Page 26 of On the Brink of Passion

Beckett

“I trust you with my life every damn day, isn’t that enough?”

“No.” If only. “I want you to trust me with your heart.”

Jubilee looks like I’ve stabbed her. She clutches the space over her heart, and turns so pale I could swear her blood is rushing out of her body. I half-expect her to faint, and I’m ready to close the gap between us to catch her if she falls.

“I can’t. You don’t understand, what it’s like. When Stephen died, I lost everything. Everything. I lost my partner who I’d been skating with for twenty years. I lost the man I’d been with for ten. And not only that, but I had to deal with an injury at the same time. One that could’ve ended my career. And then what would I have had left? Really nothing. At least I could keep skating. All I wanted from you was a body.”

Well there’s a gut punch.

She must see the look on my face, how much that hurts, because she starts to backpedal. “Beckett, I didn’t mean—You’re a brilliant skater. You know I went through a few other partners before I settled on you, and you’re wonderful. I wouldn’t trade you on the ice for anyone. Our short program was impeccable, and our free skate is going to be just as good, because you’re strong, you work harder than anyone I know except me, and you’re consistent. You take your responsibilities very seriously, and I—You’re not just a body to me. You’ve got to know that.”

I do. I know how good I am. I know how hard I work. And as much as she might say so, the sex we’ve been having for the past three weeks hasn’t been blow-off-steam kind of lays, it hasn’t been itch-scratching fucks. Maybe it started out that way, but it’s different now and I hate that she’s trying to take that away from me.

“Well, you’re more than a body to me. You’re more than the best skating partner I’ve ever had, you’re more than a sex doll. I like you, Jubilee, and I think you like me too. I get why you wouldn’t want to have your whole life depend on one person, but I’ve got to tell you, I’ve done it the other way, and what waits for you out there is a different kind of heartache.”

No, she’s not going to have her sexuality questioned or mocked, but . . . “Your partner won’t understand how you spend your time and money. They won’t respect and support your dedication the way I do. You won’t be able to talk to them about the nitty-gritty of your day. And they’re always going to wonder if you’re not a little bit in love with me. I know you wouldn’t be unfaithful, because that’s not how you’re wired, but they’d be right to worry, because I’d be in love with you and they’d be able to tell. And as much as you hate to admit it, I think you’d be in love with me too.”

I’m breathing hard, like I just finished another program, but I don’t feel victorious like I had earlier. I gave this performance my all as much as I had on the ice, and it doesn’t seem good enough. Jubilee seems pained, but not at all convinced. Her face screws into a mask of pain, her expressive features rendered into something like longing, something like regret—just the way she said she’d feel. I should’ve seen this coming, but I’m not a smart guy.

“And yet, that’s a chance I’m willing to take. But a chance on you?” She shakes her head and bites her lips between her teeth. “No. I’m sorry.”

I take a hard swallow, trying to clear the lump out of my throat, but the damn thing won’t budge. “So this is it? After tomorrow, we’re just over?”

“No! I don’t want to not skate with you. And if you end our partnership on the ice . . .”

“Say it, Jubilee, say it. At least give me that. Admit you’d be losing everything again, because that’s how I’ll feel.”

But she won’t. She fucking won’t. Her eyes get narrow and hard, and she sets her jaw. Ice princess indeed. She’s colder than that. What’s colder than ice?

“I would be upset, yes. You weren’t easy to find, and you’re irreplaceable. But . . . it wouldn’t be the same, and I resent you implying it would be. You’re not Stephen.”

The urge to resort to cruelty is so strong, but as angry as I am with her, as much as this unfairness is eating away at my gut, I won’t say it:No, I’m not, because I’m alive and Stephen is dead.She knows. She thinks about it every day. She’s probably still in love with him, and while I might have replaced him on the ice, I’ll never take his spot in her heart. I don’t even want it. He can have it. I just want a little corner, that’s all. Surely he must’ve left a tiny piece available for the next guy?

She must take my silence for giving in, because her face gets softer, like she’s letting herself melt a bit now that she thinks she’s getting what she wants. “Hey. We’ll skate tomorrow, it’ll be great and we’ll make everyone proud. Probably bring home some hardware. And then we’ll take a break. You’ll meet some girl who’s not a moron like Sabrina or Felicia, and you’ll forget all about this. We’ll joke about it in a couple of years. Remember that time at the SIGs when we thought we were in love?”

So she does admit it. Just not in the way I want. And it kills me. I kind of wish she hadn’t said it at all. Which is probably why I can’t help myself anymore. “Yeah, that sounds great. Can’t wait. You’ll meet some frigging . . . hockey player or something. And he’ll send you roses when what you really want is a pillow shaped like a mermaid that has rainbow hair. That’ll be really fucking awesome.”

I may or may not have seen that exact pillow in a shop while I was out walking around Denver yesterday, and I may or may not have gone in and bought it for her and it may or may not be sitting in my bottom drawer, waiting for the competition to be over. I’m going to set that goddamn mermaid on fire.

I shouldn’t have done that—lost my temper. It lets her think she’s making a smart decision when she is so wrong, on a scale of one to wrong, she’s off the charts. She tips her head, and gives me thatoh, Beckettlook I hate, and her voice is all condescending patience when she says, “Perfect. Looking forward to it. But for now, we need to rest up for tomorrow. It’s a big day and I don’t want this—” She gestures between us, and it makes steam come out my ears that she can sum us up in that little wave. “To interfere with our performance. It won’t, right, Beckett?”

I want to yell at her to stop talking to me like I’m a child, but that seems . . . childish? So I won’t. Yes, she has a few years on me, but that doesn’t make her the smarter, more mature, wiser person in this partnership. If anything, this conversation is proving that in the ways that matter most, Jubilation Lee Buford is really fucking stupid.

Also, it is brought to my attention in a really unfortunate way that we’re in a public place when Daphne pokes her head around the corner. “The last flight is done. The Russians killed it, the Chinese had a bobble on their side-by-side triple toe, the Germans had a good solid program, and the Canadian put a hand down landing her throw triple flip. You’re in second.”

Chapter Thirteen

Jubilee

Second. That’s a good place to be. It’s not like the third and fourth place teams are nipping at our heels either. Yes, it’s possible they’ve got tricks up their sleeves that will put them in contention. It’s also possible (though highly unlikely) that the Russians will flub something in their program, just as it’s possible (though I also like to think highly unlikely) that Beckett and I will tank our program too.

A great deal of this sport is physical ability. Another large component of success is grace and elegance, not to mention the luck of finding a partner who’s a good match. What people don’t talk about as much is the psychological strain. You can do the same program a thousand times in a row perfectly, and then put a foot wrong on the thousand and first run. And then what do you do? A lot of people just fucking lose it. One step wrong and they’re lost. Recovery isn’t possible. Yes, they might get through the rest of their program, but you can see they may as well skate straight off the ice because they are done.

That’s one thing I loathe but respect about Daphne. From the first time we had a session together, she’s always insisted on me finishing what I start no matter how badly I fuck up. Her logic makes sense: there are no redos in competition. If you screw up, you just have to keep going and finish it off. You need to know how to rebound. I have learned this very well and pride myself on being able to get up off my ass and dust the ice shavings from my clothes—whether it be practice leggings or my swish little competition dresses.

These are the things I think about as we walk back to our suite. Beckett’s yammering on about . . . I don’t know, whatever he usually makes pleasant and inane conversation about. It’s music to my ears, his easy and excited tones. He’s easy. Easy to be with. When it’s not killing me, of course. This must be killing him, too, and yet he’s doing it anyway.

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