Page 26 of Fire on the Ice

Blaze

Maisy tastes as sweet as she ever does, but I don’t get to enjoy it for long, because she’s shoving me in the pecs, and staring at me, chest heaving and eyes blazing. “What was that?”

I open my mouth to answer her, to placate her that it’s not really a big deal, and I got caught up in the moment, and who cares about two girls kissing when people won medals or didn’t, and no one’s going to care, even though I know that to be untrue. Which makes me queasy, because I didn’t totally think this through. In fact, avoided thinking this through because I wanted something.

Also, she’s noticed that I took off my hat. I might have been able to get away with the “got caught up in the moment” excuse if it weren’t for that, but I needed for Yancey to see me. See us. He had—is in fact the reason why I moved us closer to the nets—but I wanted to be recognizable in the photos. Otherwise, what the hell good does this do me at all?

“You . . .”

Maisy doesn’t even finish her sentence, but gives me a look like she’d like to stab me with her toe pick. I would so rather that be a euphemism for an incredibly filthy sex act than a way to murder someone. Better luck next time.

It’s not even close to silent because people are still cheering, but it feels as though there’s a bubble around us, in which no sound is penetrating. All I can hear is the rabbit-quick thump of my own heart, up against the pounding deep echo of Maisy’s. Almost like a throb, it hurts me.

“I didn’t—”

“Don’t even give me that, Blaze. I don’t know what your game is, but you absolutely did that on purpose. If you hadn’t, you would have kept your damn hat on. What, you didn’t want to take mine, too? Why didn’t you wear your team gear if you were going to give yourself away anyhow? Doing that behind the medalists? What the fuck? Even if they didn’t mean to capture it, you can bet that we’re making the press somewhere tonight, and I can’t fucking believe you.”

Her look of betrayal stabs me right in the soul, even as I try to make my excuses. “Mais, it’s not a big deal.”

Which it shouldn’t be. I wish it weren’t. On a small, personal scale, I wish this person who I admire and respect and yeah, have more than a passing interest in, unlike most of my bed partners, liked me well enough to tell the world. As it is, she’s made me feel as if I’m something to be ashamed of. Like all those people I’ve fucked. It’s a game, and somehow I’m the slut even though we were both involved? How does that even work? On a larger scale, I’d like her to stand up in front of everyone and shout, “I’m here, I’m queer, get used to it. I want things, I deserve things, and this loud-mouthed redhead is what I want.”

Pretty Maisy Harper doesn’t look like a dyke. I mean, she obviously does, because she likes the ladies, but how can she be so complicit in homophobia that she lets the fuckers win? I get it coming from athletes in really conservative countries where people can still go to jail for being gay—hell, even I might keep my mouth shut there, who am I to say?—but she’s Canadian for god’s sake.

“Did it ever occur to you for once in your goddamn life that it’s not all about how you feel? It’s not all about you, Blaze. I know you’d like for it to be, have a camera crew follow you around and putting on some reality TV show all about you, but not all of us feel that way. I want to skate, and I want to live the rest of my life in peace and quiet, and you are intent on taking that from me.” Maisy’s so mad I can see her chest heaving even underneath her parka. “From the minute you kissed me in that bar, you’ve wanted to be more public about this than I have. Newsflash: I have other things to worry about and so do you. We’re done here. Like super done, completely over. Feel free to fuck whomever you’ve had your eye on for the past couple of weeks because we both know it hasn’t always been me.”

Maisy

Freaking out is not a strong enough term for what I’m doing right now. I basically left Blaze in my dust back at snowboard cross. I could not get out of there fast enough and now I’m sitting on a bus trying not to vomit because A, I’m on a bus and I get carsick in big vehicles, B, I am likely going to be plastered all over social media soon and then fucking hear about it from my parents, and C, someone I’ve trusted with the most delicate parts of myself has betrayed me.

I thought Blaze understood, but she didn’t. Doesn’t. I’ve done my best to be understanding and respectful of her, and yet she hasn’t done the same for me. As if her wants and needs have more weight than mine. As if because she’s the one who feels as though she’s fighting against the patriarchy, my feelings don’t matter.

