Page 28 of The Cutting Edge
“Haha, is that a promise you can keep?” she asks, tilting her head to one side, her eyes alight and full of mischief.
“Um…maybe?” I grin back at her, the effervescence of flirting with her making me feel both off-center and bolder than usual.
Suddenly, a thought bubbles up and takes hold in my brain: at this point, I’m not sure I can even keepmyselffrom falling.
Fuck, did that really just go through my head?This is not how I operate,at all.
And suddenly, without another thought, I’m leaning towards her, my lips just a breath away from hers.
“I want to kiss you.”
“What’s stopping you?” she teases, her finger tracing a circle on the bed sheet covering her leg.
“Other than Nurse Barb?Nothingwill– the second you say yes.”
“Yes.”
Carefully, slowly, I lean closer to her, my eyes on hers the whole time. She tilts her face to mine and I softly touch my lips to hers. Heaven. Her mouth is warm and sweet, and instantaneously, our chemistry is galvanic. She’s resting one hand against my chest, and I’m suddenly filled with the desire to pull the ponytail holder from her hair, letting it fall across her shoulders. My breath is coming hot and fast, lost in the sensations and possibilities of the moment, escalating quickly.
“Knock, knock…”
I let out a silent groan. Nurse Barb, my nemesis.
Chapter eleven
Coco
Afterwork,Marissacomesby to hang out with me at the hospital and see how I’m doing.
We’ve known each other since we were nine, an easy friendship formed by proximity in our early years — merely by being the only two figure skaters in our age group to reach national competitions. Physically we are total opposites — I’m tall and lithe like a ballerina, she’s stouter and stronger with a fuller figure. My skin is pale as the white sand on Siesta Key, and hers is the exact shade of Godiva milk chocolate. Where my hair is auburn and stick straight, hers is naturally black, but usually blue or purple unless we have a competition coming up. I’ve spent my life fighting anxiety attacks, and she is epically, magnificently, unflappable— no matter what chaos may transpire around her. She is the best best friend anyone could ever have.
She’s also an incredible skater and the most powerful jumper I know. Scoring-wise, Marissa should be at the top of the podium every time, especially as the sport has moved towards bigger and bigger jumps, but figure skating is also notoriously devoid of Black skaters, and scoring in our sport has come under fire more than once. Every skater has had experiences where they felt their score did not accurately reflect their program, but I’ve seen it happen to Marissa more often than anyone.
My family was wealthier, though less so than I’d thought, and over time, the small individual advantages I received from my parents’ sacrifices— higher-level coaching, more ice time, better skates— paid off in tiny increments to the point where I was placing near or at the top of national and international competitions, where Marissa slipped off the national podium and to the upper middle of the World rankings.
We’ve both watched a dozen best friends torn apart when that happened, and swore it would never happen to us. And when I lost gold in Beijing and my dad informed us he was done paying my training expenses, Marissa was there, offering me a job at the rink, her spare bedroom, and a life lesson in the fine art of juggling credit card debt to finance one last shot at your Olympic dream. She’s slightly more of a long shot than I am, although she’s quickly closing the gap, but that doesn’t keep either of us from clinging to the joint dream we’ve had since we were in the third grade – going for the gold together at the Olympics.
"I don't really care for the rooms at this resort hotel, "she cracks. “There is a valet, but no pool. Where’s the bar? Also, why does it smell like old ladies in here?”
She glances around the hospital room, her eyes resting on the bedside table now housing three bouquets of flowers and a small cactus — and plops down in the same recliner Logan has been occupying for the last two nights. "Speaking old ladies, our favorite one, Mrs. Markham said to tell you hello and that she’s thinking about you. Any idea when they're gonna let you out? "
"Not yet. I was hoping I would get to come home today, but apparently, they need to run another CT scan before they let me out. I guess they saw something weird on the other one.”
"That sucks. These are some pretty fancy flowers, "she teases.
I can feel my face start to color, even though it’s Marissa who’s probably working as a double agent, and has surely already provided Logan with a dossier of all my favorite flowers, foods, and clothing sizes.
"Well, the bouquet of spring flowers is from my mother. The cactus is from my dad."
“Pricks from the prick, "she says to no one in particular. "And how about the other two? Who, I wonder, sent this very expensive bouquet of two dozen pink roses? And the fragrant and equally beautiful bouquet of gardenias?”
“Logan sent those,” I say, my cheeks still flushed, like I’m in second grade and channeling the vibe of my firstDo you like me? Check this boxnote.
“You do have to appreciate a man with such excellent taste in flowers, "she says authoritatively. "And how was dinner last night?"
“Well, first of all, I'd like to thank you for cluing Logan in on my favorite all-time food, because last night I had the best lobster of my entire life. It probably cost more than the rent on our place, but it may be the closest I’ll ever get to a perfect meal.”
"I was so excited all day, you know how terrible I am at keeping secrets, I almost spilled the beans like eight times."
