On the Brink of Passion--Snow & Ice Games Page 7
I complain about his snoring, but really he doesn’t do it all night. I kind of wished he would, because I’m only 75% certain he didn’t hear me the other day. As things are, I curl up under my own sheets, facing away from him, trying to slow my racing mind so I can sleep. It’s utterly ridiculous that I find myself wishing I was back in Beckett’s bed because maybe it would be easier to fall asleep with his arms around me. It’s easier to fall with him catching me everywhere else.
Chapter Seven
Beckett
Yesterday was the Opening Ceremony, aka the Meat Market. It’s not as fun when you already know who you’re going to be fucking for the next couple of weeks, and it’s way less fun when that person is someone who doesn’t want to have sex with you. At all. Wow should I have not made that deal with the she-devil. I mean, between those Italian slalom skiers, the South Korean speed skaters, and the Swiss lugers? Jesus, I could be having a fantastic couple of weeks.
Instead, every couple of days of the two weeks we’ve been here already, Jubilee and I have had very awkward sex. It’s not bad, per se, but it’s demoralizing nonetheless. I kind of get the feeling that if she’d let me in, we could make it really good. That maybe she wants to, but she won’t. I’ve caught her a few times, tiny sounds or small movements that make me think she has more feelings about this than she’s letting on, but never once has she asked me for anything, not a single time has she asked that I touch her. So I don’t.
In some ways, it’s frustrating. I could be having some crazy bendy monkey sex with someone who actually wants me, who would allow me to give them pleasure and not in the grudging way the Ice Princess permits. But in some ways it’s almost . . . nice? No, “nice” isn’t the word. It’s maddening as hell. Like banging my head up against a brick wall that shows the barest hints of wanting to come down but won’t actually crack. But maybe, if I just keep at it . . .
Also, while living with Jubilee, I’ve learned some things about her. She’s a stickler for her dental hygiene (not a surprise), she has a regimented schedule that she follows to the minute and it exhausts her to keep her shit together when a day doesn’t go as planned (the scheduling not a surprise, but the effect it going awry has on her is a bit), and last but definitely not least, my Ice Princess wears soft cutesy pajamas to bed and has literal bunny slippers. Those things, I did not see coming. Makes her seem like more of a person, less of a machine, and boy must she hate that. But curiously, not enough to hide them. Nope, she very studiously pulls on the flannel pants and sometimes a matching button-up shirt or coordinating tee, and looks like she’s strapping on armor instead of putting on Beauty and the Beast pajamas, or god help me, once a set of Care Bear footie pajamas. I almost died.
I’ve also seen exactly how little she interacts with the other athletes. I don’t talk to them a ton myself, but she seems to actively avoid them. Sabrina and Todd I don’t blame her for because they give us the stink eye whenever we cross paths in the arena or at team meetings, and there was that whole episode at the gym I’d rather not repeat, but the rest of Team USA and a lot of the international teams are pretty cool.
Which is why I’m trying to pry her out of our suite tonight. To try to make her enjoy some of the perks of being a SIG athlete instead of just being the get-off-my-lawn crank who gets mad even when, honestly, there’s no more noise than your average hotel, and far less than a college dorm. She needs to loosen up, maybe have some fun. And since she’s helped me, I’ll do my best to help her. Whether she likes it or not.
“Come on, Jubilee. Juju? Does anyone ever call you Juju?”
She shoots me a dark look from across the suite where she’s sitting on the floor doing stretches. Like she hasn’t already spent hours stretching today. “Not if they want to live.”
“What about Julie?” Jubilee is a mouthful, though I guess I should just be grateful she doesn’t insist on going by Jubilation Lee. Were her parents so very convinced they were going to have a pageant queen on their hands? Jubilee’s a lot of things, but pageant queen isn’t one of them. I mean, technically she was born in Texas, but she moved up to Boston to be with her skating coach, and she seems to fit in way better with those frosty New Englanders than I can imagine she’d do as the perfect Southern belle.