The bus is noisy and crowded, and I shrink in my seat, trying to ignore everyone and everything, wrapping my arms around my stomach and taking deep breaths in the hopes that I can at least avoid the indignity of tossing my cookies on a bus. I have hopes that because I’m by myself, no one will recognize me. Just another tourist coming back from the mountain. Nothing, no one worth seeing here.

I’d like to close my eyes, and when I open them, be at the arena. Skate my short and free programs in a row and head to the airport straight after. Fuck the exhibition, and everything else. I don’t even want to skate that routine anymore. I want to do my job, and then tuck myself away to maybe do this one more time before I really can’t anymore. Is toiling in relative obscurity until someone better comes along or an injury ends my career really too much to ask?

Blaze would say yes, that my dreams are too small, that I ought to make them bigger. That the only reason I want privacy and peace is because someone told me to. I don’t totally agree with her—some people are shy and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that—but even if she’s right about it being due entirely to outside forces, it’s still what I want, so why shouldn’t I have it? Hell, she should have whatever she wants, as long as it doesn’t involve me or someone else who’s unwilling.

I’m so frustrated I want to kick the back of the seat in front of me, but not only would that draw attention I don’t want, but it would also be really effing rude. So I won’t, but I feel the want burning inside and douse it. Blaze has set my house afire enough for one day.

It’s a long ride back to the village, and it makes me grateful that my venue is so close. I’ve resisted up until this point looking at my phone because I don’t want to see it if Blaze has tried to contact me, but I’m curious and not made of steel. I suspect that if someone picked up on our kiss, it would’ve made social media by now. Maybe someplace likeCelebrinews,even if the more reputable places are passing it over in favor of, I don’t know,actualnews.

How great would it be if Blaze were right? If no one had captured it, if it turned out not to be a big deal? My anger would still be justified, but at least my whole world wouldn’t be on fire. It’s not a good idea, but I can’t seem to stop myself from opening a browser and doing a search for my name. For the split second before the results come up, I have a crumb of hope that it’s not that bad. A crumb that is swept away with the harsh broom of reality, because there are motherfucking headlines, and they don’t have anything to do with my skating.

The first two read “Across the Border Romance?” and “Is America’s Girl Gone Wild Shagging Canada’s Ice Princess?” Thanks,Celebrinews,I could’ve done without millions of people seeing that headline. Forget my skating that I’ve worked so goddamn hard at my whole life, keeping my head down, and trying not to ask for too much, just this one thing. A kiss with another woman that’s going to blow up my relationship with my parents is how I’m going down in history, and I have Blaze goddamn Bellamy to thank for it.

Chapter Eleven

Maisy

I should be there. And if she hadn’t pulled that stunt at the snowboard cross final, I would be. God, I am so angry at her. And yet here I am, parked on my bed with my laptop cracked open and my headphones on so I can watch Blaze in relative peace. Yes, Kristie is over in her bed canoodling with that American men’s luger she’s taken up with, but I’m finding it hard to care.

What I care far more about is watching these damn 1,500-meter heats. Short track speed skaters are a crazy bunch. It’s such a strange sport that depends so directly on other people not fucking up. Like if someone wrecks in front of you, and you go down with them, well, too bad. My placing certainly depends on other people’s performances, but it’s not as if we’re playing sequin-and crystal-covered bumper cars on the rink. This is madness.

Every time someone hits the boards, I wince. They’re padded, but that doesn’t do a damn thing. People still get concussions and broken bones . . . regularly. The heats are maddening to watch, but as furious as I am with her, I’ve watched from the beginning because I didn’t want to miss seeing her.

There are five skaters in her heat, and one by one their names get called. They wave to the crowd and smile, the camera capturing their hometown crowds, people waving their country’s flags and homemade signs. Wow are my parents not those people.

Blaze is of course the last one to get called, and she gives that big grin, that mouth that’s worked goddamn magic between my legs, and now she’s using it to blow kisses to the crowds. She’s outright beaming, her smile so bright I almost have to look away even through the screen. I don’t. As painful as it is, I still want to watch her, see her do well, get what she’s after. She had some bad luck in her other events, and I’m hoping this one won’t be a repeat. She’s favored in the longer events because the girl has stamina—hell can I hear her making a that’s-what-she-said joke right now—and this is her shot.

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