CHAPTER 54
Ana
“IF SHE HAS a pulse, he’ll fuck her.”
My cranberry vodka spritz slides from my hand before I clasp onto it just in time to keep the chilled alcohol from spilling right onto the fabric of Sasha’s amber mini.
Standing to my right, Sasha’s never been one to sugarcoat anything, though, until now, I wasn’t aware of her strong opinions on her skating partner, Marc.
On my left and unfazed, Emi eyes the party host, clearly aware of her close friend’s analysis on one of our rink’s most talented male skaters.
“Men. They have to overcompensate, somehow,” Emi says. “It’s not his fault he has a small dick and still can’t tie his skates.”
Laughter bubbles up my throat. “Stop. Is that true?”
Emi tilts her head toward a dancing Marc, who’s now sandwiched between a group of seniors skaters. “I mean, no one’s said it’s big except for him.”
“No, I meant the shoe thing.”
“Oh yeah,” Emi doubles down on her comment, confident. “In his defense, Sasha babies him so why should he learn?”
Sasha folds her arms defensively. “I do not baby him!”
Emi nods comically, her eyes narrowed at her friend.
“You’re just in a crabby mood because of Haru.”
“No, I’m not. He can do whatever he wants. Just not mess with my schedule.”
I eye Sasha, not following the train of conversation.
“Haru’s on a date with Yukari,” Sasha translates.
“So he finally asked her out?” I say, curious.
In our world, everyone knows who’s talking to who, and while Sasha’s had an on-and-off again fling with Marc spanning more than two Olympic games, we all know of Haru’s obsession with Team Japan’s pairs skater, Yukari Sawai.
I can’t say that I’m not a little impressed that he finally worked up the courage to ask her out—and more shocked that she actually said yes, Yukari being notorious for never being photographed on a date—or anywhere other than the ice rink she brutally trains at in Tokyo.
“Yup,” Sasha confirms, while Emi’s face twists sourly.
“So, is it affecting your practice schedule?” I ask Emi.
“No, because I won’t let it. Haru would probably throw everything away for ‘love,’” Emi mocks, “and Yukari would eat it all up. She’s such a bitch.”
“I thought you liked her?” Sasha says, amused.
“Oh, I love her. Who do you think I learned my overhead jumps from? She’s a beast at rotation speed. But she’s also a total bitch.”
Sasha snorts, sipping her dirty martini, while gesturing at me. “How’s the new partnership going with Larsson?”
Emi leans in, both girls piqued interest palpable in await of my response.
“Things are fine,” I say casually, wondering if anyone else knows about our current living setup. Taking another sip of my drink to hopefully kill the topic fails when Emi asks a follow-up.
“What’s he like?”
“What do you mean?”
“To practice with.”
“Forget practice,” Sasha slams. “What’s he like in bed?”
“Troy doesn’t hook up with us,” Emi directs her way, as if it’s a reminder.
“Us?” I ask.
“Yeah, he avoids flings with skaters. Well, at least at our rink,” Emi explains. “A few of my friends from Aadlands and even in the academy in Paris said they’ve slept with him, but he hasn’t made a move on any skater here since Madeline.”
Madeline Wu used to skate for Dupont before she moved to a smaller program in Manhattan, New York.
She’s breathtakingly beautiful, and I still vividly remember how smitten all the men at our rink used to be by her, both the hockey and skating guys, but of course, Troy was the one who won over her attention.
“Yeah, sorry for not having a more exciting answer, but all we do is practice,” I say, though reanalyze the few questionable moments Troy and I have shared since the start of summer.
The ballet studio instance alone would make for prime gossip, though I’d prefer to take that moment to the grave with me.
Besides, it was just more of the same games.
Before the murky daydream tries to take root again, I spot Tatiana and Natalia enter the room, heading toward us. I quickly excuse myself to the restroom in fear of the potential conversation that could sprout if I stay.
Emi and Sasha are nice, but only when they’re not around them, I remind myself, briefly clouded by the taste of friendship I could have with the two girls if Violet and her friends didn’t exist.
With no other friends of my own here, I start to kick myself for not asking Elle to join, though, it was late and last minute, so it slipped my mind.
This party—held at Marc’s lavish bachelor pad with a handful of his skating medals lined along the credenzas dispersed around the living room-turned-dance-floor—is loud and uninviting, but at least my drink was exceptional, already on my way to get a refill when a guy leans his face closely to the side of my neck.