She tilts her head in a way that somehow indicates her complete and utter willingness to murder me. I don’t know how she does that—maybe it’s a talent gleaned from skating. After all, we have to at least make the audience believe we’re feeling something even though we’re gliding past them in a blink. No on the Julie, then.
“What do you want, Beckett?”
“I want to go out. Have fun.” She blinks at me like this is crazy talk. It’s not, which is why I start gesturing with my hands. “You know, be young, fit, attractive. I want to go to a goddamn bar and have women flirt with me, and I want to have a couple of beers.”
With that look she used the first time we met, like she wasn’t sure I was fit to be stuck to the sole of her shoe, she sizes me up. “You’re going to drink?”
“Christ, yes. I’m going to have a couple of drinks, okay? They’ll be long gone from my system by tomorrow, never mind by the time we’re competing. Scout’s honor.”
Her expression is, if anything, more dubious.
“Well, I don’t like it, but I can’t stop you. Be quiet when you come back so you don’t wake me up.”
With that pronouncement, she folds fully over her extended leg, touching her nose easily to her knee, and wrapping her slim, elegant fingers around the arch of her foot. It’s lovely and gives me some ideas I shouldn’t be having about what kind of sex we could be having if she actually, you know, wanted to be having sex with me instead of lying there in her missionary, disengaged, think-of-the-Gold position.
“Why don’t you come with me?” You could use a drink or eight to loosen up.
“No, thank you,” comes the muffled reply.
“Please? It’ll be fun, and then you won’t have to worry about me waking you up when I get back. Also, you could make sure I keep on the straight and narrow with my two beers instead of getting shitfaced and bringing home some girl.”
Jubilee straightens up, gives me another death glare before she leans over her opposite leg. “If you’re concerned about your ability to behave responsibly, then perhaps you shouldn’t go. You’re a grown man. I shouldn’t have to tag after you like your governess to make sure you don’t do anything inadvisable.”
It’s possible the kinky side of me gets a little aroused by the idea of Jubilee masquerading as a strict governess and rapping my knuckles with a ruler whenever I mess up, but that’s neither here nor there. Nope, not here nor there, just really in my pants.
Whatever. Clearly this line of coaxing and gentle persuasion isn’t going to work. She doesn’t seem to be going for the save-me-from-myself thing either. That was always useful with my ex, Felicia, who seemed pretty convinced that given the chance I’d get down and dirty with some guy. Which got old pretty fast. I mean, yes, I’m a figure skater, but I happen to be a straight figure skater. Even if I were bi, I’m pretty well built for fidelity. Liking men and women has nothing to do with whether you’re inclined to be unfaithful. I should’ve dropped her the first time she brought that up, but people don’t always make good decisions, and I stayed with her until I just couldn’t take her criticisms and insinuations anymore.
Jubilee on the other hand has never questioned my sexuality, which is probably because she doesn’t give a shit, but at least she didn’t act surprised when I said I liked women. But if those things are not going to get her to come out and have a little fun, what will?
That’s when it comes to me, because while I’m not the smartest guy, I do sometimes hit the nail on the head. Also, it’s worked before. You want Jubilee to do something? Tell her she can’t, put her pride on the line.
“Cool, then. I’ll go out and have some fun. If you’re worried that you can’t even handle a couple of hours at a bar because it wil
l ‘affect your performance,’ I get that. You’re probably right.”
Jubilee’s head turns from facing her kneecap to facing me and by the way her eyes have narrowed, I know I’m on the right track. Gotcha.
“You think I can’t ‘handle’ going out?”
I make an exaggerated shrug. “I mean, it kinda seems that way. And hey, I get it. You’ve got your whole rigid routine thing going and that seems to work for you. So even if our competition is over a week away, your delicate constitution might not recover.”
Yep, I blink my baby blues nice and wide, knowing that’ll poke at her temper, her pride. That’s what I should’ve gone for in the first place. That whole anything - you - can - do - I - can - do - better angle? Jubilee’s such a sucker for it. And why shouldn’t she be? Basically 99.99% of the time, that is true. I mean, sure, I can do the lifts but she’s a far better skater than I am and her flexibility makes me look like a tree trunk by comparison.
