CHAPTER 56
Ana
OUR FIRST SKATING competition is on Saturday. Today is Wednesday.
Our short program has exceeded expectations, but the itch from my end to add the quad twist lift into our free skate hasn’t erased.
Though the effort put in still hasn’t led to the kind of results we need to make sure the element wouldn’t obliterate our technical score.
Difficulty is essential, but errors aren’t acceptable.
So for the time being, we’ve left it out for Challengers.
If Troy would have listened to me earlier then maybe we would have had more time to practice the move, squeezing it somewhere in our long routine.
Butting heads during practice hasn’t really improved much.
We both want to dominate, and neither is willing to surrender to the other.
A set of fries and milkshakes wasn’t exactly a peace treaty, not for a war that dates back to over a decade.
Post-practices, there’s usually been an hour of silence before one of was strikes up a conversation, which only consists of who got the groceries and which one took out the trash last.
Slouched over on the wooden bench outside of the rink, I begin unlacing my skates. When I groan at the lack of progress, he notices.
“Need some help?” he says, his lips curved.
Still leaning down, I flick my gaze up at him and his condescending tone. “I’m fine.”
My skates have other plans for me, though, currently on attempt number four before finally exhaling in defeat. I stretch my legs out across the bench, slumping as I look in Troy’s direction.
He catches my glance, pushing off the bench across from me, walking toward me with an expression full of content and the kind of confidence that has my upper thighs shaking.
I squeeze in my stomach, not wanting to give him the visual of my spread legs, weak and powerless before his sweat-soaked body.
He bends to his knees, lifting my skating boot in between his thighs. When he struggles to untie the knot, I scoff.
“Wow, you’re so good at this.”
He flicks his eyes up at me, cold. Bringing a hand to his mouth, he licks the tip of his index finger, placing his focus back to my laces.
My stomach dips with heat when he jerks the laces toward his hips, tugging my body closer to him in the process, sliding a middle finger under the loosened thread.
Bottom lip popped out to reveal the soft pink of his mouth, his infamous—distracting—unruly strand dangles against his temple.
“Enjoying the show, are we?” he baits, his eyes still on my now undone skate, “should I unlace your other one, too, Ana?”
My blade is still wedged tight between his legs. “Choose your next words carefully, Larsson. One push and it’s over for you.”
“Stop teasing me, dearest.”
His eyes on me, he pulls my skating boot out from his thighs, bending my leg toward my chest, dragging slowly, like he wants to learn how my body responds to such a touch.
I try and tame in my ticking heart with no luck, feeling the timer explode when he lets go, resting my unlaced skate back to the charcoal wet floor.
“Ana, guess who just asked me to Winter Formal?!”
Naomi’s loud voice rings in my ears before she slides onto the bench beside me.
As I turn to face her, I catch a glimpse of Troy’s face from the opposing bench.
Flexed hands untying his own skates, his eyes glued to me intensely, I feel my cheeks blush as if we just rolled around naked on this very same floor prior to my friend’s arrival.
_________
“Woah, you’re Ana. Huge fan of your work.”
I raise my brows in apprehension.
Troy’s calm reflection from the rearview mirror has me guessing this is a normality from his younger brother’s best friend, Kyle.
We’re giving Kyle a ride on our way back to Troy’s place. Apparently he’s always getting into minor collisions, which means his car’s at the dealership more days than it’s in his parent’s garage. And Troy—I have now just learned—is pretty much a chauffeur for both Karl and Kyle.
“I personally think your triple-toe loop is the best in the game. Even better than my ole’ buddy, Troy, here,” Kyle says.
Troy’s brows crease. “Since when do you know what a triple-toe loop is, Kyle?”
“Uh, since forever,” Kyle gasps out. “Figure skating’s pretty cool, if you pay attention. It’s like skate-boarding, but on the ice and also pretty different.” He leans back. “So, are you two a—”
“No,” Troy quickly says the same moment I echo, “Absolutely not.”