“What’s your name?!” the carefree voice pierces over the EDM beat, scratching my sensitive ears.
I fidget with the straps of my olive silk halter dress, feeling self-conscious suddenly at its plunging neckline.
Maybe it’s the sleazy once-over the guy just gave me, starting from my chest then slowly down my legs, that leads me to the realization that this dress barely rests over my upper thighs.
“Ana,” I finally reply.
“Is that short for something? Like Annaliese? Or Anastasia? I hooked up with an Anastasia once,” the blond overshares, downing more of what looks to be a glass of beer, spilling it over the flashy Faerieladle hockey jersey he’s displayed in.
It's not often that this happens, a stranger wondering if “Ana” is my entire first name, when for many that is their full name. And the times it’s happened, I’ve brushed off the question cooly.
But in the spirit of it being a party, and wanting to reinstate myself back to collegiate society, I decide to respond with more accuracy.
“No, it’s actually short for Anahita,” I reply.
He leans in, confused. “What?”
“Anahita,” I repeat, wondering if he didn’t hear me or is just disgusted by the reveal.
“Anahita?” He pauses, staring at me like he just spotted an alien, then snaps out of it.
“Never heard of that name. Ha, sounds like a character from a video game!” He nudges my shoulder, probably in his head in good humor.
But it just leaves a trace of hurt over my skin along with his sticky drops of sweat.
“Like a sexy girl warrior or somethin’.” He winks at me. “I’m into it.”
Thank God he’s into it. What would I do if he wasn’t into it?
Between the drunk students at the diner and now this, I genuinely begin to worry at the fact that I’ve wanted to punch every other man I’ve spoken to in the past few months.
But I muster a small smile. Artificially. Again.
“I’m Steve, by the way,” he says as if I asked. “Do you go to Faerieladle?”
“Yeah,” I say with a nod, “do you?”
“Yeah, I play hockey for the university. I’m a senior. I haven’t run into you before, but then again I’m rarely not at the rink,” he explains proudly, leaning forward again. “The Larsson Ice Rink.”
“Nice, I actually skate there as well.”
“Nuh-uh,” he jumps back, his eyes in so much disbelief, it washes discomfort over my skin, “you skate? I thought you’re like a supermodel or something.”
“Thanks,” I say, analyzing his tone and whether that was a backhanded compliment or not. “But no, just skating. Been doing it pretty much my whole life.”
“But you’re so tall. I thought chicks had to be short to skate.”
“And hockey players are supposed to be tall. Guess you also got lucky.”
Troy’s voice washes over the shell of my ear, pinning the bubble that formed from the weight of Steve’s words, the sucker punch to the gut lessening at the sight of the hockey player’s noticeable frown.
Beside me, Troy stands, his arm barely brushing against mine, his lips satisfied by the reaction he just drew out from the other athlete.
“Larsson,” Steve grumbles. “Well, nice meeting you,” he directs at me, scanning his eyes over my shoulder, already in search of another girl before he walks away.
I face Troy, feeling a bit stunned. “Since when do you defend me?”
“Wasn’t defending you,” he replies, handing me a drink. “Steve’s a dick. You know that rating system for all the girls on campus?”
“Yeah?”
“He started it.”
“What, that’s awful?”
“Yeah.”
I take a sip of my new cocktail, my brows quirking at the familiar taste.
“A cranberry vodka spritz?”
“Isn’t that what you were having before?”
“Yes, but how did you—”
“Shit.”
“What?”
“I thought she moved,” Troy mutters to himself, his eyes now drifted at his feet.
“Who moved?”
He forces himself to glance in the direction of mystery girl.
When I spot the tennis prodigy in the corner of the room, a pinch of starstruck hits me. “You went out with Tiffany? I’ve been to so many of her matches. She’s amazing.”
“Yeah, she was amazing until she cheated on me.”
“She cheated on you?” I burst out the headline, not meaning to sound so surprised. “With who?”
“I’d rather not say. It’s too embarrassing.”
“C’mon, now I have to know.”
“Shit.” His eyes shoot back down. “She just looked at me.”
“I’ve never seen Troy Larsson look so frazzled before.” I rest my free hand over my hip, smug. “I like it.”
