Page 22 of Fire on the Ice

“Whoa, Maisy, where are you going?”

That voice is familiar, but it also doesn’t compute. For one thing, Blaze is in her suite banging away at someone. Or someones. For another, there’s no way she could’ve made it up two flights of stairs without making enough of a racket that I wouldn’t have heard her and been relieved. That must have been some hardcore wallowing, because she’s standing right there, her hair looking damn fine. It’s a silly thing to find pride, pleasure in, but I do. She took the time to do her hair, make it look its very best.

But there’s still a piece of me that’s angry at her, even as her expression is open and guileless which is why my words are clipped. “I was going to see you.”

“Lucky you, you found me.” Her face lights up like it always does at the prospect of us indulging in some fun and games.

Right, lucky. I wanted to find her, and now she’s here. I should be happy, but instead, the feeling nags.

“Where were you?”

“Out with some friends. We caught some of the Nordic combined. You gotta love how bored those Scandinavians must’ve been to come up with that shit.”

“Right.” I’m trying to shift gears, but it’s proving to be difficult. It’s like waking up from a bad dream still convinced it happened.

“Are you okay?” Blaze is looking at me as though being out of sorts is some sort of crime. “Because you don’t look okay.”

That’s always nice to hear. Right up there with “You look tired,” or “You’d be prettier if you smiled.”

“No, I . . . I went up to your room and there was a sock on the door.”

Blaze’s wide face splits with her grin. “Nice. I wonder if Phoebe finally scored with that Israeli figure skater. He was really fucking hot and flirting with her, but she was all ‘I don’t know.’ I told her to go for it, and I think she took my advice.”

She claps and does a little shimmy, and if I weren’t still disconcerted, I’d probably find it adorable. “Yeah.”

Her delighted someone’s-getting-laid dance stops, and she puts her hands to her hips. “For realsies, you’re kinda freaking me out.”

“I thought it was you.” My voice is tight, accusing. I know it’s not fair, but I can’t help it.

Blaze’s head cocks like a puppy’s, and part of me wants to tousle her hair, but another part is thinking I shouldn’t be affectionate with her, because she’s going to break my heart. Temporary, this was temporary to start with, and if it ends a bit sooner than expected, then it does. It shouldn’t be paining me quite this much. Blaze looks equally stunned, though.

“You thought . . . you thought I was fucking someone else?”

“Yeah, I did. Are you trying to tell me that was a ridiculous thing to suspect?”

Any lingering curiosity on Blaze’s face vanishes, replaced by hot defensiveness. “It is, actually. I promised I wouldn’t fuck anyone but you while we’re here. I might have some issues with impulse control and I have no problem admitting I’ll take attention wherever I can get it, but it’s not as if I would’ve . . . oops!” She gestures like mad toward her crotch in a vulgar way that makes me cringe and flush. Please don’t let anyone decide to make use of this stairwell. “Fell on some dude’s dick or tripped and landed with my mouth on some chick’s cunt. What the hell? I’ve never cheated on a partner who’s asked for fidelity.”

I want to splutter something, but nothing comes out. My face gets hotter and probably redder, and Blaze’s eyes narrow, her nose wrinkling like a bunny’s. “Wait a second. Is this some shitty-ass bi-phobia? That I couldn’t possibly be satisfied with pussy forever because I also like dick and don’t I need both to survive? Or is this about me being promiscuous? I don’t even mind being called a slut because I don’t think having the kind of sex I want, who I want it with, whenever I want it, is anything to be ashamed of. I’m taking that word all the way back. But you . . .”

Yeah, the finger she pokes in my chest hurts, partly because, ow, the girl has a finger like the sharp end of a ski pole, but also because I don’t think she’s completely wrong and I’m ashamed of myself.Seriously, Maisy? You know better than that. It might be your first thought, but it definitely wouldn’t be your last. If anyone asked you, you’d tell them that was some bullshit.

“You’re so afraid of what you want and what you like that you’re going to dump that shit on me? I don’t fucking think so. Get out of here, and go back to your frosty ice queen palace if you’re going to come at me with that. No, no, no.”

Fuck.

She tries to shove past me, and part of me wants to let her go because I’m not really down for a physical altercation in a hallway, but also we’re on stairs—if you’re going to have a fight, a staircase is not the place to do it. Everyone knows that. Unless you’re in an action or spy movie, in which case it’s a bonus feature. For athletes, though? It’s basically inviting a broken ankle or worse.

So I stand on my step, squeeze my eyes closed, and clench my fists. “Blaze. Please, wait.”

Her angry stomping stops, but she’s breathing hard and I know it’s not from exertion. She could run stairs for a good long while before getting winded. That’s how upset she is by what I said and I feel even worse. Her snapped-out words don’t make me feel any better. “For what? So you can tell me I’m a whore who’s going to hell and that I should learn how to keep my legs closed? Because I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime, thanks.”

A seam of sympathy rips open inside me, and I wouldn’t be surprised if my guts spilled right out onto the floor. It takes me a second to get my own breath because I’m choked with regret. I’m doing the same thing to her as has been done to me. As has probably been done to her, said to her, for her whole life. I wouldn’t have thought she was so bothered by it, but maybe she puts on a good show? Or maybe it doesn’t matter if it’s some rando on the street but it matters when it’s me? The thought is alternately horrifying and exhilarating.

“No. I was going to say that I owe you an apology. You’re right. Not about the bi thing, but the . . . the . . . the other thing.”

I know she doesn’t think of “slut” as an offensive word, but if someone called me that, I wouldn’t be proud, and she knows it. I don’t want to use it and have her think that’s the way I’m applying it to her.

“I did think, when I saw the sock on the door, that it was you, because you do sleep with a lot of people. And maybe you’d gotten tired of me so you decided to fuck someone else, and would maybe tell me later if at all. I don’t think I would’ve jumped to that conclusion if you . . .” I trail off because I don’t quite know how to phrase this without making it worse.

---