Blaze

In a minor miracle, our coach let us out of tape review early. Either because she thinks we’re as well-prepared and awesome as we can possibly get and there’s nothing more she can do, or she’s given up. I’m going to go with option B, but that’s pure speculation.

I’m showered off, and I could head back to my room, maybe head out to the bar or some other place, the dining hall to grab something to eat or the lounge of my building. But the truth is, the only face I want to see is Maisy’s. I cannot get enough of that girl. I think it’s partly because I haven’t been allowed to have her as much as I’ve wanted to? And not because she’s been playing games like people sometimes do. She’s legit busy. Which is hot. She’s dedicated, and in demand because she’s so very good at what she’s set her mind to. I like passionate people, and it doesn’t matter so much what they’re passionate about. Being so diligent also means when I tell her I can’t do something, she believes me, too.

Which reminds me, I think she said she had practice right around now? I haven’t gotten to see her skate yet, just prance around in her practically naked pants, falling-off-her-shoulder sweatshirts, and leg warmers. I’ve seen YouTube clips of her, but never skating in real life. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get a chance to change that even before her events.

Maybe it’s the distancing lens of the camera, but she never looks blissful in the tapes I’ve seen. Shouldn’t she? I’m not one of those idiots who thinks figure skating is all hearts and flowers, because I’d fall on my ass about a second into any of her programs—fucking toe picks, what the fuck—but at least at the end of a well-executed routine, shouldn’t she look happy? I don’t want her to plaster one of those fake Vaseline-on-your-teeth smiles on her face. I want to see some earnest joy, and I feel like I haven’t. Why is that?

Maisy takes herself, her sport very seriously—okay, pretty much everything except banging seriously, but that shouldn’t preclude enjoying herself. I mean, hell, speed skating is one of the only things I take seriously, but I still fucking love it. It’s more exhilarating than pretty much anything else a person can do, and one of the only things that could hold my attention to bust my ass the way I do. But Maisy . . . I feel like when we’re not in the sack, she’s constantly holding herself back, trying to make herself smaller, apologizing basically for being alive. Which doesn’t make any sense, even given the whole Canadian thing. I expect her to say “soory” a lot, but not for, like, breathing.

And the way she works? Yeah, pretty much everyone here works their asses off—have to to get where they are, although I’ve heard that slalom skier Crash Delaney is basically some sort of walk-on phenom and that bugs the crap out of me—but I feel as if she’s trying to prove that she’s worthy of. . . . . . existing. Which everyone is, but even if she weren’t an incredible skater, she’d still be her. Pretty and smart and funny and can give a hell of a haircut under less than ideal conditions. Not to mention that she’s one of the only people who can match me in bed for more than a couple of days. If she has some kind of demons chasing her, she’s never let on, but why would she? We’re more about the sex, and less about the intimacy. Which is fine. Really.

The short track arena is right next to the one for figure skating, so I hustle on over, hoping I’m not too late. And if I’m not, that I’ll be able to get in. Mostly if you’ve got your athlete pass, people are pretty chill about letting you into spaces, but sometimes they can be super strict, like in places you could potentially sabotage someone. I don’t want to sabotage anyone; I want to see my girl skate.

My temporary girl. My SIG wife. I’ve heard people joking about SIG spouses before, and I’d never paid much attention because as far as I was concerned, I was competing in a second sport at the Games: fucking. If there had, in fact, been medals awarded, I am confident I would’ve taken home gold in Sapporo. This time around? I may be falling down on the job in terms of numbers, but I am racking up the quality and style points for sure.

I flash my badge at the entrance to the arena, and they don’t stop me. I swear, some of the people working the venue wouldn’t be able to tell curling from ice dancing or short track from hockey. Which is frustrating in some ways, but I will absolutely take advantage. Inside, the flash of my badge works as well, and I suspect it’s the hair, too. They might stop someone else for a closer look at their badge, but I’ve made it my business to be unmistakable. I belong here.

