Page 16 of Fire on the Ice

“That’ll do. My place or yours?”

“Mine. Phoebe texted me to say she’d be out for a while. You know, in case I wanted to make use of the room. For shenanigans. Shenanigans is code for sex, by the way. You get that, right? Fucking, banging, screwing, riding the O train—”

I cover my ears in hopes that I won’t be able to hear her sex euphemisms anymore, but of course, she’s so fucking loud, I can still hear her. “Oh my god, stop, please! You’re killing me.”

“I don’t get it, Mais. You’re at least as filthy in bed as I am, and yet, I say some dirty words, and your face gets red like a tomato.”

I know, I know. It’s ridiculous. And yet as much as I can shrug off the sex-shamey stuff in private, I have a much harder time in public, and saying it out loud? Caught up in the moment, yeah, but out here? Ties me up in knots. I don’t want to stop her from doing it—hell, I want her to shout dirty things from the rooftop if she feels like it, because she ought to, I just . . . don’t want to be around when she does it. Or maybe in the audience, knowing I’m going to get in her pants afterward, but having that be our little secret. Yes, that would be best of all. “Yep, that’s how things are. Can I shower first and meet you back there? Or you could wait. It won’t be long.”

The corner of her mouth draws up again in that nefarious smile. “I’ve got a better idea.”

Of course she does, and I can’t wait to find out what it is.

First, though, we have to get to her suite. The walk isn’t super long, and that’s what it is—a walk. It’s not as though we have to catch a bus like the athletes who have events in the mountains. The village is a hop, skip, and a security gate away from the arenas.

While I wouldn’t mind walking in silence, that is not on Blaze’s agenda.

“So what was that? What you were doing?”

“Um, skating?” I know what she’s getting at and I don’t particularly want to talk about it.

“Yeah, but the music. Was that one of your programs or something else?”

“How much did you see?”

Obviously, she was there at the end, but I don’t know how long she was standing there. Did she see everything? The tips of my ears start to burn even in the cold. Not that she would object, but it’s not . . . it’s not for her. Not yet.

“Not much. Not enough. You looked amazing for the part I did see, though.”

She bumps my shoulder with hers. It makes me feel warm at the same time I’m the teensiest bit mortified.

“You looked like you were having fun, too. Not like most of the times I’ve seen you.”

Wait, what? I almost stop in my tracks, but manage not to, with a small stutter in my step. “What do you mean, all the times you’ve seen me? You been stalking me, Bellamy?”

It’s her turn to get a little awkward, for once. She gets exaggeratedly defensive. “Nooo.”

I keep walking, but I look up at her in question without turning my head much. A silentOh, really?

“What? I haven’t been. I don’t have time for that. But I have seen you skate. On the internets.”

There’s that flush of pleasure again. Not that it’s hard to type my name into a search bar and come up with a dozen different clips from competitions, but . . . she did that. How many times has she watched me skate? What did she think? Did she sit there in awe through entire programs? Or did she only watch long enough to remember the shape of me so she could get herself off? Either way I’m flattered. “Oh?”

“Yeah, and . . .” Her brow furrows, and it’s not a good look for her. I mean, she’s still probably the dead sexiest woman on the planet, but Blaze isn’t hesitant, she’s not unsure. “Never mind.”

“Oh no, you don’t. Tell me.”

She shoves her hands into her pockets and huffs, her breath a frozen white cloud in the frigid air. “You didn’t look . . . happy.”

All the clement pleasure that’s been curling in my chest—and let’s face it, lower—evaporates, and gets replaced by a spiky misgiving. “I don’t have to be happy.”

No, happiness, joy, elation, none of that matters. Delight doesn’t rack up the points. Technical brilliance and elegance are what earns you a good score. Not actually enjoying what you’re doing, as long as you put on a good face about it.

“I guess not. But that’s the weird thing. When I saw you, just now? You looked like skating was your favorite thing on the face of the earth. Like you relished it. And it was awesome. You were awesome.”

It’s a compliment and a curse all wrapped up into one. So I was great . . . at a routine that could never earn me a medal, that many if not all of the judges would find insulting, that my parents would murder me for. Cool. I mutter a thanks, but I don’t mean it. I feel shitty and awkward and out of sorts because it’s not like I didn’t know that, but I don’t like that it’s true, and I’d rather not think about it. Fuck Blaze Bellamy for not letting me keep that icy little ball of angst and discontent to myself. I don’t want to talk about it. But knowing Blaze, if I don’t fill the space with something, she will.

But it’s as good a time to ask her about something that I’ve been curious about anyhow. “So, in thatMaxOutarticle . . .”

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