Maisy

Practice was less than great. Yes, I’m nailing all my jumps, but I feel like a wind-up toy while I’m doing it. Or maybe one of those ballerinas who pop up when you open a jewelry box. Pretty but soulless, and it annoys me that Blaze is right. So very, very right. But what’s more important? Landing a triple lutz into a double toe loop or doing it half as well while looking as if I won a trip to Disneyworld?

At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter. My job isn’t to win gold; that’s not something my coach expects of me. Bronze, perhaps, but gold is an overreach for a journeyman like me. I show up, work hard, ace my routines, but there’s nothing particularly special about me. Not at this level anyhow. I fill out the roster, give our team a solid base, a way to take a chance on other more mercurial skaters.

Which would explain why I’m climbing up the stairs to Blaze’s suite. I want a distraction from the program I’ll be skating tomorrow. I don’t want it running through my head on an endless loop because routine is not something I lack. No, that, sadly, is what we would call passion.

Although as I make the turn onto the last landing before her floor, I have to wonder if being with Blaze is going to make me feel better or if I’ll only feel more ordinary next to all her pomp and circumstance. I adore the girl, but sometimes I feel as though she’s even competing with me, as if there’s a chance in hell I could win. At anything when she’s involved.

At last I make it to her floor, and down the hall to her suite, where there’s a . . . seriously? There’s a motherfucking sock on the door.

I stand there, stunned, the breath knocked out of me. I asked her for one thing. Okay, two. But even so, how hard should this be? If she wanted to get it on with someone else, all she had to do was tell me and we’d be over. Not hard. But Blaze isn’t known for her impulse control. Maybe she got made an offer she couldn’t refuse and decided I’d probably never find out, so it was okay. Who the fuck knows, maybe she’s been meeting up with other people every time I’ve had practice or a team meeting. I wouldn’t know.

I’ve long since recovered my breath from practice, but my chest feels tight again, and not from the effort of climbing the stairs. Fuck. This was not a thing I was supposed to have feelings about. Get in, orgasm—repeatedly—get out, easy-peasy. That was the idea. Indulge myself with someone who wasn’t going to make me feel as though I was too much and then move on before I couldn’t live with myself anymore.

The thing is, it’s not so much the sex that’s making me feel all hot and squirmy and like I have rage snakes slithering throughout my body. It’s the betrayal. She looked me in the face and lied, promised me a thing and then took it away.

Hell, maybe if she’d said she wanted to fuck someone else, I would’ve given her the okay. Maybe, just maybe, depending on who it was, I might’ve liked to . . . be involved? Watched? Heard about it? It’s never occurred to me that I’d be okay with such a thing before, but something about Blaze might let me enjoy that. Or maybe not, because letting someone I don’t trust into this private part of my life makes me queasy, but maybe I could’ve given her my blessing. That might’ve made this okay. Or not, but at least I would’ve had a choice.

Who is it in there with her? Could be anyone. Literally, anyone. Are they better than me? At anything? Everything? Willing and able to be seen with her in public? Haven’t been shamed to within an inch of their lives about having wants and desires and wanting attention any place off the ice?

It takes me a while to gather my thoughts, to come up with a plan, and in the meantime, I’m standing there, stupidly, outside her door, looking at the sock, a symbol of her infidelity. There’s some melodrama for you. Will socks forever remind me of heartbreak? That would be unfortunate, although at least it’s not tights. That would be far more problematic.

Finally I get my shit together enough to put my feet in motion and get the hell out of there before Blaze comes spilling out of her suite, because she doesn’t do anything without bluster, without making a scene.

Head down, bag slung over my shoulder, and puffy boots plodding down the stairs I walked up minutes ago, I’m trying to get the fuck out of Dodge. I’m so mired in my own unhappiness that I almost run into someone who’s coming up the staircase.

“Whoa, Maisy, where are you going?”

That voice is familiar, but it also doesn’t compute. For one thing, Blaze is in her suite banging away at someone. Or someones. For another, there’s no way she could’ve made it up two flights of stairs without making enough of a racket that I wouldn’t have heard her and been relieved. That must have been some hardcore wallowing, because she’s standing right there, her hair looking damn fine. It’s a silly thing to find pride, pleasure in, but I do. She took the time to do her hair, make it look its very best.

But there’s still a piece of me that’s angry at her, even as her expression is open and guileless which is why my words are clipped. “I was going to see you.”

“Lucky you, you found me.” Her face lights up like it always does at the prospect of us indulging in some fun and games.

Right, lucky. I wanted to find her, and now she’s here. I should be happy, but instead, the feeling nags.

“Where were you?”

“Out with some friends. We caught some of the Nordic combined. You gotta love how bored those Scandinavians must’ve been to come up with that shit.”

“Right.” I’m trying to shift gears, but it’s proving to be difficult. It’s like waking up from a bad dream still convinced it happened.

“Are you okay?” Blaze is looking at me as though being out of sorts is some sort of crime. “Because you don’t look okay.”

That’s always nice to hear. Right up there with “You look tired,” or “You’d be prettier if you smiled.”

