CHAPTER 53
Ana
THE FIRST DAY of grad school kicked off today, sharpening the timeline that’s ahead: we’re less than one month away from the Challenger Series, which means we’re only two months away from the Grand Prix events, which means we’re just six months away from the Winter Games.
Yeah, crazy.
Unlike the Grand Prix, the Challenger Series doesn’t help with Olympic qualifications, though the small set of skating events helps in refining programs ahead of major competitions.
Held in Oberstdorf, Germany, the CS Nebelhorn Trophy will be the first performance of the series where Troy and I will be publicly sharing the stage, and the nerves are already settling in.
Practice hasn’t been going too smoothly the past week. The precision of a few of our jumps still requires major polishing, and that quad lift I suggested the other day, well…it failed—epically.
Other than Troy’s brief departure on Saturday—to my heavy surprise—the guy barely left his room for most of the weekend, not that I was keeping tabs.
The guest room door was propped open the whole time, barely any sound echoed down the hallway from his room, while I was submerged in a new set of chemistry and physics labs already assigned before the first day of classes.
Normally I’d welcome an elective in between core curriculum, but on my way to class today, the feeling is less like a palette cleanser and more like a tedious chore, which is probably accounted by the fact that the second class of the day had to also be an 8-11 pm lecture. Night classes suck on broken sleep.
Finding parking on campus is also impossible in the evenings, especially with the Faerieladle freshmen kick-off.
By the time I sprinted from the coffee shop across campus tonight, drove back to the parking structure, most stalls were full.
Luckily, it’s just a few minutes past 8 when I reach the tall beige double doors of the business lecture hall, a strong arm parting one side open for me, my stack of textbooks covering the student’s face.
I snake my head around the obstruction, recognizing the distracting facial features.
“What are you doing here?”
Troy holds the door, waiting until I enter the auditorium, before he joins me inside. “In case you forgot, I also go to school here.”
“No I mean, what are you doing in here, in this class?”
“It was a requirement. Econ’s a two-part course.”
Shit, I completely forgot about that.
“Besides, it’s going to be a little hard to avoid me now that we’re living together,” he adds with a smirk.
“Temporarily,” I correct. “And we’re not living together.”
“Yeah? Then what are we doing?” He pauses his steps, glancing at me.
“Trying to coexist.”
He scoffs. “Whatever you say, dearest.”
When I spot a seat a few rows down and in the middle of the crowded room, I leap toward it without a second thought. I’m not about to be wedged next to Troy for three hours, nor am I in the mood to hear any more of his odious remarks.
_________
The rest of this week went as follows: barely sleep, practice, classes, more practice, diary entries, then more practice, and work, that when the weekend finally arrives, I’m just now getting the chance to study—and also compartmentalize my color-coded organizer to map how to improve the landing of our jumps.
My efforts have been hopeless with the lingering end of summer heat, though.
Troy came back from the complex’s gym earlier I think, at least that explains the heaps of sweat he returned in. When he relaxes himself onto the edge of the dark blue couch I’m sitting on, freshly showered with navy sweatpants and a matching button down, I’m the one who’s now heavily perspiring.
“I thought rich people die without air conditioners,” I say, fanning myself with the sheet of spiral paper I ripped out from my notebook.
“It’s an outage,” he says.
“I thought rich people don’t get outages.”
“It should be fixed by tonight, your majesty.” I roll my eyes, lifting my white tank top that’s now sticking to my skin from the sweat.
“Woah, what are you—”
Troy shuts his mouth when I dart him a brow, as the fabric rests right below the curve of my breasts. “What did you think I was gonna do? Flash you my tits?”
“So I wasn’t hallucinating…”
“You wish.”
His lips blow air up to his temple, his skin forming new sweat from the extreme heat. He unbuttons the top of his shirt, swooshing the bottom of it against his stomach.
“Should I close my eyes?” I coax. “Would that make you more comfortable, Larsson?”
He glares at my satisfied smile as I close my eyes.
When I open them back up, my whole body simmers with awareness.
That’s a result of the pool of linen tossed next to Troy’s hips, his generous upper half bare, strong arms flexed over his forehead, eyes shut, his Adam’s apple bobbing and tight abs flexing on each exhale. I watch a bead of sweat pool down his happy trail, and suddenly, I feel parched.
“Thought you were keeping your eyes closed,” his voice peeks out from his makeshift nest.
“I was,” I defend.
“Just know, the pants aren’t coming off as easily.”
“Fuck off.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His cheeks glow.
A sound reflects off the staircase before Mishi interrupts us, her taupe paws prancing toward Troy, scanning around his feet.
“She doesn’t like people,” I warn.
Then I watch my lilac British shorthair kitten graze over his ankle, peering up at a shirtless Troy, waiting with her light green doe-eyes for him to pick her up.