“Shut up.” The grip around his drink tightens, ice cubes clattering violently around the pit of glass. “Is she still looking at us?”
I can’t help but laugh. “Yes, you big baby.”
“I should go. I think I should go,” he starts rambling, before I latch a hand over his arm to halt him from his thoughts. A meltdown over a girl, unexpected from Troy.
Though seemingly as shaken, the tall brunette with a killer serve drops her fiery gaze to where our skin touches.
“I think she thinks we’re together,” I conclude.
Troy’s confidence returns as he leans forward to face me. “Why would she think such an awful thing?”
“Because she’s looking at me like she’s burning a hole right through me.” I pour the last drop of vodka down my throat, snatching his half-empty glass with mine, resting them both on the maroon coffee table behind a speaker. “I have an idea. Wanna do something funny?”
“Your version or the actual definition?”
Ignoring the jab, I take his hand, dragging him with me to the middle of the confetti-covered living room as “Alive” starts blasting from the shiny speakers.
_________
Troy
I brought Ana with me tonight to give us both a much needed distraction. A break.
I didn’t bring her here so that we could dance with the kind of space fit for only a toothpick as the divider between us. Not when she’s wearing that naughty dress of hers. Not when she smells like that. Fuck, she smells sweet. She always smells sweet.
A whirl of strawberry and vodka buzzes down my neck that feels unusually hot all of a sudden, resting a hand on either side of Ana’s soft waist from behind, cautiously.
The air has collapsed into a vacuum of electricity, the only way to escape the static waves of adrenaline oscillating over my skin is to hold onto hers.
But that sliver of space—albeit toothpick-sized—I keep it between us.
Maybe it’s her liquor talking, but there’s not enough in my system to miss the way she brushes her ass against me.
The feel of her weight this close, her glossy hair shoved in my face, it’s a gift and a curse all at once, yet I push up slightly, not too much.
Like she’s made of fire, and if I get too close, I’ll burn.
Our muscle memory starts to take over, the rhythm of her steps fusing with my own.
I’m aware this isn’t one of our practices, and I’m more than aware that my hands should not have roamed down a few more inches.
But they did, and before logic has a chance to smack me over the head, Ana tilts her face, brushing a strand of espresso silk against my cheek.
With her eyes turned forward, her faint whisper isn’t missed.
“You can go lower.”
Lower. That feels dangerous.
Is this still because my ex is watching? It doesn’t feel like it.
“Like this?” I say carefully, slowly roaming down.
“Yes.”
A breathier whisper falls from her lips, one that makes every fiber in me crack.
To test her, I drop my hands even lower, maybe lower than I should, lower than what’s best for us both, until my palms wrap around her hips, the tips of my fingers reaching past the rim of her dress, barely touching skin. I try to ignore the way my cock continues to swell at the sway of her hips.
“This okay?” I breathe against the side of her exposed neck.
“Yes,” she sighs, her voice soft as silk.
I know the room is buzzing, but I swear I hear her moan. A frustrated groan leaves my mouth at the sweet sound.
It’s taking all the self-control in my body not to slip my hands right between her legs.
I’m close enough. With her heels, our heights are more leveled, taunting me the perfect access.
I may not be able to prove she’s wet, but my hands feel the heat between her thighs, the way it’s prickling against my fingers. Coating them.
I bunch a fist beneath her messy strands that have started to curl from the room’s heat, wanting nothing more than to pull on them just enough for her to feel good. I know I could make her feel so fucking good. I indulge a little, gripping the tendrils hovering over her ears, tugging only a touch.
Ana bucks back against me.
I stop.
“That’s enough,” I rasp into her ear.
“Why?” Her hair swings over her shoulder before I hold her steady.
“Because.”
Tightening the grip around her hips, I pull her into me, deep enough for the pressure to be felt.
“Oh.”
This close, my body is more than aware of her shape, if that was even possible—which means she’s either not wearing any underwear, or the thinnest thong. Fuck.
Think of anything else.
She liked me pulling on her hair.
Okay, think of anything other than that too.
“I think that did it,” Ana says proudly. She turns around, our eyes meeting in lusted anguish, only a few drops of blue remaining in her irises. “Tiffany left.”
Oh.
“Right.” I nod cluelessly as if this woman didn’t just rub her ass against my hard-on for the past five minutes.
Then she disappears into the crowd.