Chapter 12 #2
We trudge back to the house, bracing against the wind as it picks up off the river.
With our hands full, I can’t bury myself against him, and by the time we make it to the front porch I’m starting to feel like a human icicle.
We’re barely inside the house when people start pouring out of the kitchen, almost all of them wearing shit-eating grins, led by Camille, whose eyes are dancing with mirth.
“So, what took you guys so long?” Riley singsongs as she skips up to me and grabs one of the bags out of my hand.
Oh God, that was fast. Had the pictures already…
yeah, they definitely had. Elisa is nowhere to be seen in the crowd, but everyone else is there, laughing and pulling out their phones and showing us how many posts and reposts and edits there already are of the impromptu photo shoot and then us on the sidewalk after the fact.
How are the fans so fast? It’s barely been a half hour.
The sushi is divvied up and we all end up standing around the kitchen island eating, and for a few minutes it’s nice, like I thought it would be when everyone first arrived.
It’s like a real team, with Charlie and Ben arguing over who gets the last piece of sashimi and Georgia complaining about her California rolls and Brayden, with his side pressed against mine as he steals a piece of my crunchy spicy tuna, teasing Jimmy, who lost a game of Odds to Ben and is flying around the kitchen looking for a carton of milk to cool the burn from the glob of wasabi he shoved into his mouth.
I’m still laughing when across the island, after managing to not even really clock his presence for the last hour or so, my eyes meet Freddie’s, but just as quickly his gaze darts away.
Like I caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to.
He’s focusing somewhere over my shoulder where I know there’s nothing except bare wall.
He must realize that, because then he shifts uncomfortably and tries to refocus on something Riley says to him.
A couple of seconds later, though, his eyes flicker over to me again and this time when our eyes meet, they hold and my world sort of shifts on its axis.
I know that look. I remember it from our run the other day when for a split second I thought he was going to lean in and kiss me.
And when the intensity feels like it’s too much and I have to look away, he does first, but his eyes go to Brayden and his jaw clenches, the smallest twitch, and I know that look too because before everything went down, I knew Freddie O’Connell better than anyone else in this world.
He’s pissed off. Pissed off at Brayden, and there’s only one reason he’d be pissed off at Brayden.
He’s jealous.
My mind reels and I have to swallow back a groan building in my throat because something like guilt slides through me at the thought.
Like I should feel bad that Freddie’s unhappy.
Like I should be the one to fix it. And that’s insane because that’s not my job.
He’s barely spoken to me in two years, we’re not even really friends, and besides that, Riley likes him.
But then he looks back at me again and this time I’m the one who’s caught looking, a flush building in my cheeks as I stare down at the sushi in front of me and try to grab another piece with my chopsticks, failing miserably because my heart is beating like thunder in my chest and all from a few seconds of fleeting eye contact.
Oh no.
This is not good.
Not good at all.
Because a part of me, a way bigger part than I’ll ever admit to, likes it.
· · ·
“Ugh,” Camille calls out as we botch another curve lift. Brayden has to let me go and push me away on the ice to avoid either of us getting impaled by our skates. “Okay, enough!”
It’s our last skate before we leave tomorrow and it’s been hours of massive struggle.
My entire body feels like a gigantic bruise from the number of times I’ve eaten ice today and Brayden’s not much better.
We skate to her from opposite directions and stop, waiting for her critique.
She stares at us for a second and then another, silently, her eyes flicking between us.
“Whatever is going on here, you two need to figure it out. You cannot go to Paris like this. At best you’ll embarrass yourselves and me; at worst one or both of you is going to get hurt. Get out of my sight and don’t come back until you’re ready to work.”
Retreating off the ice, neither of us head for our respective locker rooms, but instead to a small office we usually use for storage.
Old clothing racks with long-forgotten skating costumes and hockey jerseys line the walls and boxes of equipment gather dust in the corners.
Brayden closes the door behind us. He props himself against the desk, nudging a pile of boxes out of his way with his hip.
I fall into a folding chair on the opposite side of the room, still not more than a few feet away from him in the tiny space.
“What is with you today?” he shoots at me when it’s clear I’m not going to say anything.
“It’s nothing,” I lie, crossing my arms over my chest and shrugging.
