Chapter 1
aimee
We’d either be Olympians, or I’d be going home to cry and wallow in self-pity for a month straight. Well, maybe not a month, but there would definitely be ice cream, tears and wallowing.
“You’re going to be perfect, sweetie,” my mom said, kissing my forehead.
Dad wrapped his arms around both of us and squeezed. Then, it was my brother—Orion and his girlfriend, Annalise’s turn. I waved them away, to go sit. Asher would be here soon, and then we’d warm up, and get ready. I took a few steps out of the lobby and into the rink area.
My phone vibrated and the group chat my bestie Eloise created popped up.
Smut Sluts
Val named the conversation “Smut Sluts”.
Eloise
I can’t believe I have to work and miss you making history!
Rowan
Today’s the day!
Isabella
Coffee date on campus once you make the team!
The boys also wanted me to tell you good luck!
Smut Sluts? Really Val?
Cami
You’re going to knock the judges socks off!
Val
Yes Iz.
S M U T
S L U T S
Also, Aimee if you make the team, I’m writing a sports romance next!
Jessa
IF? IF? I think you mean WHEN
Val
FINE, WHEN you make the team, I’m writing a sports romance in your honor.
Aimee
Eloise
MY GIRL will 100% be on the next U.S. Olympic Team
Ellory
Oh SHIT, that’s today isn’t it?
Good Luck!
Rowan
You seriously need to write shit down on a calendar, Elly. You’re terrible with dates.
Ellory
Rowan
ily
Isabella
How’s Asher?
I feel the grin slowly slide off my face at her question.
He should have been here by now. The fluorescent lights painted everything harsh and bright. The palpable energy of the crowd in the stands washed the arena in a loud hum. It always amazed me how they could be so quiet and captivated, but still made so much noise.
I took a deep breath.
A body rushed past me, stopping at the rink wall. She was younger than me, though maybe only by a few years. I could see the excitement radiating from her.
“Sorry about that,” a deep voice behind me said, “She’s really excited to be here.”
I turned my head, and my breath caught—but only for a moment, before I smiled at the guy walking in. He was tall, broad shoulders, with tousled dark hair, dark brown eyes, and a smile that made my cheeks flush.
“She’s Aimee Bryant’s biggest fan, and begged me to bring her,” he said.
“Well, I hope she doesn’t disappoint.”
He grinned, and winked and maybe he knew exactly who he was talking to.
“Good luck out there,” he whispered as he went to corral his sister.
I felt my cheeks grow hotter, and the anxiety butterflies that always filled my stomach before events, turned into a different kind. I ducked my chin, and tried like hell to get the goofy grin forming, to chill out.
I was with Asher.
I loved Asher.
Asher was my future.
We were partners.
Little things had started to bother me. Not in any big way, but in tiny, minuscule ways, and I’d gotten pretty good at brushing them off as my own stress.
I felt Asher sidle up next to me, his arms coming around me, holding me against him. His nearness bathed me in warmth—the tiny movements of his body, the sounds of his breathing—all as familiar to me as my own.
I sucked in another deep breath.
The four am wake up calls to hit the rink before school, the after school sessions and eight hour weekend sessions—everything I willingly gave up and sacrificed for years had led to this.
The bumps, the bruises, the hurt and pain and freezing ice baths—all of it.
Skating was my life, and it all was culminating in this performance… in this final qualifier.
The butterflies that had been fluttering giddily moments ago, turned to angry wasps in my stomach.
Asher—knowing the movements of my body—squeezed me and pressed his lips to the side of my head.
My hands reached up and held onto him. Whenever the panic and anxiety started to get bad—he sensed it and he would ground me, quelling all the noise in my head.
The warmth of his skin against mine thawed the frigid air that was slowly freezing me to my core.
I let my eyes fall shut, and let myself lean into him.
Focusing on the pressure of his arms wrapped around me, the feel of his cheek against the side of my head—just the overall feel of him holding me.
I drew in a deep breath, and his usual mint was accompanied by something…
floral and citrus. It was one of those minuscule things that had started bothering me.
The fruity scent that sometimes mingled with his normal fresh and minty smell. It felt familiar, but I never could really place it. I took another deep breath, working to center myself, and opened my eyes.