“Well then, I’m Kyle, Ms. Petrov. Nice to meet ya,” Kyle announces, poking his head forward, shaking out a hand.
“You know, I’m looking for a Winter Formal date, if you’re interested.
I just turned 18, and I can score us tickets to any hockey game.
I’ve got connections.” He smacks Troy’s shoulder with a wink, earning himself a dirty look from the driver’s seat.
I’m enjoying this way too much. Especially because Troy isn’t. He looks miserable.
“You don’t have to respond to him,” Troy tells me dryly.
“You had your chance, bro,” Kyle scolds. “Let the lady speak for herself.” The dirty blond shoots his attention back on me. “I’m also in a band.”
“When did you join a band?” Troy asks, his brows raised in confusion.
“Last week.”
“Okay. Please get out.”
The car jerks to a stop as we pull into the entrance of a lavish gated community, one of Faerieladle’s many that I’ve only ever driven past on my long drives to the rink.
Kyle’s shoulders slump as he gathers his hockey gear from the backseat. Once he slips out the car, his head still leaned through the door, he adds, “Tell Karl, he still owes me a sandwich.”
“I won’t. Have a nice day.”
Kyle flips Troy off as he slams the door.
I turn toward Troy, amused. “Your brother’s friend is charming.”
“Yeah, he’s a reincarnated Romeo,” Troy deadpans, flooring the gas pedal again.
I laugh softly, closing my eyes for the duration of the ride hoping it makes up for the four hours of sleep I got the night before.
Instead, I’m wide awake with eyes shut for the remainder of the drive, forced to focus on the sharp pain running down my back all morning.
I can actually pinpoint the moment the discomfort deepened.
When I landed on Pippa Collins’ latest column on the Lombardia Trophy, the competition Violet and Ethan placed at—placed first at—my lower back decided to cramp up my entire upper body.
U.S. Figure Skating submitted their entries for Violet and Ethan for the competition held in Italy, while Troy and I were selected for the CS Nebelhorn Trophy, the Challenger event in Germany.
Their few week head start gave Troy and me the extra time, but competing first always has its perks—like not having to drown in self-doubt over highly favorable, borderline kiss-assery articles about your mortal enemy.
The Queen of Hearts is back with a new king, and she steals the show—Again.
That was the headline.
Believe it or not, the fans nicknamed Violet that. Fans nickname everyone.
A few other stand-outs:
Emi, the butterfly.
Sasha, the firecracker.
Celeste, the dragonfly.
And how can I forget mine, labeled on me at 15: Ice Princess. “Ice Princess” is supposed to be a compliment. Except, it feels like a dagger. A dagger aimed an inch from my throat, warning me of my inevitable skating downfall, should I slip.
Violet and my given nicknames always felt like the two odd ones out. Strategic. A royal has their reign. It’s timed. One day, when our competition pleasingly watches as we both slip, a new Princess and Queen will be crowned.
In the meantime, Pippa Collins and her team have all the down time and resources in the world to shuffle us around like a deck of wilted cards, cashing in on our misery and selling it as entertainment.
And Troy and I are up next.
Even a scalding hot bath once we got home wasn’t enough to ease the ache, returning to the living room to find my skating partner lying over the sofa on his laptop, relaxed.
“Why aren’t you packing?” I ask.
“We have time,” Troy says flatly.
“Our flight’s in like 12 hours.”
“You worry about landing your axels. I’ll worry about packing my clothes.”
Anger boils in me, remembering practice from earlier in the day. His fault, why I landed poorly. “For the last time, it’s not my landing, it’s your hands.”
He folds his laptop shut, bringing his eyes to my face. “My hands were holding you the way they should.”
“If they were, I’d have a perfect landing. Seems like they’re just as sloppy as they were in high school.”
“You mean when one of my wrists was fractured?”
I brush past Troy and his agitated face, ignoring his comment, dropping onto the adjacent sofa. Reaching for one of the cushiony pillows, I scoop it underneath my lower back, rolling my shoulders as I reach for the TV remote. Unlike some people, I’m already packed and ready for our flight.