Scoffing, he tries again. “Don’t bullshit me. Was it the kiss? Did I cross some kind of line? I mean you said you wanted to, and it seemed like you were into it?”
“What, no? It was…it’s fine, I just…”
He looks unconvinced and keeps pressing. “Then what is it?”
I can’t say it, because I don’t even know what it is.
Or actually, I do know, but it’ll sound insane.
Sorry, Brayden, but this fake dating thing we’re doing is confusing and kissing you is fantastic, but also, I’m freaking out because a guy I thought was out of my life forever somehow makes me feel like I’m cheating on him with you even though you and I aren’t even dating, he just thinks we are.
Yeah, that’d go over well.
“The last few days have just been a lot, okay? And I think I’m feeling the pressure more than I realized.”
It’s not entirely a lie, at least.
“Okay, so are we good?” he asks finally, standing up and holding out his hand to me.
I take it and let him pull me up. “We’re good,” I assure him.
Camille looks up from her phone when we reappear, her eyes darting back and forth, eyebrows raised in a silent question.
“Let’s run through ‘Vienna,’ ” Brayden says, and I nod. Camille gestures toward the ice and goes to the control room to cue up the music.
It echoes from the speakers seconds after we take our starting pose at the center of the ice.
And then we’re skating, hand in hand, spinning and twirling and stepping together.
His hand feels like an extension of my own body as we shift with the music; the skills themselves are muscle memory at this point, which is why our issues earlier were so stupid.
It’s all a mental game now and with our entire focus on each other and the music and performing every note, every word, it’s easy.
On the ice, we’re not Adriana and Brayden, not really.
We’re some kind of idealized version of ourselves, caught in a moment in time, pushing each other to be our best, but also taking the words to heart.
We do this because we love it. That’s the entire point.
To love ice dance enough to train yourself and your partner into the belief that love will be enough to get you through.
And maybe that’s not an entirely foolish belief. Maybe it’s real.
Brayden’s mouthing the words as we glide smoothly down to the ice, falling briefly on our knees before we’re both back on our skates and I’m pushing toward him.
His arms come around me, one hand gripping my thigh, the other lifting under my arm until my entire body is held by his and he’s spinning across the ice, carrying me through the uprise of the music, the moment the crowd usually buys in and shouts their approval of us and lifts us through the rest of the dance, and together we’ll make them, and the judges, fall in love with us.
The music builds and builds before slowing to a close and Brayden and I drift down to the ice.
My breathing is hard and fast, and I lift my hand to touch the back of his head, like I always do.
It’s the last bit of our choreography, but instead of resting on my shoulder, his face is hovering above my own, and as the last piano chords play out his mouth lowers to mine just as mine lifts toward his because right now, I don’t want anything more than to be kissed.
It’s brief, nothing like last night, barely a brush of the lips, but it feels so right, the intensity is the same, and it’s enough to make my heart skip a beat and then pound out an uneven rhythm.
This isn’t real, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it.
What’s a kiss or two between fake dating friends?
We don’t say anything as he lifts me to my feet. Our music is gone, replaced by the usual stuff that plays in between program run-throughs, but I can still feel my lips tingling and I press them together, trying to make it stop.
We skate to Camille, whose smile is wide. At the way we just skated? At the kiss? Both? Who knows?
“Oh my God, that was so good!”
It’s Riley; she and Freddie are moving onto the ice.
Distantly, I hear Camille’s comments and corrections, but mostly praise for the routine we put together.
I don’t look away from Freddie. He’s not looking at me, at least not at my eyes.
His gaze is set firmly downward, where Brayden is still holding my hand in his.
I pull it free as subtly as I can manage, but it gets Brayden’s attention.
He turns to me with a smile, and I meet it with one of my own, before he refocuses on Camille’s words, but my eyes drift back to where Freddie stood a moment before.
He’s gone, though, skating across the ice with Riley.
Did he…did he see that last moment, the kiss?
Of course he saw.
But I have to…not care.
It doesn’t matter if he’s angry or jealous or annoyed that we’re skating this well.
That’s it. This is me, not caring.
What Freddie thinks about any of this shouldn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that we keep skating like this once we get to Paris and bring home that gold medal.