Quite the Pair (Breaking Barriers #3)

Chapter 1

Isla

The scorching rays of the sun beat down on me the moment I step outside, leaving the arctic-level air conditioning from the airport behind.

Sweat immediately coats my forehead. Fucking North Carolina weather.

Spending the past year in New England took some adjustment at first, but I grew to love the change in seasons.

It made it easier to keep my vow not to return to my hometown.

Unfortunately, I had to chuck that plan out the window to revive my figure skating career.

An obnoxiously loud car horn jerks me out of my thoughts. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I search for the source of the noise.

From the front seat of a burnt orange convertible sports car, my older brother, Brooks, lets his polarized sunglasses slide down the bridge of his nose. He flashes me a grin.

“Sorry I’m late,” he calls from the front seat of his car. “You been waiting long?”

“Ages,” I deadpan.

I told him my flight was scheduled to arrive half an hour before it did. After thirty years together, I know that fibbing is the way to get my brother to arrive on time. That lesson was cemented when Brooks almost missed watching me walk across the stage at my high school graduation.

He jogs around his car and scoops me into his arms, sending my sunglasses tumbling to the concrete. “Welcome back, sis. I’ve missed you.”

He drops me to my feet as quickly as he lifted me. I squat down to pick up my sunglasses, which mercifully aren’t damaged from the whirlwind that is Brooks Covington.

“Did you shrink, I?” He makes a show of looking down at me, scrunching his brow in thought.

I immediately shoot to my feet, long tired of the jokes about our height difference. I backhand his shoulder. “Maybe it’s your ego that’s inflating your height, Brooksy.”

“Ho, ho, hoooo,” he huffs. “Someone’s coming out swinging.”

“I’m in enemy territory,” I say as I hoist my forty-nine-point-two-pound suitcase into the empty backseat. “I’ve got to be on my game.”

I broke my parent’s hearts after separating from my ex-husband and hightailing it out of state.

I haven’t seen them since. Their constant pressure to take Chip back drove a wedge into our already precarious relationships.

In our occasional conversations, my mother still can’t stop making little comments about Chip’s success and how great we’d been as a couple.

Meanwhile, my father continues to groom my ex to take over his empire.

Initially, they thought we’d get back together, but it’s been months since the ink dried on the divorce papers, and they still haven’t changed their behavior.

“You know this car makes you look like a rich douche, right?” I give him a saccharine smile from the passenger seat as he starts the engine.

Brooks barks out a laugh, running a hand through his floppy chestnut-blond hair. The hair I heard about endlessly from my friends as a kid. “Says the woman with four-hundred-dollar sunglasses.”

He knows about my financial struggles, but I’ve worked hard to conceal the worst of it from him, especially over the last year.

He’s had enough on his plate without adding my problems. I don’t tell him that I’ve reluctantly kept these sunglasses from my ex, who loved to give me extravagant gifts, instead of what I needed, because I can’t afford to waste even one dollar.

Investing in my skating career over everything else is an easy choice to make.

“What can I say?” he adds with that classic charm. “I guess ‘rich douche’ looks good on me.”

He pulls onto the highway that leads to his condo located in one of the nicest areas of downtown Palmer City.

I stare at my older brother’s profile, marveling at how far he’s come in rebuilding his life.

During the height of his cocaine addiction about a decade ago, this reality—us, together—seemed like a distant, improbable possibility.

I’m grateful for the scandal that caused him to lose his NBA contract because it forced him to get help for his depression.

I still remember the out-of-character hesitation in his voice as he admitted his struggles and told me he was checking himself into rehab. It broke my heart to hear my confident, kind-hearted brother’s voice falter.

I shake off that emotion, like I do with all others, and blow out an exaggerated breath. “Please never call yourself a rich douche again. I beg you.”

Brooks’s response is lost in the roaring wind as he merges onto the highway.

I hold my long, wavy strawberry blond hair the entire drive to stop it from blowing into hundreds of small knots I’d have to painstakingly untangle later.

I usually have scrunchies on hand, but this last-minute decision to uproot my life threw my carefully curated schedule into chaos.