“What’s with your shoulders?” he asks.
“Nothing, I’m fine.”
He gives a quiet scoff but I still hear it.
“What?”
“You say that an awful lot.” When I stay quiet, staring at his face and harsh truth, he adds, “Normally I wouldn’t offer this easily, but I’d be willing to give you a massage, dearest.”
“Gee, how noble of you. But I’ll pass. A massage never helps me anyway.”
“Maybe you’re not getting it from the right person.”
Heat pricks at my skin. “They just don’t do much for me. Like back scratches feel way better to me than a back massage.”
“Ah, okay, I see. Is that the only place you like to be scratched, Petrov?”
“No, I like a good scratch to the knee before I kick a wiseass in the balls.”
He laughs. “Let me do this for you. I promise it’ll make you feel good.”
My legs squeeze, brushing off that strange spark of desire that’s hypnotized me each time we’ve found each other in the same room lately. I narrow my eyes. “Are you trying to trick me into touching me?”
Troy’s mouth curves into an arrogant smirk. “If I wanted to touch you, Ana, I wouldn’t need to trick you.” My back tenses when he lifts off the sofa and toward me. “Now lie down on your stomach.”
A glimmer of pleasure runs down my lower belly at his firm command.
Then a strike of pain shoots up my spine, making me sigh as I ultimately obey, twisting my body until I’m resting against my stomach.
The soft cotton of Troy’s grey sweatshirt tickles the side of my hip that’s exposed from my tank top.
“Over or under?” he says.
I can feel the goose bumps poking at my skin. Am I so touch-starved that the idea of the last guy I’m supposed to want lifting my shirt and running his big hands all over my backside isn’t sounding as disgusting as I had hoped?
I guess I am.
Because I actually reply, “Under is fine.”
Who have I become?
I can just see his smirk even with my current view of the navy arm of the sofa.
It’s my eyes that start to roll back the moment Troy’s fingers slip underneath my oversized tee, running up the columns of my hips, kneading not so softly at all.
The depth, the way I can feel the strength of his knuckles smoothing out each patch of bottled pressure slowly, has picked up my breathing and pebbled the tips of my breasts.
He pushes down, the force moving, rubbing my chest along with it, until the attempt to keep noise from escaping my lips becomes a whole new ache.
Apparently, my back is an erogenous zone I wasn’t aware of.
Fuck. The faintest buzz drifts from the TV, the sound fading as a foggy silence replaces it when experienced fingers wrap around my shoulders, their length reaching the base of my neck.
Air, breathing, words, all feel like a jumble as I suck in an embarrassingly deep breath.
I shut my eyes to stop from circling my hips against the couch, dying to move the building pressure in my clit to its very edge.
If he’d warned me it would feel this good, I would have definitely passed.
Probably. Probably not. No, I definitely would have.
A gentle back and forth caress replaces at the base of my spine, lifting my entire chest, sighing out the frustration.
“If this is turning you on, oh Annabel…,” Troy taunts arrogantly.
“It’s not turning me on,” I snap, pleasure pinching at my skin even as I say the words.
“No? If I pushed a bit deeper, you wouldn’t make a sound then, would you?”
He does exactly that, and my body, my traitorous body. Makes. A. Sound.
Fucking fuck.
“I think I just heard you moan,” he says it like he just won a game I wasn’t aware we were playing.
I immediately sit myself up.
“That wasn’t a moan, you moron.”
“Well, it was pretty quiet. I like it loud.”
My top lip bites into my bottom harsh enough to cut.
“Sometimes I just want—”
“To fuck me?”
My eyes pop out ferociously. “To smash your head against the wall!”
“Yeah? So do it, Ana. I’m ready.”
Keep. Your. Cool.
“Or would you rather kiss me, first?” he rephrases, his lips curved.
“I would never kiss you!”
“Never?”
“Goodnight!” I jump off the couch, flustered and hot, stomping out the living room as I shout, “And start packing!”