Before I duck into the actual rink, though, I yank a hat from my bag and tug it over my head. If she’s in the middle of a workout or practicing her program, I don’t want her to get distracted by me, and my fire-engine hair would be a good way to let her know I’m here.

The light and the ice at the end of the tunnel are bright, and I can hear the strains of music bouncing off the surfaces. I must have missed Maisy, because there’s no way in hell she’d skate to the sounds pouring down the hallway. Loud, brash, and big, it’s more like what I would skate to if I were a figure skater. It sounds like a rock concert and not the classical melodies that usually provide the backdrop for the figure skating performances.

I almost turn around because if it’s not Maisy, what the fuck do I care about who it is, but something compels me forward, maybe wanting to know who does have a program to this music. I’ll be rooting for Maisy to take home gold, obviously, even above my fellow Americans—blasphemy!—but it never hurts to have another horse in the race. Especially if that horse has excellent taste in music. Besides, it’ll only add a few minutes until I can get back to the village and see my SIG wife again . . .

Maisy

No one had the ice right after we finished up our practice, so I’m taking the opportunity to run through my exhibition piece. It’s silly, because thousands, if not millions, of people are going to be watching this in a few days, but until then, I don’t want anyone to see it. I want to keep it to myself, have something that’s for me, that no one else has a claim over, that no one else has anything to say about. The music is for me, the routine is for me, and I don’t give a shit that I’d get disqualified twenty seconds in if I skated this for my long program. That’s the whole point of this, to have fun, and show off. Not please anyone else.

When I perform this for real, the medals will have been awarded, the anthems played, and I’ll be hours, perhaps days away from another four years of obscurity. If I’m lucky. If I’m not so lucky . . .

But what matters now is the music coursing through me, the feel of my blades against the ice, the impact and satisfaction of hitting a jump perfectly. Since this is for fun, it’s more athletic than artistic, and I throw everything I have into as many jumps as I can squeeze into these four minutes. Combinations I might not attempt in a competition, and fuck yeah a triple axel I’ve never tried to land anywhere outside of my own personal ice time. Too much risk, and for what? I’d rather a good, solid, consistent performance where the judges can’t mark off for anything than taking chances on something that could win big, but I could also fuck up and end up on the bottom of the heap, maybe not even qualifying for the free program if I messed it up irreparably in the short. No, thank you. But here, now, with this thing that’s only for me? Yes.

When the music starts spiraling upwards, I do the same, coming into a layback spin. Between the climbing notes, and the increasing speed of my rotation, I feel as though I could take off. Or maybe drill down through the ice to the center of the earth.

As the music comes to a close, I make a dramatic stop with my toe pick and throw my arms up like a gymnast who nailed her dismount. I feel . . . victorious. Along with being flooded with delight. This is what I was built for, this is what I was meant to do, and being able to do it with no censure, no judgment, just letting myself be—it fills my heaving chest.

And I nearly die of shock when there’s a slow clap coming from behind the boards. I have to bite my tongue on a curse as I spin around to see who the fuck is there. At first I don’t see anyone at all, but then I catch movement out of the corner of my eye, and, unsurprisingly, a shock of red. Blaze shakes out her hair that must’ve been tucked under the toque in her hand.

“Jesus, Blaze. You scared me half to death. Let a girl know you’re here, why don’t you?”

There’s a charming-as-fuck smile on her face as she puts a hand on her hip. “But then you would’ve stopped, and I wanted to watch you skate.”

“You know not everyone wants to be watched, right?” My grumble is met by a look of such utter confusion that I feel as though I may as well have been speaking Greek. Blaze would probably be okay with having an audience for anything, everything she does. Privacy? Modesty? These are things that people desire? All I can do in the face of her incredulity is shake my head.

“I hate to break it to you, Mais, but you know thousands of people are going to be watching you in this very arena, and probably millions more on TV? I mean, you’ve done this before, so I figured—”

I skate over to where Blaze has parked herself by the boards, forearms crossed and resting atop them, and punch her, right on her biceps. She flinches, but laughs, and then rubs where my knuckles dug in. “Ow. You’re a vicious little thing. And violence outside of a hockey rink doesn’t seem very Canadian.”

