Page 15 of On the Brink of Passion

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 wholeanything-you-can-do-I-can-do-betterangle? 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. Ican.”

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 watchTangledfor 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.”

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