Troy detects her cue, peeling her off the floor. Mishi nuzzles her tiny whiskers across the side of his sweaty neck, while my back slumps, stunned.
“I think your kitten likes me,” Troy brags, his gaze flicking up at me. “Cats usually do.”
“Wow, that was very clever,” I say, rolling my eyes.
Mishi isn’t helping my case as she begins to climb all over Troy, marveling like she just came across Zeus himself or the statue of some other untouchably beautiful Greek demi-god.
I pick up my books in one haste move, puking from the newly-formed friendship before me. “I’m going to go study upstairs. It’s colder up there.”
_________
Troy
After returning from an afternoon filled with errands, Ana’s back on the same navy couch near the kitchen, her hair tied up in a messy bun, with even more books sprawled around her.
I rest a forearm against the back of the couch above her head. “What’s the grey one for?”
Ana starts flipping through her notebook restlessly. “What grey one?”
I laugh, heading into the kitchen.
“You’re so immature,” she calls from the couch.
As I begin unloading a fresh set of groceries into the fridge, I notice the existing limited options are untouched. Knowing we were all out of cereal, I wonder if Ana ate.
“I got a bunch of new snacks, if you want any,” I say.
Ana turns over her shoulder, shaking her head. “I’m good, thanks. I already ate.”
I start to question if she’s telling the truth, but I don’t have any reason to believe that she isn’t, so I nod.
Once groceries are organized, and I’ve scanned through my phone long enough, it occurs to me that we’re both sitting on the couch on a Saturday night—for the second weekend in a row.
It’s depressing. I’m beginning to understand how Xavier’s felt trying to nudge me to go out more, my patience wearing thin as I watch Ana’s face stretch in frustration at the mess of ink before her.
“Okay, that’s it,” I order. “Put the book down.”
“What, no?” She frowns as I snatch away the textbook from her lap.
“You’re taking a break.”
“No, I’m not. I still have twenty chapters to read.”
“And you’ll read them after you take a break.”
Glaring at me with a cruel smile, she reaches for one of the several other books crammed against the arm of the couch. I grab those too. Including the one she’s holding onto with dear life.
In a swift move, Ana jumps off the furniture, her hands aimed toward me. “Give them back, Troy. I’m serious.”
“Only if you agree to take a break.”
“Fine.”
“Right now.”
“Okay.”
“Go change.”
“What?”
“We’re going out.”
“No, I’m not going out.”
“Yes we are.”
She crosses her arms, uninterested. “Where?”
I weigh the potential options. “There’s this party Marc’s throwing tonight. Do you want to go?”
She scoffs. “What, like as your date?”
“I was thinking more as my sidekick, but you can call it what you want.”
She punches the side of my shoulder, but ultimately sighs. “Fine. But I need like two hours to get ready.”
“Why do you need so long?”
“In case I meet someone cute.”
I laugh. “That you won’t repulse?”
Ana bends to her feet, crumpling up a sheet of notebook paper beside her feet and spikes it toward my face. I catch her throw.
“I get two hours,” she scolds. “And give me back my books.”
_________
Ana
I’m going to yell at Naomi later for convincing me to purchase this dress for my birthday this year.
The olive silk halter with a plunging neckline barely rests over my upper thighs, the back not modest in the slightest, either.
In my defense, it was between this and the only other cocktail dress I own—the bright teal mini with a broken zipper—though a dress malfunction is looking loads better than the green fabric currently hugging my skin in all the worst attention-grabbing spots.
Fidgeting with the silk every other step to prevent my ass from making an unwelcome appearance, I push my freshly straightened hair over my shoulders—just in case my tits also decide to pop out of the unreliable fabric—as I tread down the stairs cautiously.
I also decided to wear my black heels tonight, the three-inch strappy pair that while make my legs look even longer, are my favorite piece of the ensemble.
Heels rarely make an occurrence on my daily routine, but with the shoes, I’d still be a bit shorter than Troy.
Not that I wore it because of him, but the realization that my frame would be taking up less space than usual brought me a new, giddy sense of relief.
Though, I can only imagine what snide remark Troy’s sure to toss my way at the whole look.
A faint scent of bergamot and musk roams the air before I stroll into the living room, Troy already seated on the armchair around the edge of the staircase, his black button down folded up enough to display tight forearms. The top two buttons gain my attention next, the way they’re both undone, pulling my gaze down to land on fitted dark jeans.
A glimmer of heat dances across my neck, one I shrug off quicker than the thought, increasing my stride.
At the sound of my steps, he slips his phone into a pocket and lifts off the couch. Turning around to face me, his gaze falls on my collarbone, quickening my heartbeat.
I hold up a pointer finger when his eyes finally reach my face. “Don’t say a word.”
He shrugs, brushing past me. “Wasn’t going to.”
I know him better. He was. And now I wish I hadn’t opened up my big mouth first, dwelling on unsaid words and his vacant expression from landing on my chest a second ago.