“No, I . . . I went up to your room and there was a sock on the door.”

Blaze’s wide face splits with her grin. “Nice. I wonder if Phoebe finally scored with that Israeli figure skater. He was really fucking hot and flirting with her, but she was all ‘I don’t know.’ I told her to go for it, and I think she took my advice.”

She claps and does a little shimmy, and if I weren’t still disconcerted, I’d probably find it adorable. “Yeah.”

Her delighted someone’s-getting-laid dance stops, and she puts her hands to her hips. “For realsies, you’re kinda freaking me out.”

“I thought it was you.” My voice is tight, accusing. I know it’s not fair, but I can’t help it.

Blaze’s head cocks like a puppy’s, and part of me wants to tousle her hair, but another part is thinking I shouldn’t be affectionate with her, because she’s going to break my heart. Temporary, this was temporary to start with, and if it ends a bit sooner than expected, then it does. It shouldn’t be paining me quite this much. Blaze looks equally stunned, though.

“You thought . . . you thought I was fucking someone else?”

“Yeah, I did. Are you trying to tell me that was a ridiculous thing to suspect?”

Any lingering curiosity on Blaze’s face vanishes, replaced by hot defensiveness. “It is, actually. I promised I wouldn’t fuck anyone but you while we’re here. I might have some issues with impulse control and I have no problem admitting I’ll take attention wherever I can get it, but it’s not as if I would’ve . . . oops!” She gestures like mad toward her crotch in a vulgar way that makes me cringe and flush. Please don’t let anyone decide to make use of this stairwell. “Fell on some dude’s dick or tripped and landed with my mouth on some chick’s cunt. What the hell? I’ve never cheated on a partner who’s asked for fidelity.”

I want to splutter something, but nothing comes out. My face gets hotter and probably redder, and Blaze’s eyes narrow, her nose wrinkling like a bunny’s. “Wait a second. Is this some shitty-ass bi-phobia? That I couldn’t possibly be satisfied with pussy forever because I also like dick and don’t I need both to survive? Or is this about me being promiscuous? I don’t even mind being called a slut because I don’t think having the kind of sex I want, who I want it with, whenever I want it, is anything to be ashamed of. I’m taking that word all the way back. But you . . .”

Yeah, the finger she pokes in my chest hurts, partly because, ow, the girl has a finger like the sharp end of a ski pole, but also because I don’t think she’s completely wrong and I’m ashamed of myself. Seriously, Maisy? You know better than that. It might be your first thought, but it definitely wouldn’t be your last. If anyone asked you, you’d tell them that was some bullshit.

“You’re so afraid of what you want and what you like that you’re going to dump that shit on me? I don’t fucking think so. Get out of here, and go back to your frosty ice queen palace if you’re going to come at me with that. No, no, no.”

Fuck.

She tries to shove past me, and part of me wants to let her go because I’m not really down for a physical altercation in a hallway, but also we’re on stairs—if you’re going to have a fight, a staircase is not the place to do it. Everyone knows that. Unless you’re in an action or spy movie, in which case it’s a bonus feature. For athletes, though? It’s basically inviting a broken ankle or worse.

So I stand on my step, squeeze my eyes closed, and clench my fists. “Blaze. Please, wait.”

Her angry stomping stops, but she’s breathing hard and I know it’s not from exertion. She could run stairs for a good long while before getting winded. That’s how upset she is by what I said and I feel even worse. Her snapped-out words don’t make me feel any better. “For what? So you can tell me I’m a whore who’s going to hell and that I should learn how to keep my legs closed? Because I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime, thanks.”

A seam of sympathy rips open inside me, and I wouldn’t be surprised if my guts spilled right out onto the floor. It takes me a second to get my own breath because I’m choked with regret. I’m doing the same thing to her as has been done to me. As has probably been done to her, said to her, for her whole life. I wouldn’t have thought she was so bothered by it, but maybe she puts on a good show? Or maybe it doesn’t matter if it’s some rando on the street but it matters when it’s me? The thought is alternately horrifying and exhilarating.

“No. I was going to say that I owe you an apology. You’re right. Not about the bi thing, but the . . . the . . . the other thing.”

I know she doesn’t think of “slut” as an offensive word, but if someone called me that, I wouldn’t be proud, and she knows it. I don’t want to use it and have her think that’s the way I’m applying it to her.

“I did think, when I saw the sock on the door, that it was you, because you do sleep with a lot of people. And maybe you’d gotten tired of me so you decided to fuck someone else, and would maybe tell me later if at all. I don’t think I would’ve jumped to that conclusion if you . . .” I trail off because I don’t quite know how to phrase this without making it worse.

“If I didn’t fuck quite so many people?”

Her hands are on her hips, but she doesn’t look as though she’s about to push me down the steps or anything, so I’ve got that going for me. She may be rough and tumble on the track, but I’ve never known her to be violent anywhere off it, except in bed and I’d describe that more as aggressive—deliciously so—than violent.

