CHAPTER 81
Ana
SHE’S A PRUDE.
She’s a slut.
She’s a whore.
She’s a cunt.
I fucking hate her ugly guts.
I step into the rink the next morning with a disturbing level of calm.
Marc. Nathan. And Antonio, all leaned against the walls of navy stare up, their dull lips twisted like they’re pleased by what they see.
Sheerin and Tatiana glare from the corners of their jealous eyes like they somehow think they can figure out what is happening.
Sasha on the other hand has her eyes narrowed in an auspicious manner like she’s sort of impressed, like she’s been waiting for this day…
A few Hummingbirds—who never bat an eye when I walk by them—have their jaws parted by the pass of my steps, moving with their gear by the giant burgundy hockey banners puked all over the hallway.
And when I turn over my shoulder to give the hockey guys a cheap little smirk, I see how their gazes drop to my chest like they think I’m not exactly in control of this game. Fools.
Ana Petrov is a cold bitch, the last words of online praise that sings into my ears this morning as I drop my jacket onto the metal bleachers, lift my shoulders back, tall, like the fucking 5’8” girl that I am, and sail right onto the ice no longer giving a fuck about what any of these rats think of me.
Troy meets me on the ice, his brows pulled up.
“Your hair?” he says.
“Do you like it?” I smile but for some reason it makes him scared?
“It’s.” He blinks like the answer is no and he’s trying to rephrase it somehow. “Down. It’s never down when we skate.”
“I was a little warm.” I shrug and then I catch the way his gaze frowns by the low cut of my spandex top, my cleavage visible.
So I stare at him, daring him to comment.
And he doesn’t.
Good boy.
Tossing my hair out my face, I flutter my lashes to snap for his attention when his gaze gets lost over my eyelids.
Yeah, there’s some more liner on them today.
He gulps when our arms meet for our first twist lift, the way my fingers snake around his neck like the touch feels foreign to him.
But it’s not.
Because I’m still me.
Except, I just woke up.
_________
Troy
I think I’m being punked.
Last night everything was fine, two nights ago close to perfect, and now every corner I turn I see the way Ana was smiling on the ice.
Like there was death and a whole lot of revenge shoved in her blue eyes that looked paler than I’d ever seen before.
But that’s the thing, she keeps smiling.
And the girl has never been a heavy smiler and all would be fine if she wanted to be that but she has that same frightening look on her face, the one she had at Skate Canada when I had panicked looking for her, except now there’s a smile slapped onto it.
And she lied to me.
Ana isn’t okay.
Even if I knew half as much as I do about her, it doesn’t take a magnifying glass to see it.
That something is bothering her.
And maybe I should let it go. I thought about it.
Then I remembered that I care about her, and avoiding isn’t exactly possible when someone means even a tiny shit to you.
And she sort of means a lot more than a tiny shit to me, which is why I am fucked.
I’m just finishing up a phone call with Shane from the Wisteria rink when Ana returns to the apartment, strolling into the living room in the late afternoon.
With that same damn smile thrown on.
When she sees me, she strides right up, wrapping her cold palms around my neck before she smashes her lips onto mine.
The move is so out of character that without meaning to I push her off me.
First, because what the even hell?
And secondly, she’s never kissed me first.
I know this because I’m always the one who initiates that first.
If it’s sex or a blowjob or whatever, she’s fine with jumpstarting that, but a kiss, no. A kiss is too much of a burden for her, I’ve learned.
Except she just did that which is why I’m confused as fuck.
When she pulls back, while I try to make sense of everything, this moment included, she waits—with the same fucking smile—waiting like I’m the nuisance here.
“What’s with you?” she says nonchalantly.
What’s with me?
What’s with me?
I’m about to shout it when the ring of the doorbell goes off.
“I’ll get it,” she chirps, but when she opens for the guest, whoever is standing on the other side of the door, brings home a miracle.
Because Ana’s eyes pop wide open, and that smile—the fake, icy smile—finally drops.
_________
Ana
“Donya?”
“Hey!”
“What are you doing here?”
“I thought I could surprise you.” My friend smiles bright. “Surprise!”
Yeah, I’m surprised alright.
