Chapter 8
EIGHT
SIERRA
“YOU SHOULDN’T BE skating alone, dochen’ka,” my dad says as soon as I make it back from the rink a few blocks away from my parents’ house.
In the winter, I would skate on the frozen pond in our backyard, but after my accident, they never froze it again.
It was their way of dealing with my accident, but sometimes I miss it.
The quiet, the late-night skates, the feeling of stepping out of my house and onto something that felt like home.
I slept like a caged bird in my old room last night, and I couldn’t help but wonder why I even bother coming home.
But it’s because I’m forced to. A few months ago, when I broached the subject of returning to campus with Scarlett, my parents were hesitant.
It took lots of convincing and a promise to visit them every week. Promises I’m regretting right now.
My dad pulls away from our hug, only for my mom to squeeze me.
I’ve had to become used to this new violation of my personal space since the accident.
I don’t resist them anymore, not since they told me how hard it was not getting to hug me.
My mom said she’d take walks to the opposite wing of the hospital while I was in surgery, not realizing it was labor and delivery.
Every time a baby was born, music played; she counted sixteen chimes.
Sixteen lives entered the world while she thought she was losing hers.
“Lidia’s not always available,” I explain. “I have to practice, Papa. You two know that better than anyone.”
You’d think having skaters for parents would make this whole comeback easier, but they’ve gone soft.
My parents coach young skaters, so they’re off on random days of the school week.
I’ve been to only a few of their performances, one being in Aspen when I was four.
That’s the trip where I became obsessed with skating.
It wasn’t the performers who caused that reaction, it was seeing my parents skate together on the empty post-competition ice.
The passion between them was palpable and nearly suffocating.
When I was born, I messed up my mom’s pelvis to the point of no return. Skating became painful, so she retired, and my dad didn’t hesitate to follow. So I promised myself that if they had to give up figure skating for me, I would make it all worthwhile. I’d be worth it to them.
“You shouldn’t be on the ice without her, Sierra. At least not without a helmet,” my mom says. I haven’t worn a helmet in ages, so doing it now would just prove their point.
I move into the breakfast nook of the kitchen, letting my dad ladle me soup. The temperature drops a degree, and my mom goes full cold-prevention mode.
She takes my hand. “As much as we want to put you in Bubble Wrap, I know you. You’re my daughter, and just like me, you want to prove everyone wrong.” I feel a stab of guilt. “But you have to be safe. Don’t put this pressure on yourself.”
“I’m not.” I only wake up screaming some days. No pressure at all.
“Then we are looking forward to seeing you back out there,” my dad says.
My stomach churns. Expectations rising, and my body not being able to perform, or my brain not letting me, makes me worry.
I have to trust my body when I can’t even look at it.
PTSD and anxiety trail after me—label after label.
I can’t just be myself without these words following, as if it’ll help the next person understand whether I’m too much or palatable enough.
Suddenly, my mom perks up. “Oh! I forgot to tell you that I ran into Justin yesterday.”
My spoon stops halfway to my mouth. A rock-hard ball of anxiety drops straight into my stomach. There are so many ways to ruin a visit, but this decimates my mood.
Justin Petrov has some voodoo-level hold over my mom.
But it isn’t her fault, because I never told them about how quickly he left me.
I was still recovering from surgery when he was already training with Julia’s coach.
That’s how Lidia found out, and then she told me she knew people who could make him disappear.
I told her I’d rather stick to reading about the Bratva than get into business with them.
So I never told my parents how Justin blindsided me. I couldn’t break their hearts too.
“He heard you’re back on the ice and wants to help. I know it’s been hard on you with his switch, but we all know how cutthroat skating is. I think you should hear him out.”
“I’m fine, Mom. I don’t need any help,” I say.
My dad shoots my mom a look. Clearly, they’ve talked about this. He probably tried to stop her. Our story reminded her of how she met my dad: He switched to pairs and needed a partner, and she’d just moved to Connecticut. It was fate, and I thought Justin was mine too.
“She needs a partner. Poor Lidia’s been searching day and night,” she says to my dad. “He knows her better than anyone. It would be so easy.”
“Mila. Enough. She doesn’t need a reminder of that night through him. Leave the past in the past.” I want to agree, but it’s embarrassing that I can’t even hear Justin’s name without my brain thinking it’s a bullet.
