Page 25 of On the Brink of Passion

“That’s because the only thing that matters isn’t what I can do, and it’s not what you can do. It’s whatwecan do.”

I always think of that when we’re heading off into the trickiest of jumps. With no toe pick to help on the approach for axels, it’s all leg strength, and we have to tune our bodies perfectly to each other. Beck has to hold back a touch and I have to give it my all, but there it is. A perfect side-by-side double axel. Thatwenailed.

Beckett

Jubilee is killing it. I’m not doing too shabby either, but there’s something about her that sparkles when the pressure’s on. She really is like a diamond—prettier under the immense weight of people’s hopes and expectations. The only person I’m really worried about right now is her, because I’m about to take her life in my hands. They don’t call it a death spiral for nothing.

I twist and twirl her a few times first, and god she makes it look easy. Basically backwards, in heels, and on ice. Take that, Ginger Rogers.

Then I grip one of her hands as she extends a leg nearly parallel to her torso with her other hand before laying it down on the ice and letting her feet glide out from under her into a spiral. It’s almost painful that she allows me to do this, but I think it might just be that the weight of her trust feels so goddamn good that it aches.

I plant my toe pick and rotate around it, making sure Jubilee has enough speed in the rotation that her head doesn’t hit the slick surface. With her head leaned all the way back till her pinned-up hair must graze the ice, my heart is always in my throat during this part. But my head is up, with my arm that isn’t Jubilee’s lifeline extended over my head. And then, because figure skaters are literally insane, I switch my grip, without stopping, from one hand to the other as she lets me spin her around in a circle. We’re like those things from geometry class—compasses? I’m the part that sticks and she’s the part that spins.

After transitioning out of that, it’s straight into our spin combination, during which I can’t help enjoy how she’s wrapped around me like a vine, and then it’s into our step sequence and a lift because there’s no rest for the wicked—or for figure skaters during their short program, at least. Finally, finally, when the audience must be wondering what in the ever-loving hell we’re doing, I get her in front of me, wrap an arm around her slim waist and try not to look like I’m dying as I heave her into the air.

It’s not that she’s heavy, she’s downright tiny, but she’s also solid muscle, so she’s dense. And trying to throw a hundred pounds of anything while making it look easy and not falling out of step on a slippery surface? That takes some talent. And I’ve got the easy part. She’s the one who’s flying through the air at an incredible speed, as high and as far as I can manage—which, let’s face it, is almost as high as she is tall, and covering quite a bit of ice—and then has to come down on a piece of metal that’s three-sixteenths of an inch thick.

Which she does, with beauty and grace, and both hands in the air with not a wobble in sight. Bam, textbook throw triple twist. She’s incredible. And it’s over halfway through the program, too, which will score us some extra points. I catch up with her with a few quick strides, trying not to look hurried, and then the rest of our program passes by in a blur. Next thing I know, I’m holding her in my arms in nearly the same way we started and there’s a beat of . . . I don’t want to sound like a cheeseball, but a link, a bond between us as we look into each other’s eyes, and then she’s throwing an arm and a head back in a dramatic finish. All I have to do is stand there and support her.

Chapter Twelve

Jubilee

Breathing heavy in Beckett’s arms, I feel good. Exultant. That program could not have gone any better.

I fling my arms around him and he lifts me up, spins me around. It’s childish in its joy, but also safe compared to what we’ve been pulling. And his body against mine is a delight. Which reminds me that we cannot keep doing this. If we do, someone—me—is going to get hurt, and it’s not going to be okay. It’s going to be the end.

But I don’t want to ruin this for anyone, not yet anyway. It can wait. Heartbreak can always wait. Just another few minutes, another couple of hours, one more day of living in bliss. And then I can fuck it all up so it won’t be worse when it all goes to hell the next day, or the next.

We pick up some flowers, wave at the cheering crowds. I blow kisses, and Beckett clings to my hand until we have skated over to the exit and grab our guards from Daphne, pull them onto our skates before we go sit in the kiss-and-cry. Daphne’s on one side, Beckett’s on my other, and I’m a disaster. I hold hands with the both of them and when Beckett kisses me on the cheek, I try to hold myself together, not crack into the million pieces that are threatening.

We have to sit there, waiting, waiting. Of course we have a decent idea of what our score will be because of the elements we included and because we didn’t screw any of them up, but until the numbers come down, you can never be completely sure.

Just as I think I’m about to die, here they are. In total, a 79.62. Which is good enough to land us in first. Granted, with another team to go after us in this round and a flight of four pairs after that, but still. First. Some people don’t like being in first; can’t take the pressure. I, however, enjoy it. I don’t mind people nipping at my heels, because especially with Beckett on my team, I pretty well feel like I can outrun them.

Beckett and Daphne are going nuts, and I let them. Keep the smile plastered on my face and try not to look too out of it. I’m here, but it hasn’t completely sunk in yet. Nor will it until there’s more to sink in. Like tomorrow, when we’ll get the number that really matters. Sure, there’s only so far you can be behind and realistically make it up, but tomorrow is the big day with the big guns, and everything could still change. Likely will.

We stand and wave, and accept the cheers and adulation from the crowd, knowing it’ll only last so long. If I let myself get bogged down in exactly how fleeting this moment is, it’s depressing. So I shove that thought away for now, and let the joy flood my heart. The feeling of being on top of the world for this brief moment.

Eventually, we’re beckoned away from the kiss-and-cry, and we head back to the staging area where we’ll wait out the rest of our competitors, waiting for Daphne to tell us how they did. If it were up to me, she’d come back after each performance, but Beckett can’t take it, only wants to know at the end, so that’s what Daphne does.

In the meantime, he’s got that gleam in his eyes. I know what that means. He gets closer, close enough to kiss, and that’s what he wants from me. If it were safe to, that’s what I’d want, too. To kiss him, curl up in bed with him, meld our bodies until we know each other as well from making love as we do from skating together for hours upon hours, days upon days, week after week, month following month, and finally year after year. That’s how I want to love Beck, and that is very much why I cannot.

I stop him with a hand which I hope to pass off as a not-here-not-now rejection that won’t smart, but he knows better. Can sense it. And with the way his face forms angles where there’s usually softness, I feel like we’re going to talk about it now.

“Why are you pushing me away?”

“I’m not.” It’s a poor excuse, more like a flat-out lie and he knows it. “It’s just, you know, public.”

“And what’s so bad about that?”

When I’d been with Stephen? Nothing. Not like we were all PDA all the time or anything, but I wouldn’t hesitate to hug or kiss him in public. Athletes tend to be affectionate people, we speak with our bodies. And besides, Stephen and I were . . . together. Married. There was no earthly reason for us not to be a little affectionate when we’d been victorious. But Beckett . . . “I just can’t, okay?”

Pouty Beckett is back, but unlike that first day in our ill-fated suite, he actually looks hurt. Deeply. And I’m planning to drive the knife deeper.

“That’s not okay with me. I want more from you.”

And that, Beck, is the one thing I can’t give.

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