Without me even blinking—or letting her in officially—she just pushes past me and into Troy’s apartment. And I’m really regretting sharing his address with her earlier now even if it was for safety reasons when I first moved in here—because we’re fucking girls and you never know.
“Hey, Troy.”
“Oh hey, Donya.” Troy moves to give her a hug, the two of them embracing like good ole’ friends.
And the nerves that were supposed to be gone flood back.
“I missed you too much, Ana. I had a short break from work for Thanksgiving so I thought I’d stop by and we’d spend a few days together.”
“But I’m busy,” I reply, and apparently that was the worst possible thing I could say because her and Troy both snap their heads toward me like I just kicked a puppy.
“Um, I meant I wish I had known so I could have planned better. But I’m glad you’re here.
This was really sweet of you to do,” I add when I realize it was.
And I haven’t seen her, at least not in person in ages, and when I remember that, a whole lot of other pain comes back.
And I remember that I didn’t need this, not less than a week from a very important competition.
Not now.
_________
When we reach Bailey’s for dinner, Troy slides into the booth next to me, Donya across from us, so that there’s room for Xavier, who was going to join us for dinner earlier tonight.
Before my friend decided to come here all the way from Connecticut without a text even an hour before.
But Donya was pleased Xavier would be here tonight, when he finally arrives, her smile disappearing.
Spotting the girl linked with his hand, her face falls and so does mine.
I forgot.
Shit.
And the whole dinner is tense.
Tense when Xavier leans in to brush a piece of food from his date, Lauren’s, mouth.
Tense when Troy stretches a shoulder above my head, forgetting we’re not a couple and we’re not supposed to be showing any signs of affection out in public.
Tense when everyone’s practically silent by the time the dessert arrives.
And when we reach Troy’s apartment and he says goodnight to the two of us, Donya’s cheeks tinge like she’s embarrassed.
Like I’ve embarrassed her.
“Why didn’t you tell me Lauren was going to be there?” she blurts out the second she hears the slam of Troy’s bedroom door.
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling a bit helpless, and tired, very tired all of a sudden. “I didn’t know you would be coming.”
“You didn’t know before we were on our way to the restaurant?” she points out and it’s a good point, because yeah, why didn’t I realize that?
“I wasn’t thinking, Donya,” I defend. “My mind’s been a bit preoccupied lately to remember about your crush.”
“My crush?” She laughs like I’m an idiot and I might be because I regret everything I just said.
She gives a sly wave at me then adds, “Could you, uh, please fill me in with what’s happened since the last time we spoke because you’re acting, I don’t know, strange?”
I try and recall the last time we spoke but, like every other checklist item in my brain lately, it’s a blur.
So I reply with what I think is a decent answer. “Nothing’s happened. I’m just stressed. I told you that already.”
From the irritated look on her face, that was a terrible choice.
“I know you’re stressed. It’s all you ever talk about.” Her growing sarcasm starts ticking in my veins. “I thought by coming here we could maybe relax and that you could take a break from your stress.”
“So you coming here had nothing to do with Xavier?” I scoff.
Her eyes wilt in a strange pain. “You think I took a train from fucking Connecticut all the way to Maryland to come and see a guy who doesn’t give a shit about me?”
My chest shrivels hearing her spell that out. How thoughtless I am to even suggest what I did. How I let my anger at everything else drop into our conversation.
But she decided to come here tonight.
She made the decision without giving me any notice when she, as she just admitted, knows how stressed I am.
And my frustration, for some reason, feels just as entitled.
Like I get to be mad for a fucking change.
I take a deep breath, hoping it allows me to backtrack a tad.
“Alright,” I say. “I’m sorry for implying that.
But Donya you know the pressure I’m under right now.
You probably know it more than anyone else.
And I think it’s a little selfish that you didn’t even hint that you would be coming this weekend.
You just showed up without thinking how that would affect me. ”
“Selfish?” she barks out, taking a step back in shock. “Selfish would be ignoring half my calls when you’re the one who insisted we have them to not grow apart. Selfish would be thinking that you’re the only one who’s stressed and like we’re not both in the same fucking sport—”
Honest to God, for a moment I didn’t even remember that. My chest strains.