“I gotta go,” I cut in, slipping out of the breakfast nook. “I have an assignment due, and I didn’t bring my laptop.”
They don’t stop me as I head for the door, their hushed voices fading. Even as I drive back to campus, I can’t shake the feeling that no matter how many steps I take away from Justin, he will always be somewhere I can’t quite reach but just close enough to haunt me.
THE NEXT MORNING, I wake to Lidia’s text that orders me to do off-ice training since she’s flooded with meetings to find me a partner to qualify. So naturally, I go to the rink, but it turns out I’ve got a knack for unwanted encounters, because Justin and Julia are here.
What do you do when you see the person you despise gliding effortlessly on the ice, when they should be buried beneath it?
It’s the first time I’ve seen them skate, and it rips at something in my chest. I hate that I notice the little things.
Like the fact that he’s very particular about his ice, but now he’s skating on the uneven scarred rink with her.
Or how he’s removed the initials we penned on the ankles of our skates. I painted over mine with nail polish.
I’m still watching them when a body crowds mine in the space between the hallway and the bleachers.
“Who do we hate?”
My skin prickles with awareness. “No one,” I mutter.
Dylan’s low rumble sounds too close to me “Good. I don’t like someone else stealing your attention.”
I hold back an eye roll and glance at him. He’s dressed casually in sweats and a track jacket that molds to the contours of his body. “Aren’t you banned from the rink?”
Dylan shrugs. “It’s always more fun when it’s forbidden.”
I nearly roll my eyes again. “There are at least thirty people here. You don’t think someone will snitch?” The second the words are out of my mouth, a group of girls exiting the arena wave at him. No one seems to care that he’s breaking the rules.
His gaze drops to my lips. “Why? You want something in exchange for your secrecy?”
“Yeah, a restraining order.”
“You’re the one showing up everywhere I am, Romanova. If you want me, just say the word. We can cut the whole cat-and-mouse thing.”
“Am I supposed to be the mouse in that analogy?”
“Definitely the cat. But that’s how I like it. Claws and all.” He winks. He actually fucking winks at me.
“You—”
“You’re doing great, Jules. Trust me, we’ll get there.” Justin’s voice travels down the hallway. I don’t think, I just grab the front of Dylan’s jacket and yank him under the bleachers. He stumbles in behind me, coming chest to chest in the cramped space.
“I don’t know if I’m in the mood anymore. You were kind of mean.”
“Shh!” I cover his mouth with my palm.
“Can’t. I like it loud.” His words are muffled but I can feel his damn smirk.
This close to him, surrounded by the heady scent of his clean clothes, I’m a little dizzy.
He’s so big and unapologetic as he takes up space, crowding me entirely, forcing my chest to brush his with each shaky inhale.
My heart hammers as his remains steady, probably because being pressed up against a girl in a tight, dark space is nothing new to him.
“Don’t worry. We got this. You’ve been taking what I gave you, right?” Justin’s voice trails off, and I catch a glimpse of him rubbing Julia’s back. He never spoke so softly with me. It only manages to drag me back to the night in his hotel room. When I thought I was finally enough.
I startle when Dylan brushes his thumb by the corner of my eye, and he comes away with a tear.
I drop my palm from his mouth, feeling mortification seize my bones.
His brows pinch, and when he glances over to where Justin’s just exited, it’s like he’s putting together a puzzle.
I wait for it, pity or sympathy, but Dylan doesn’t look at me like that. He looks curious.
I nearly trip over his feet in my rush to get out. “You should leave before someone catches you,” I say.
He seems to recognize my deflection for what it is. “Can’t keep a secret, princess?”
My tightening chest isn’t deflating. “Call me princess again and you’ll find out.
” I spin on my skates, heading straight for the bathroom as my skate guards click against the floor.
It only takes a few mumbled affirmations, a breathing exercise, and the propranolol I took earlier to ward off a panic attack.
But when I finally get back outside, someone’s already skating. On my ice.
Upon seeing the perfect landing, the swish of a spin, and another series of advanced moves, I gawk. For the entire three minutes of his routine, I can’t believe my eyes.
Dylan Donovan is figure skating. Like, really, really well. What the hell?
“What can’t he do?” one of the stragglers from public skate says as they pass by.