I missed a hair appointment, left my wallet in a store, and used a detangling hair product as a facial moisturizer—none of which are remotely close to normal for me.

My life is usually scheduled down to the minute, between offering private ice-skating lessons, delivering food, and busting my ass on the ice and in the gym. A series of alarms on my phone holds me together, barely.

The thought of setting up my new alarm structure centers me.

Everything will be fine. This will work out.

It has to. Otherwise, retirement from the sport I’ve loved my entire life is on the horizon, and I’ll need to shift to coaching an elite figure skater to stay connected to this world I love.

I’m not willing to concede that time is now. Not without a fight.

Brooks parks in front of his building and heads to the trunk of his douchemobile. “This is all you brought? Are you hedging your bets about the new skating partner thing?”

I exit the car, then slump into my favorite position—arms crossed, hip popped. “The rest will get here tomorrow. Shipping costs less than checked bags. I’m not surprised his highness, the Euro basketball star, never had to learn that lesson.”

After finishing rehab, Brooks revived his basketball career in the EuroLeague. To everyone’s surprise, he retired last year and moved back home.

“Is this what I have to look forward to for the next three months? Rich boy jokes?” He circles his finger in the air between us, flashing his annoying brother smirk.

“Because I don’t know if you remember this, but you also went to private school and stand to inherit the Covington-McCoy Transportation fortune. ”

I try to suppress a cackle but fail. “You think we’re still in the will? Oh, Brooksy, I’ve got bad news for you. If by some miracle you weren’t already cut after you ditched business school, then it happened when that photo of you in the club came out.”

“You mean with the cocaine?” He pitches his voice to our father’s deep, obnoxious tenor. “‘This simply cannot stand, young man.’”

Humor has always been Brooks’s coping mechanism, so I join the fun, slipping into our mother’s Southern drawl. “‘Do you have any idea how badly this reflects on the Covington name?’”

He hands me my backpack as he drops my suitcase to the ground and begins rolling toward the elevator that leads to his apartment. “You had that fortune all to yourself until you chose the big D.”

My hands cover my face. “Ugh, Brooks. You know what that sounds like.”

He smiles mischievously. “‘But divorce is so undignified, Isla,’” he says in Mom’s accent.

“Whereas my preference for large cocks is not?”

Brooks plugs his ears and sings, “Lalalala.”

“You started it.”

He removes one hand from his ear to hit the button for the fifth floor, then immediately covers his ear again.

I roll my eyes. “This is dramatic even for you.”

My cheeks hurt from smiling for the first time in months, maybe longer.

Brooks and I bonded out of necessity as the only two children in the Covington family, but I’m convinced we would’ve ended up with this strong friendship regardless of the need for an alliance.

We’ve always had athletics in common, but more than that, Brooks brings levity to my storm-cloud existence, and I give him the loving reality check he’s always needed.

“I think we might need some ground rules.”

“Ground rules,” I repeat.

“For our living situation.”

“You mean like a chore wheel?” I brush my hair off my shoulder with a flick of my wrist. “As you well know, I’ve been living the existence of a peasant, and we peasants need to do our own chores. I’ll clean up after myself.”

Brooks unlocks the door and pushes it open, waiting for me to enter the condo first. He clears his throat, lingering in the foyer with an uncharacteristic amount of discomfort. “I didn’t mean the chores.”

“Go on.” I know full well exactly what ground rules he wants to set, but I wouldn’t be living up to my role of irritating younger sister if I didn’t force him to say it.

He scratches the back of his neck, a tinge of pink entering his cheeks. “Just give me warning, all right? I’ll crash with Davis.” Carter Davis, one of my brother’s hottest friends, won an NCAA championship with Brooks while they attended the University of Palmer City.

“You don’t need to worry about that.” I head toward the guest room. “I’m here to skate.”

I toss my backpack onto the bed and survey the room.

It looks the same as it did six months ago when I snuck into town to visit after Christmas.

I told my parents that I had work commitments to avoid an uncomfortable dinner with my ex-husband, who I knew would be invited to our family Christmas.