“I am not . . . rigid.”
Says the woman whose back is straight as a board as she sits up to take me head on. “Sure you’re not, sweetheart.”
And we’ve reached the scowling portion of the program, right on schedule.
Jubilee does some sick gymnastic magic to come to her feet, shakes out her legs before putting one hand on her hip and using the other to jab a pointy finger toward my face. “Don’t call me ‘sweetheart.’ I am not some delicate fucking flower. I train just as hard as you do, I have more stamina in my pinky than you have in that big old blocky body of yours, and I can be flexible. I can.”
I hold up my hands in fake surrender, because I know who really just won here—it was me. I never win with Jubilee, and it’s making me a little giddy. “Okay then. Maybe change into something that doesn’t belong in a rag pile and we can go.”
She opens her mouth, probably to eviscerate my own fashion choices, but then snaps it shut and turns on her heel to head toward the closet.
Jubilee
How could I have let Beckett talk me into this? More like goad. Ugh. I could even see it as it was happening. He was doing it on purpose and smirking like he thought he was so freaking clever for tricking me into this. The stupid thing is I knew what he was doing, and he got me to do it anyway. Sometimes being stubborn in the face of any challenge that gets thrown at me has been advantageous. I’m in Denver, a legit medal contender after only having skated with Beckett for a couple of years. Not just anyone could do that.
And yet, I’m also here, in this stupid bar, with a virgin daiquiri of all things in my hand because it’s been such a long time since I’ve been in a bar I couldn’t remember anything else to order. I’m also here at this high-top table fending off idiots who keep trying to hit on me, watching while Beckett chats, dances, and drinks. Though he’s kept his word, I’ll give him that—he’s still on his first drink. He is having fun, and I am . . . not.
He can blame it on me being rigid all he wants, but really this just isn’t my scene. I’d rather go back to our room, put on my ballerina pajamas and my bunny slippers and watch Tangled for the millionth time. I could even be flexible about what we watched. We? Why is my brain inserting Beckett into my hermit fantasies? Me, my laptop, and my bunny slippers, that’s all I need. No Beckett with his ridiculous hair that would probably block my view of the movie, or him hogging all the popcorn and taking up all the room on the bed, or him asking me questions during the movie. No him trying to cuddle up to me, which would inevitably lead to the sex which is getting more and more difficult for me not to enjoy. Or even pretend not to enjoy.
No Beckett at all.
Maybe that’s what I should do. Pack it in because I feel ridiculous here in my jeans and my low-cut sweater and my boots with the fur on top. I clearly look okay because Beckett had looked a little off his game once I came out of the bathroom from doing my hair and my makeup, like he didn’t quite know what to say, and that guy can rarely keep his mouth shut. Also these randos who have been coming up to me and trying to buy me a drink or get in my pants. I want to ask if they know who I am, or tell them I have someone to fuck already, but I don’t. Yep, home it is.
I gather up my scarf and my coat and my purse and push my way through the crowd. It’s a plus to be petite in pairs skating—helps your partner toss you around easier, for one—but in most life situations, it’s not helpful. Like in a crowded bar. Luckily I have sharp elbows and I’m not afraid to use them.
Finally I make it to the table where Beckett’s surrounded by a bunch of swoony girls and some equally smitten dudes, and he’s flirting his ass off, telling them some story about how during a practice with his childhood partner, she totally sliced his face open with her skate blade. That’s true. I’ve seen the scar that cuts a pale path through his dirty-blond brow and gets perilously close to his eye.
She could’ve fucking blinded him, and I want to yell at the people fawning over him. Don’t they realize what could’ve happened? We could’ve lost one of the finest and hardest-working skaters on the ice today because his partner was careless and reckless, and wasn’t worthy of skating with him. He deserved so much better. Good thing he’s mine now; I would never imperil Beckett’s body or his livelihood like that.
