Page 2 of On the Brink of Passion

I put my hands on my hips, daring Beckett to argue with me. He might be as much of a fusspot on the ice as I am, which is great. A driven, pedantic stickler? Yes, please. We’re very well-matched in that regard, because even in a sport where everyone’s a perfectionist, Beckett and I eat, sleep, and breathe flawlessness in a way that’s too much for anyone else. On the ice, yes, but off the ice, he tends to be more flexible than I am. More naturally personable, carefree. We’re for damn sure not on the ice now. This is my refuge from the competition, and from everything that reminds me so much of Stephen.

It’s not that Denver is so similar to Sapporo, or really alike in any except the most basic ways that all SIG towns are, but god, it still feels like I have a ghost on my arm everywhere I go. Sometimes it’s nice to have that voice whispering in my ear—it can be the only thing that gets me through the day or a really rough practice, but sometimes it just . . . hurts.

And here’s Beckett, looking around like he’s never been in a girl’s room before. I know that’s not true because he has a good time with women when we’re on the road. It makes me want to hide my more personal items nonetheless. I don’t think he’s been dating since he moved to Boston to skate with me, but he has a reputation as a ladies’ man and I’m not any fucking lady. I’m his partner and I really don’t need him seeing anything but my hard on-ice edges.

“Yeah, well, this is my room too. This is the room they assigned me. My keycard opened the door.”

He waves a crumpled letter he’s pulled from his duffel bag at me, and I don’t want to touch that. Who the fuck knows where it’s been. It does, however, have the distinctive SIG seal on it, and I can’t deny that his keycard did, in fact, unlock the door. But fuck if he’s staying here. I may be willing to cut a bitch who tries to snatch him away to skate with, but otherwise, the rest of the word can have him.

“Maybe it’s the room they assigned you, but they’re going to assign you a different one.”

I try not to be a precious princess—can’t be with the kind of bruises I get on the regular or the way I sweat every damn day—but occasionally my inner diva comes out, and this is going to be one of those times.

I am not going to be able to make it through this month without crying at least a few times, and Beckett doesn’t need to know I have feelings. He also doesn’t need to know about my fuzzy bunny slippers or my cutesy pajamas or my sleeping mask with the eyelashes on it. I don’t know that they help keep the dreams of Stephen away, and I don’t know that I’d want them to, but the whole fluffy, adorable package makes going to bed more appealing. Let me indulge in those silly, comforting things without being mocked by the man I have to be handled by eight hours a day. All he needs to know is that I can skate.

Before he can protest, I yank my cell out of my pocket and call our coach, Daphne. She’ll fix this. She fixes everything.

Daphne doesn’t even bother with a hello because she never does. Knows I won’t either. “You finished feathering your nest?”

“Yes, I am, and now I’ve got a cuckoo here.”

“Hey, who are you calling a—”

I shush Beckett verbally and with a death stare, which makes his eyes pop wide.

“What do you mean a cuckoo? There’s someone else there?”

I pace away from Beckett’s open mouth. “Yes. Beckett is here with a working keycard and a letter that says this is his room. I don’t know what the hell happened, and I don’t care. Just get this fixed, Daphne. I don’t give a shit how. I’ll wait for your call.”

It’s times like these I’m sad that landlines aren’t a thing anymore. A handset crashing into its cradle would’ve been so satisfying, and yet all I can do is press my screen hard. Not enough of an outlet for my displeasure, not at all. When I turn back to Beckett with my arms crossed, he’s just staring.

“Did you just call me a cuckoo?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well that seems harsh.” Oh, pouty Beckett. This is new. I wouldn’t say I like it, but it is entertaining. He’s like a puppy who didn’t get a treat after performing its latest trick. With his curly, fluffy mop of blond hair, he’d be a goldendoodle or something. “You don’t need to call me crazy and stupid. At least not to my face.”

I roll my eyes because I can’t even help it. Whoever Beckett’s tutors were while he was coming up through the skating world did not do a good enough job. “I wasn’t calling you crazy or stupid. I was calling you a parasite. Cuckoos lay their eggs in other birds’ nests, and when their eggs hatch, the babies roll the nest owners’ eggs out. Little bastards.”

“I don’t think a parasite is much better than stupid.”

“It’s not, but it’s more accurate.”

Beckett’s blond brows scrunch in the middle, and I want to tell him to knock it off, because makeup can only hide creases that are so deep. Also, I’ve already expended more energy on this than I’d care to and I’m done. I’d like to get back to stretching. Maybe he could go hang out in one of the common lounges until this gets worked out? Or the gym? The village bar? Basically anywhere but here because I’d like some peace and quiet in which to get my emotionally fragile state under control.

“Anyway, don’t bother unpacking. I’m sure Daphne will be calling back any minute to straighten this out. And there’s no need for you—”

Looking me straight in the eye, Beckett drops his duffel in the middle of the floor and plops himself on the second bed.

“—to settle in.” Fucker.

“Look, I’ve just spent a bunch of hours in transit. I wasn’t flying first class like you, so it wasn’t pleasant. All I want is to—”

“No.No.Beckett Donovan Hughes, I swear on all that is holy if you lie on that bed—”

Then he does it. Swings his long, powerful, denim-clad legs up onto the bed, and drops his curl-covered head back onto the pillows. And then has the nerve to sigh like he just kicked back on a lounge chair by a pool at some tropical resort. Oh hell no.

Irritation is bubbling up through my body, and pretty soon it’s going to spill out my ears. Patience for some things I have in spades, like learning a new jump or lift or spin, sewing crystals or sequins that have come loose back onto my costumes, or getting choreography just right—but people invading my personal space isnotsomething I tolerate.

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