CHAPTER 66
Ana
THAT’S NEVER HAPPENING again.
I have five exams this week, two the next, three skating competitions coming up, and my social media is flooding with awful rumors (per usual), none of which leaves room for nailing my skating partner who—I barely still can wrap my head around is no longer my enemy, not in the traditional sense.
So, it’s never happening again.
“Are you alright?”
Huh?
A hand grabs my forearm, shaking it like it’s asleep. Like I’m asleep.
“Ana.”
My eyes glued vacantly at my open textbook that was trying to teach me about particle correlations as it involves quantum entanglement, Naomi’s rapid blinking from across the rink’s bench is full of concern.
“Uh, yeah,” I yawn out. “I’m fine. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”
If that isn’t the understatement of the century.
Actually, I slept perfectly, first time in ages. But the amount of sleep was abysmal for reasons I will no longer be entertaining.
Naomi leans in, patting the top of my hands with triple the amount of energy I have. “I’ll bring you some of this freakishly strong tea Rina’s bestie gifted her from Hakone.”
“How strong?” I say, eyeing her suspiciously. The last herbal tea Naomi brought me from Japan had me yawning for two whole days.
“You’ll sleep like a baby for an entire week,” she chirps.
I laugh.
“I’m good. But thanks.”
She shrugs, launching a granola bar right at my face.
Which does the trick.
Waking me up.
I rip the plastic top of the snack open, peeling the wrapper off bitterly at her cranberry chocolate chip attack.
“I hate to be that person and keep asking…,” she says, “but, are you sure you can make it to the leadership meeting?”
Leadership meeting?
“For Winter Formal.”
That meeting.
“Yes,” I say. “Absolutely. I’ll be there.”
“It’s just, I know you’re busy, and I don’t want to add more pressure on you. It’s fine if you don’t join this year.”
“I’ll be there, Naomi. Stop.”
She may be huffing under her breath at my curt reply, but this isn’t a conversation.
I’ve never missed one the past three years, and the three years before that when she was the president of the Faerieladle middle school student leadership committee.
Her mom never showed up to a meeting, even when it was clear that Naomi wanted her there like all the other mom’s on the PTA.
So, this isn’t a conversation; I’ll be there.
_________
I was playing myself, thinking that I could study this morning before practice. That I could focus before practice.
That I can focus during today’s practice.
Skating to my death on the ice, I glide toward Troy who—unlike our norm—is already there.
Rarely cold in here, today must be an exception.
It’s not merely an observation, not when I can feel every goose bump on my back poke against my skin at the sight of his.
His back that’s facing me, his shoulders stretched out so tight no contour goes unnoticed with his signature fitted deep thermal.
A cloud of lust settles above my head, wondering how he’d look on top of me, from above, in that same exact pose.
And I clear my voice so deep, he snaps around.
I wasn’t ready to look into his eyes. The notion doesn’t surprise me so much as it chills up my spine.
It’s why I made sure I woke up before him earlier today and got myself to the rink even sooner.
To avoid that look.
The look of uncertainty.
“You’re late,” Troy says, breaking into the smallest grin. “Again.”
“Last night was a mistake,” I blurt out, avoiding everything. “It can’t happen again.”
“Wow.” His brows shoot up. “So it was that good for you too?”
Yes. But that survey stays between me and me.
“I think we needed to get it out of our systems,” I go on. “And we did. So now we can continue preparing for the Games. Keep it professional.”
“Professional?” He scans me mockingly, folding his arms over his chest. “You came on my tongue. Twice.”
A roll of pleasure bursts through me at the vivid memory.
And I did, come on his tongue last night. Twice… After he made me come with his hands again. And then with his—No.
It’s over.
“It was a mistake,” I repeat.
If I wasn’t so convinced he was still basking in my very obviously flustered state, I’d think he was a little hurt.
“Okay,” he obliges, his posture turning stoic. “We’ll keep things professional. But for the record, nothing we did was a mistake to me.”
Our coaches arrive shortly after.
And practice is awkward as fuck.
_________
And that’s why you don’t sleep with your skating partner.
Because when you do, all you’ll be thinking about is them.
How their hands feel right before throwing you during a jump. How their hands felt wrapped around your hair while whispering dirty sweet nothings into your ear.
And unfortunately, even the stench of reused grease in your town’s diner won’t be enough to cure it.