A feeling of possessiveness washes over me. It’s . . . uncomfortable. And illogical. Except it’s not, I suppose. He’s my partner, and I don’t want to see him tire himself out too much and jeopardize our chances next week. Yes, that explains why I feel a particularly acute lurching sensation in my stomach when the woman standing next to him puts a hand on his forearm, leans in and whispers something to him, and after he nods, calls over a waitress, presumably to order Beckett another drink.
It’s loud in here, so I go around to his side of the table, nudge my way through until I’m next to him, and wrap my own hand around his biceps. It’s startling, the intimacy of it. I touch him all the time during practice. Hell, our bodies end up pressed together in all sorts of ways, and his head ends up on my crotch on a regular basis. And dammit, we’re screwing on the regular now. It doesn’t make any sense at all that this innocent touch—over his sweater, even!—would send a pulse of something through me. Maybe it’s just that it mirrors how the woman on the other side of him is now clinging to him.
He gives me his attention immediately, his head turning so fast, it sends his curls into a whirling halo. “Hey. You having a good time? This was a good idea, right?”
Oh, Beckett. He’s such a puppy dog. Of course he’s having fun. I won’t be the evil bitch with a heart of ice to make him feel bad about it. Not tonight. He pulls this the night before we have to skate our first program and I’ll garrote him with my skate laces when it’s over, but for now he can enjoy.
“Sure. But I’m going to head back. I’ll see you later, okay?”
I try to plaster a smile onto my face, but he must recognize it as fake. He would, given that he’s seen it so many times in competition and in practice.
“You aren’t having fun.” It’s not even a question.
“It doesn’t matter.” I shrug, and try to make my smile more genuine, but it’s hard. I don’t really remember how. “You should stay and have a good time. It was nice of you to invite me.”
Which it was. He didn’t have to, and he was trying to be kind. The least I can do is leave him alone to enjoy his good time.
Sometimes when we’re learning new choreography or trying a new jump for the first time, Beckett will get frustrated. He’ll lose his temper and then need a few minutes to cool off. But once he’s blown his top, he settles quickly and gets this determined look on his face. That’s the look he’s getting now. Somehow I think my plan for a quick and easy exit is not going to work out. I should’ve texted him when I was back safe in our suite, where he wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.
“You aren’t leaving here until I know you’ve had at least sixty seconds of fun.”
Putting a hand on my hip, I give him my best raised-eyebrow look. “And how do you propo
se to do that? I mean, score the fact that I’m having fun. It’s not like the ISU wrote a guide on that.”
No, just the extremely detailed Code of Points that will be determining where on the podium we’ll stand in a little over a week, or if in fact we stand there at all. It’s better in some ways then the old school perfect six-point-oh which was notoriously easy to tamper with, but is also still imperfect, and tends to reward people who go for big-point components and don’t quite nail them over competitors who stick to lower point value elements but nail them.
A big grin breaks out on Beckett’s face, making his cheeks round and his mouth open so I can see his perfect teeth. “Was that a joke? You made a joke. I like it.”
I should punch him for making me sound so humorless and terrible, especially in front of all these people. The truth is that the smile on his face makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside, and I’d forgotten we were in a crowded bar surrounded by people who are fawning all over him.
“Well, I’m glad to have entertained you, but seriously, Beck . . .” I trail off, and look longingly toward the door.
“Okay, okay, don’t want you to turn into a pumpkin or anything, but . . .” Beckett looks around, as though he’s trying to find something in this godforsaken place to tempt me. He won’t be able to. His gaze lands somewhere beyond my shoulder though and he gets that look on his face again, the one that’s as good as a lightbulb over his head. “Give me one dance. That’s all I ask.”
Well, fuck.
Beckett
She’s thinking about it, I can tell. The way she presses her lips together between her teeth and looks up and to the side. She wants to say yes, but if she lets herself think about it too much, she won’t. I know she won’t. But she deserves to have a few minutes of fun. She works so goddamn hard. I do, too, but at least I know how to blow off some steam every now and then. Jubilee is like a water heater that has its outlet blocked. It’s amazing she hasn’t blown.