Page 32 of On the Brink of Passion

“Why are you even telling me this?”

“It’s not like I could tell anyone else.”

“How about you maybe tell no one? Or even better, do nothing. Fucking hell, what were you thinking?”

They sound familiar somehow, and while Beckett is trying to hold me back, I need to get close. Want to see who it is. So I creep as best I can and peer over an enormous pipe just in time to hear the woman speak.

“The question isn’t how could I, it’s how could I not? Best outcome here and we’ll get the bronze. Worst and most likely? We get a fucking certificate and a quick trip home. Of course I tried to do something about it.”

“You sure this has nothing to do with your mad jealousy?”

The man is taunting her, and that’s when I know who we’re overhearing. It’s Sabrina and Todd. What are they on about?

“Don’t even go there, Todd. If you’d been more on your game, I wouldn’t have had to resort to this at all.”

Up until a second ago, Beckett had been trying to pull me away, but he’s stopped now and is listening just as intently as I am. What is this, what did she do?

“The whole village is talking about it, you know. How great Beckett looks with her. How perfect they are together. And what a moron you are for throwing him away.”

I swear she stamps her foot, but it could just be one of those mechanical noises in a big building. Hard to say. What I do know is that Sabrina is seriously angry.

“I wouldn’t have been a moron if you spent as much time on your skates as you spend trying to get laid.”

“Don’t you put this on me. Don’t you fucking dare. I’m not the one who weakened that lace. What I should do is just fucking turn you in. You know as well as I do she could’ve been seriously injured if her lace snapped in the middle of the warm-up or during their performance. I know you hate her, but that seems extreme.”

Holy. Shit.

Beckett is grabbing my arm and shaking me, as if I didn’t just hear what Sabrina said. More accurately, confessed. I’m not sure how she did it, and I hope there will be some evidence because I don’t want to sound spoiled or paranoid if I suggest it, but Sabrina is the one who weakened my lace. And of all the times not to have my phone on me to record a conversation, holy hell. No one is going to believe us.

And it suddenly matters a whole lot less when the metal door clangs open and a yell sounds down the rows of vents, pipes, and wires.

“Jubilee? Beckett? Are you in here? You’d better get out here because people want to see some gold medal ass.”

Daphne just said “gold,” and my stomach drops. I may have another gold medal to hang on my mantel, but no one to stand in front of the fireplace with to admire it. That one single word, a word I’ve been aiming for my entire life, has just delivered some not-great news and suddenly my heart and the rest of my internal organs ache. I may be brave enough to let Beck toss me across a good fraction of an ice rink, but no way am I going knowingly down this path again. Not a chance in hell.

Chapter Sixteen

Beckett

It’s been one of the craziest nights I’ve ever had, and that’s not a low bar. We told Daphne what we’d overheard and she got the proper authorities involved right away, hoping Sabrina hadn’t had time to destroy the evidence of her sabotage or talk Todd into covering for her. Usually the SIG officials try to keep shit like that on the DL, but with time of the essence, they sacrificed secrecy for speed, which meant everywhere we went, people were buzzing about it—including the press.

When I finally get back to our suite after we’ve fulfilled all of our press obligations, the medal ceremony, and somehow gotten split up after that, I’m not sure what to expect. Exuberant Jubilee? Drunk-as-fuck Jubilee? Depressed and withdrawn Jubilee? I wouldn’t be surprised by any of those things. I’m hoping for the best but preparing for the worst, because whatever she needs, I want to give it to her.

Yeah, it’s my room too, but when I get to the door, I knock.

There’s no answer, and it’s possible she’s in the bathtub, but the walls aren’t so well-built that she shouldn’t be able to hear me from in there. Unless she’s got her headphones on. Which she might. So I knock again, just to be sure, and when there’s still no answer, I twist the handle and go inside. At first, nothing looks odd, but then certain details jump out.

Jubilee’s coat isn’t hanging over the back of her desk chair. The closet is open, not closed. There are no headphones or Kindle on her bedside table. There’s . . . nothing. Not exactly nothing, because everything of mine is how I left it, but every trace of Jubilee is gone.

I’d thought I’d been prepared to deal with any outcome, but all of those outcomes had been predicated on Jubilee being here, and she’s gone. Just flat out gone. I can’t believe she didn’t say goodbye, but thinking back to the program we skated earlier . . . that’s exactly what she did. For those four and a half minutes. Gave her whole self to me, and now she’s taken it away.

Jubilee

Show me someone in sports who isn’t superstitious, and I’ll show you a liar. It’s like atheists in foxholes. Don’t exist. And while for the most part, it’s harmless stuff—lucky underwear, a guy not shaving his facial hair, having the same person put the blades on your skates—my superstitions happen to do with the man I love dropping dead after we’ve won a gold medal together.

It’s all just a little bit of history repeating.

It’s not rational. I know that. Otherwise everyone would be all,Fuck no, Jubilee, you can’t skate with Beckett! He will obviously drop dead in three months, and you’ll probably be at practice—because you’re always at practice—and you’ll get injured, maybe not in a way you can come back from this time.

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