Watching him make sad puppy-dog eyes at me, after he never supported my career and tried to pressure me into starting a family, wasn’t something I’d endure again.

“And your new skating partner knows this?” Brooks grips the top of the open doorway.

“Yes.” I do my best to conceal my annoyance.

He wants to protect me from repeating the situation with my last skating partner which almost ended my career.

He also doesn’t get the opportunity to play the big brother card often.

“I told Spencer what happened with Sebastian before I agreed to come here, and he assured me that any boundaries I set would be respected. Besides, he’s in a relationship. ”

Brooks opens his mouth, but I hold up my hands. “I know what you’re going to say, but Spencer is friends with Maggie. She said I can trust him, and I believe her. And I can take care of myself.”

Athlala sponsored me after Sebastian and I won gold at Nationals a year and a half ago.

It was a dream come true to have their support financially, but they also connected me to two incredible athletes, Maggie and Blair, who have become my closest friends.

I’m thankful I found them. It was harder to find friends within my sport, with us competing against each other for everything—medals, sponsorships, fans.

“I know, but you shouldn’t have to deal with that shit ever again.” He drops his arms, letting out a deep sigh. “I won’t allow it.”

I roll my eyes and laugh. “All right, all right, we all know you’re the big tough Brooks Covington and that no one will ever stand a chance against you.”

He gives me a playful shove. “I’m serious, Isla. I’ve got your back, okay?”

I smile softly at him. “You always have.”

The heaviness of the conversation weighs down the air around us, and the memories rush in.

Memories of the lowest moments of my life, the ones where I called my brother, the person I trust most in the world.

But I don’t want to think about that. I have a chance for a comeback into pairs skating, where I thrive, and I can’t let negativity drown out that hope.

“Enough of that,” I say with a flip of my hand, forcing the lock on my compartment of unhappy thoughts firmly into place. “I’m going to need you to feed me before I wither away.” I arch an eyebrow. “Unless that was your plan all along.”

Brooks slowly shakes his head. “My therapist would be impressed by your ability to skirt emotional conversations of any kind.”

“Your therapist, huh?”

“Yes, Isla. Adults have therapists, especially when they’ve grown up in the septic tank that is the Covington household. It helps to talk about it.”

I pretend to think, running my hand along my chin. Brooks isn’t wrong that I could benefit from therapy, but I’m afraid of what will happen if I open that locked box, especially when I need to be perfect. “I’ll stick to skating.”

He heaves a sigh. “You sound like me from a decade ago.”

“I’m fine.”

I grip his bicep and attempt to move him toward the kitchen. He doesn’t budge, not that I thought he would. Besides an allergy to dissecting our fucked-up family dynamics—one that Brooks has apparently overcome in recent years—we also possess the same legendary stubborn streak.

I toss a hand to my forehead, the back of my palm to the skin. “My legs are getting weak, my vision going black. I don’t know how much longer—”

“Okay, you drama queen, let’s order dinner.”

“No home-cooked meal?” I jut out my bottom lip.

“Not unless you want a PB and J,” he replies, strolling past me down the hallway and into the kitchen. By the time I reach him, he’s got a stack of menus in his hands.

I pluck the top one off the pile, a pizza place. “Be honest. When’s the last time you’ve eaten dinner from somewhere other than this pile?”

Brooks says nothing as his stare drifts to his tabby cat, Lily, who sleeps peacefully on the couch without a care in the world. The instinct to joke with him, to sail past anything real in favor of barbs, taps at my shoulder, but I resist it. He deserves better from me.

“It means a lot to me that you’re letting me stay here, Brooksy.”

His head lifts. “You always have a place with me, I.”

“Let’s hope Spencer Davidson grows to feel the same as you do.”

Spencer’s glowing reputation adds to my stress. He’s reliable, likable, and talented, without a blemish on his decade-long skating career. Until now, when I enter his pristine picture. I have no idea what made him decide to take a chance on me, but I’m so grateful.

And all I can do is work my ass off to prove to Spencer that he didn’t make a mistake. Otherwise, I can kiss my skating career goodbye.