Three sets of black Halo leggings and matching sneakers bustling into the front door of said diner might work, though.
When they do, I almost duck underneath the counter I’m wiping down.
Sheerin and Natalia both follow their server to a red glossy booth by the jukebox, Tatiana separating from them, and heading in what seems to be—my direction. Shit.
Should’ve ducked.
Smoothing the creases on my striped uniform for no reason other than to calm my nerves, I repeat my breathing exercises to scare off any fear.
“Ana,” Tatiana drags out my name, her tone belittling. “Could you be a doll and let the chef know we want olive oil in our food, not the cheap peanut oil, or palm oil, or whatever he likes to use?”
“This is a diner,” I say. “I don’t even think we have olive oil.”
“You can ask, though, right? Or should I have a little talk with Zoe or Claudia about how our waiter brought us old burgers and gave us food poisoning on purpose so that we couldn’t skate?”
The psychopath would do that. And she’d get her way.
Not through Zoe; the diner manager hates the Icy Trio more than me.
Claudia—the owner of this place—is a whole other story. Appears kind, but has seen an uptick in business in recent years thanks to Marion Dupont’s alliance since the Sochi Olympics, so if I had to take a wild guess, I know where her loyalty would stand.
“I’ll ask,” I tell Tatiana, gritting my teeth to force a smile onto my face. One that’s as fake as hers.
Ana, wanna play a game?
Stop.
Ana, wanna play a game?
Stop it.
I snap around once she’s returned back to her clique, facing the messy kitchen to forget, but it’s,
Too late.
Ana, we’re so sorry about your elbow. Natalia’s birthday is on Friday, and we wanted you to join. The rink’s small, and we should all be friends.
So, I went.
Like a clown who thought she would finally have a group of girl friends at the rink of my dreams.
I believed the platinum blonde because how couldn’t I, Tatiana had pleaded my bloody elbow had been an accident.
It wasn’t.
I accepted—the truce—the invitation to Natalia’s fifteenth birthday party at the tail end of Olympic season, arriving at her expensive house in a brand new plum dress with tulle sleeves and frosted edges, the dress that costed my mom half her monthly salary.
But Mom had insisted on making the purchase, I think even more joyous than me that, for once, I’d been included.
Pulling up to the impressive three-story palace-like home, a puking kind of maze jumbled in every corner of my belly, as if warning me of the horrors that would be, as I passed over each cobblestone to the doorstep.
No sound echoing or shadows moving from the outside, all the lights switched on.
Ringing the bell led to only one guest opening the giant white doors, a brunette guy, who looked like a senior, with a cup of some sort of alcohol in a hand, and one sentence.
They’re in there.
An older Ana would have escaped in that moment.
The younger, stupid Ana kept walking because she wanted friends; she wanted to be included.
So I knocked on the door that was shut and locked. Hearing the giggling. The snickering. Knocking until tears dimmed my eyes.
In that moment, I knew I’d never be included.
Made peace with it, even.
Sprinting toward the front door, passing the random guy still slouched by the corner like he was the fucking bellhop, I stopped when her voice thorned over my ears.
Tatiana’s.
She stood there.
With an evil, icy smile.
Enjoy your first and last gold medal while you can, Ice Princess.
The words—the nickname that skating fans had only given me a month ago at the PyeongChang Winter Games following my win—stabbed into my chest, before freezing blue fruit punch filled with chunks of berries splashed onto my dress, from her cup, soaking, ruining, destroying it.
And when I saw Violet dart into the room, her eyes pretending to look shocked by the scene, I couldn’t believe my eyes were still attached from how hard the salt began to burn down my cheeks.
Tripping over the cobblestones on my way out, the aftermath was unmissable.
Loud music, people chanting, the whole party started as soon as I left.
Left that street and headed to the diner, where I should have been all along, working the shift I had been assigned before the invitation existed.
But the night, the horrible, haunting night, only grew worse.
I stepped into the squeaky glass door of Rudy’s diner, my dress and face stained, and ran into Troy.
Ding!
Jumping in place, the kitchen bell cuts through the memory.
Right, the olive oil—remembering the hidden threat from the skater, I move into the kitchen to speak with the chef.
_________
There are positives of having seven exams to study for and three group projects to turn in within a span of fourteen days. The greatest being: not having enough time to relive excruciating moments from the past.