CHAPTER 9 #2
“Unless, you want—”
“No, it’s fine. Waist is fine,” she insists firmly.
I must have imagined it, because for a second there, I sensed she was scared. And I have never seen Ana Petrov look scared.
Her fearless persona returns, signaling me the green light to reconvene. Ana’s hands mount against my shoulders as I prepare to hoist her up.
But before I do, our eyes experience the misfortune of finding the other’s.
Because a second later, my hands sinch into her waist, while I watch her body move above mine in opposite direction.
This is the last moment Conrad’s sex analogy needed to pay me a visit, except it does, and now I can’t unsee the imagery—69 but in the air.
My heartbeat picks up again, the way it did at the party, but I brush it off when her lower stomach grazes over my head.
Yup, the second buildup of bile in my mouth this week.
Swinging my focus away from the gutter, I’m now left with the clear view of her skates dangling in the air. But when her waist continues to rest over my head, I push her up a few inches.
“Your shoulders need to be higher,” I request after doing my part and not seeing effort on her end.
Her chest facing the ice, Ana extends her arms away from her shoulders, only without altering her position.
Her voice ricochets from above me, unbudging. “I’ve done this lift more than twice the amount as you.”
“You have.” I nod. “Terribly.”
As I lower her, she ruffles my hair, tugging subtly but with enough force to make sure I feel it.
The phony curve of her lips that precedes reinforces her intentions by the gesture, while she watches me brush away the displaced strands.
“Aw, did I ruin your hair, princess?”
At her words, I drop my hand.
Registering the nickname, I try my best to avoid the awful possibility of this becoming a recurrence.
And by this, I mean all of this.
From the distance, Sokolov nods, proud. Meanwhile, I’m having a tough time grasping how our practice of a few minutes has equated what feels like hours worth of high endurance skating.
_________
Tonight I have learned that waiting for a girl to text you back is stressful even when it’s platonic, at least when your hopes haven’t been crushed yet.
I’ve been lying on my bed, shuffling between all the apps, checking reruns of notifications while I await her response.
Actually, two responses if we’re being technical.
Sasha and Chelsea.
Sasha, pretty sure is still skating with Marc, but rumor had it there was a potential falling out, so any minute now, this’ll be dispelled or, well, I’d be on track to skating with someone more bearable.
Chelsea should be available, though, and I might sound like a jerk saying this, she isn’t my first choice.
She technically doesn’t even skate at our academy anymore.
Let’s just say her scores the past few years left Adrienne Fontaine, the head of our board, with no other option but to give her the skating boot.
Still waiting, I scroll back on social media before landing on a post the Faerieladle Waves campus radio just uploaded.
I physically cringe at it. Not the podcast, itself.
It’s mostly a spread of garbage, anyway.
Whatever they are saying, who is saying it…
it means a whole lot of nothing to me. A photo of me from the upcoming Dior Fall men’s campaign is what’s causing the involuntary squeamish reaction.
I have nothing against modeling. It actually isn’t even half bad. It’s cool getting to try on a bunch of clothes no one’s seen yet. And being a sponsor makes it so the gig pays well.
It’s just that spending long durations of time on a task that doesn’t make me feel fulfilled in the slightest takes energy from other goals I’m working toward. But it’s worth the financial independence from my father alone.
My already quivering stomach does a backflip when a notification replaces the top of the screen:
Sasha: hey, yeah I’m still skating with Marc
but if you’re still looking for a partner
I’d be down to skate with you. I’ll tell Marc
something came up
Not that Marc and I are friends by any means but I’m not really on the lookout to steal someone else’s pair. I sigh as I type out a response when another message pops up.
My stomach drops another two stories.
Chelsea: Troy, hi! How have you been? I’m actually
taking a break from skating right now
but I'll be in Faerieladle next week if you
wanna hook up..
Wishing I hadn’t texted either of them, now, my eyes stare blankly at the ceiling.
That’s what you get for sleeping with one girl at The Academy years ago. After that, the rest of them think you’re fair game even when you haven’t given a mere hint that you’re interested.
Then again, the apple doesn’t fall far from outside the rink.
Fame brings exactly all the awful things people claim it does. Critics produce judgement out of thinnest air, which means I’m hooking up with half the country.
But there are bigger fish to fry right now.
What if this is it? And what if I can’t find someone else?
Running a hand over my face, I sigh.
I tell myself I’m being dramatic, but then seriously debate the question in my head.
Do I really want to win again that bad to put up with her?