Page 24 of Fire on the Ice

“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 orSports 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.

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