Asher pulled his arms from around me, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders where he gave them a quick squeeze and a little shake. I laughed as he exaggerated the move, making me wobble on my feet.
“Better?”
I nodded and stared out at the forming crowds in the stands, the commentators finding their seats—all the thoughts and worries, they didn’t matter.
This was it. This was the last competition before the IOC—The International Olympic Committee—announced who would officially be on the U.S.
Olympic Team for the next Winter Games. If Asher and I skated as cleanly as we had been all season and during practices, then we’d make the team—it was practically guaranteed.
There was no other choice. I had no backup plans.
I’d already pulled my admission from Willow Creek University—putting my degree on hold for the time being.
Our goal—my goal—had always been to become an Olympian.
To put my skates on Olympic ice and medal.
To make every single early morning, late night, missed party and long weekend worth it.
I’d sacrificed a social life through high school and most of college to be here—to be this close to qualifying and be part of the less than one percent of U.S. athletes that make it to the Olympics.
Even before Asher came into my life and became my partner, my friend and then more—being an Olympian had always been the dream. I’d grown up watching the greats, and I decided I wanted what they had. Badly.
So, I spun in his hold and focused on him and what we were here to do.
It was Asher and I against the world. We would nail this program, we’d place, medal and get the call that we’d made the next Winter Olympics’ US Team.
We had enough cumulative points from all the other qualifiers that we should be a shoe in even if we didn’t skate our best, but if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that nothing is truly ever guaranteed. We needed to get on the podium.
Our eyes met, and Asher gave me his cheeky grin, and I found myself smiling back. For years this had been our goal—everything we’d been working towards together. And it was so close, finally within our grasp.
One performance.
A handful of lifts.
A couple of throws.
And then we’d be Olympians.
Everything we’d been working towards for the last eight years was waiting on that ice, and all we had to do was skate.
Then we’d be able to breathe, and shift our focus to the next big thing, and we’d get to celebrate together—in a way we had never done before.
The butterflies were back, but they were from the same kind of nerves, but from good ones—anticipatory ones.
The panic and fear had quickly dissipated when my gaze locked onto Asher’s green eyes.
He grabbed my hands and interlaced our fingers. His palms were warm against mine, his grip firm and comforting. He brought the backs of my hands up to his mouth, pressing kisses into both. He did this before every performance—a little ritual he claimed he had to do for us to skate well.
“We’ve got this Aimes,” he said, quietly enough that only I could hear him.
“We do,” I breathed back.
He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against mine, and I looked at him cross-eyed and he chuckled before we both shut our eyes. We stood there for a moment, breathing…centering, before he let go of my hands. My eyes opened as I felt his hands cradle the sides of my face and he kissed me.
I grinned against his lips before kissing him back, letting my body melt against his.
I fought the urge to tangle my fingers in his soft, golden hair.
I loved the feeling of the strands between my fingers and I knew he liked the scrape of my nails on his scalp, but I didn’t want to mess up the artful styling he had going on for the performance.
Eight months I’d nailed a particularly difficult skill, and Asher had surprised me by rushing onto the ice and kissing me. I’d been stunned, only for him to lean in and do it again—for longer and deeper, utterly sweeping me off my feet.
“Do you mean to tell me that I could have been kissing my best friend for months now?” he asked.
I laughed, leaning into him.
His hands moved from my face, to brace on my waist as he grinned down at me. Even in my skates, he still towered over me.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
He brushed a stray piece of hair off my face, tucking it behind my ear.
“Honestly? I wasn’t sure you felt entirely the same. You hid it well,” I said, my voice soft.
“Well, consider me an idiot.”
He’d kissed me again and again that day, until Brennan yelled at us to get back to practice.
Then, Brennan took our new found chemistry and ran with it on the ice—altering our programs to be more romantic and difficult.
He created programs that came across like poetry and magic and all the things people yearned for.
Asher and I started medaling more often than not.
Our performance grew cleaner, more dramatic and according to some ‘magically endearing and wholly captivating’.
Spectators loved us, the crowds adored us — and an online fanbase that shipped us.