Her chastisement earns her a scowl. “I don’t appreciate being mocked.”

“Well, clearly, since I now need to go to the village ER and get an X-ray to make sure you didn’t break me.”

I roll my eyes, because the idea that I could break Blaze is preposterous. “I did not break you. I didn’t even dent you. Besides, how would you be able to tell with the way you get busted up on the track? You’re a monster truck rally in human form.”

“I prefer roller derby bruiser,” she sniffs.

“Fine. Meet the newest jammer for the Blazin’ Hussies, Fire in the Hole! Or maybe Penis Flytrap?”

Oh, that grin. There’s no way she could actually do roller derby while she’s training and competing in short track—people get seriously beat up during bouts, like broken-limb beat up, and Blaze might be reckless, but I don’t think she’s so reckless that she’d jeopardize her career and everything she’s worked so hard for. Because as much as she shrugs it off, I know she busts her ass. Her training schedule is as hardcore as anyone here’s, and she’s a stalwart supporter of her sport. But I bet that after she’s done competing at this level, she’ll be trying out for the first derby league she can, and I have a feeling about what’s going to be on the back of her jersey.

For now, though, her mind’s not on her future as a dominating force on a derby squad, but solely on me. “So, are you busy?”

“You mean now that you’ve disrupted my scant private ice time? No, I suppose not. Why, what did you have in mind?”

It’ll be one of two things with Blaze: watching people go fast, or filthy sex. I know which one I’d vote for.

“Well, I was thinking either the women’s super-G or being knuckle-deep in your cunt.” Her whole face works into this positively mischievous expression. She looks like a pixie. A wicked pixie from hell, bent on finding as much vice as possible while she’s amongst mere mortals. “And I don’t have tickets to the super-G.”

My stomach clenches with the thought of it, because that sounds frigging awesome and I could really do with some of that to keep up this high feeling instead of getting my internal organs all in knots by fretting about the job I have to do.

“That’ll do. My place or yours?”

“Mine. Phoebe texted me to say she’d be out for a while. You know, in case I wanted to make use of the room. For shenanigans. Shenanigans is code for sex, by the way. You get that, right? Fucking, banging, screwing, riding the O train—”

I cover my ears in hopes that I won’t be able to hear her sex euphemisms anymore, but of course, she’s so fucking loud, I can still hear her. “Oh my god, stop, please! You’re killing me.”

“I don’t get it, Mais. You’re at least as filthy in bed as I am, and yet, I say some dirty words, and your face gets red like a tomato.”

I know, I know. It’s ridiculous. And yet as much as I can shrug off the sex-shamey stuff in private, I have a much harder time in public, and saying it out loud? Caught up in the moment, yeah, but out here? Ties me up in knots. I don’t want to stop her from doing it—hell, I want her to shout dirty things from the rooftop if she feels like it, because she ought to, I just . . . don’t want to be around when she does it. Or maybe in the audience, knowing I’m going to get in her pants afterward, but having that be our little secret. Yes, that would be best of all. “Yep, that’s how things are. Can I shower first and meet you back there? Or you could wait. It won’t be long.”

The corner of her mouth draws up again in that nefarious smile. “I’ve got a better idea.”

Of course she does, and I can’t wait to find out what it is.

First, though, we have to get to her suite. The walk isn’t super long, and that’s what it is—a walk. It’s not as though we have to catch a bus like the athletes who have events in the mountains. The village is a hop, skip, and a security gate away from the arenas.

While I wouldn’t mind walking in silence, that is not on Blaze’s agenda.

“So what was that? What you were doing?”

“Um, skating?” I know what she’s getting at and I don’t particularly want to talk about it.

“Yeah, but the music. Was that one of your programs or something else?”

“How much did you see?”

Obviously, she was there at the end, but I don’t know how long she was standing there. Did she see everything? The tips of my ears start to burn even in the cold. Not that she would object, but it’s not . . . it’s not for her. Not yet.

“Not much. Not enough. You looked amazing for the part I did see, though.”

