could do it again, because she’s incredible.

  I’m ready to walk away, to be done with this, but before I can, I want her to hear me.

  “I don’t understand this, Jubilee. If you’re lucky enough to find someone to be your partner—and I’m not just talking about on the ice—why would you not grab that with both hands and hold on with everything you’ve got? Maybe I’m making stuff up, but I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure you love me and I’m damn sure I love you.”

  She flinches, which is not really the reaction a guy’s looking for when he says the L-word. “I don’t. Love you.”

  Her voice is halting, on the verge of breaking, because the girl is lying through her teeth. There’s not a damn thing for me to do about it, though. If she’s not ready, if she’s too afraid, then she is. Nothing I do or say is going to make a damn bit of difference until she’s ready. She works that way on the ice too. New skill she’s not ready for? She’ll wait. And wait. Put together the components, process it in her head, watch tapes of it on loop, skate right up to it and stop a thousand times. But you’re not going to get her to do it until she’s goddamn good and ready. Not like me who’ll try it straight out, fuck it up, fuck it up a thousand times more, and then finally get it right.