She bumps my shoulder with hers. It makes me feel warm at the same time I’m the teensiest bit mortified.

“You looked like you were having fun, too. Not like most of the times I’ve seen you.”

Wait, what? I almost stop in my tracks, but manage not to, with a small stutter in my step. “What do you mean, all the times you’ve seen me? You been stalking me, Bellamy?”

It’s her turn to get a little awkward, for once. She gets exaggeratedly defensive. “Nooo.”

I keep walking, but I look up at her in question without turning my head much. A silent Oh, really?

“What? I haven’t been. I don’t have time for that. But I have seen you skate. On the internets.”

There’s that flush of pleasure again. Not that it’s hard to type my name into a search bar and come up with a dozen different clips from competitions, but . . . she did that. How many times has she watched me skate? What did she think? Did she sit there in awe through entire programs? Or did she only watch long enough to remember the shape of me so she could get herself off? Either way I’m flattered. “Oh?”

“Yeah, and . . .” Her brow furrows, and it’s not a good look for her. I mean, she’s still probably the dead sexiest woman on the planet, but Blaze isn’t hesitant, she’s not unsure. “Never mind.”

“Oh no, you don’t. Tell me.”

She shoves her hands into her pockets and huffs, her breath a frozen white cloud in the frigid air. “You didn’t look . . . happy.”

All the clement pleasure that’s been curling in my chest—and let’s face it, lower—evaporates, and gets replaced by a spiky misgiving. “I don’t have to be happy.”

No, happiness, joy, elation, none of that matters. Delight doesn’t rack up the points. Technical brilliance and elegance are what earns you a good score. Not actually enjoying what you’re doing, as long as you put on a good face about it.

“I guess not. But that’s the weird thing. When I saw you, just now? You looked like skating was your favorite thing on the face of the earth. Like you relished it. And it was awesome. You were awesome.”

It’s a compliment and a curse all wrapped up into one. So I was great . . . at a routine that could never earn me a medal, that many if not all of the judges would find insulting, that my parents would murder me for. Cool. I mutter a thanks, but I don’t mean it. I feel shitty and awkward and out of sorts because it’s not like I didn’t know that, but I don’t like that it’s true, and I’d rather not think about it. Fuck Blaze Bellamy for not letting me keep that icy little ball of angst and discontent to myself. I don’t want to talk about it. But knowing Blaze, if I don’t fill the space with something, she will.

But it’s as good a time to ask her about something that I’ve been curious about anyhow. “So, in that MaxOut article . . .”

She smirks at me. “Did you actually read the article and not just look at the pictures?”

“I did.” Of course I did. As if I wouldn’t scramble for any detail about her. Pfft. But she doesn’t need to know that I read the article almost as much as I rubbed one out while looking at the pictures. This is not the point. “And you said something—”

“That’s what she said?” She snorts and it’s hilarious but eyeroll-inducing at the same time. I don’t give in to her baiting, though. Now I’m fishing for information.

“You said something about being . . . polyamorous?”

She nods and looks straight ahead. “True story.”

“What . . . what does that mean?”

Blaze slides a glance in my direction, like seriously?

I cut her off before she can direct me to letmegooglethatforyou. “I mean, anyone can read the Wikipedia page, but it’s kind of confusing.”

She nods again, but looks more comfortable, her stride evening out and her body more fluid. “It’s confusing for people who’re poly, too. I don’t think any two people have exactly the same definition. I mean, basically, polyamory is about being in intimate relationships with more than one person at a time. The shape and content of them vary hugely, but the most important part is that everyone knows and is cool with it.”

I could ask her more questions, like how this works for her in particular and not solely as a general thing that happens in the world, but we’ve reached the building her suite is in, and what the hell is the point, really? It’s not as though we’re going to be together long enough for this to be an issue anyhow, and I should make the best use of the time I have with her, which sure as hell doesn’t mean talking.

Apparently she doesn’t think so, either, using her keycard to open the door and gesturing me in with a lascivious smile. “After you, hot stuff.”

Damn straight after me.