“Yes. And I’m sorry. That was shitty, and wrong, and it has way more to do with my own insecurities than it does with the choices you make. I’d like to think if I’d had more time to think about it and be rational that I might’ve still been worried about it, but not for as crappy reasons. It probably would’ve boiled down to me being concerned that I’m not enough for you.”

She opens her mouth, but she doesn’t owe me anything, and I want to make that clear. “That is in no way me fishing for compliments, I’m trying to explain how my brain got kinda stupid. Because feelings. You’re absolutely right that it’s nonsense, and I wouldn’t blame you if you still wanted me to leave. I didn’t want to leave with you hearing my voice on top of all those other ones you have to deal with. So again, I’m sorry and you deserve better than that. I’ll go.”

I thumb toward the door that’s down a few flights of stairs, even turn and start plodding down the steps, feeling shitty and guilty and queasy and regretting how much I must have hurt her. Which I’ll have to fucking live with, because it is so not her job to make me feel better about this. I was flat-out wrong. I can blame other people for my knee-jerk reaction—thanks, Mom and Dad for making sex something so frigging dirty and shameful and secret—but I have no one to blame but myself for holding onto that.

Grabbing the handrail at the next landing, I’m swinging around it to the next flight of stairs when there are quick, bounding footsteps behind me. I hold my breath and close my eyes in hopes it’s Blaze, but with no real expectation. You can’t really have one when you’ve screwed up as badly as I have.

Then there’s a hand on my arm, and someone’s tugging me around. I see a flash of red hair and that’s how I know it’s Blaze. That and the span of her hands as she grabs my upper arms and levels a glare at me.

“That is some Class-A bullshit right there, and I am not happy about it. Being bi and poly and liking sex—lots of it—doesn’t make me a cheater, and it doesn’t make me a liar. I don’t forgive you for that.”

My stomach bottoms out and I feel sick. I knew I’d messed up, and I didn’t expect forgiveness, to have my snap judgment absolved. But she could’ve let me walk out and been done. She wants to make me feel worse? That doesn’t jibe with the Blaze I know, who might have a temper like wildfire but is equally quick to get over stuff. Or, as I’m coming to think, bury it under things she wants, that she won’t let anyone take away from her.

Clearly we don’t know each other very well, though, otherwise I might have had a pang of shock and my mind might have darted to that stupid, unkind thought, but then I would’ve smacked my forehead and remembered she has a roommate, and it was probably her getting lucky. Not that the person who I’ve been having amazing sex with and enjoy even outside of the filthy banging would betray me.

Blaze shakes me, as if she can tell my mind’s wandered off, and it forces me to make eye contact. That intense kind where it feels as though you’re the only two people on earth, even if you’re in a roomful of people. Her gaze is so deep, it feels like she’s reaching inside of me and putting a stranglehold on my soul.

“I’m mad at you for something else, too, though.”

There’s more? I’m going to end up running out of here in tears, aren’t I? But no, I don’t cry. I’d walk out of here, straight-backed and stoic, and she’d think to herself that she was right about me, that I don’t have feelings and I’m a prude everywhere except in her bed.

“I’m mad at you for thinking you’re not enough for me. What the hell is that? You’re enough, Maisy. You’re precisely enough. You’re beautiful, and talented, and an amazing lay. Not to mention a creative one. I bet we could fuck for a month and not do it the same way twice. I know you weren’t looking for compliments, but I’m giving them to you anyway. And I’m sorry if I ever contributed to making you feel that way. You’re plenty.”

I may end up crying for a different reason. Never have I been told that. Ever. My parents thought I had too much personality, too much volume, not enough hard work and success. But for Blaze, a person I admire and in some ways envy to tell me I’m precisely enough? Fuck, this tight throat and the sniffle I let out is totally going to ruin my reputation as a heartless automaton. Would that really be the worst thing, though? I never wanted people to think of me that way, they just . . . do. Except for Blaze.

“I’m not going to say that I’ve never broken up with someone because I’m poly, and they weren’t, and they wanted me to be monogamous forever. I have. But it was always a conversation, not me getting bored one day and saying fuck it to my relationship. So if this were a long-term thing instead of being SIG spouses? Yeah, we’d have that talk. But that’s what it would be. You don’t need to worry.”

Blaze has a tendency to talk fast and sometimes mix up words, and generally be a little sloppy, reckless. But I’ve never known her to use the wrong tense when speaking. You don’t need to worry. That’s what she said, not You didn’t need to worry, which is what she’d say if she were going to smack me on my butt and send me on my way and then go find someone to actually have sex with because she’s free of me and her obligation to me.

“So are you saying you’re not breaking up with me? You’re going to give me another chance?” I don’t like the pleading hope in my voice, but she deserves it, that kernel of insecurity.

“No, I’m not breaking up with you, and yes, I’m giving you another chance. But you pull that again and I’m going to shred your fancy-ass costumes with my skates. You have my word, and I need for that to be good enough for you.”

“It is.” I mean it this time. That dreamtime fear has melted away in the face of Blaze’s insistence, because I truly do believe in her integrity. She’s so honest and up-front about who she is and what she wants, why would she lie about this? “But can I ask you something? I will do my very best not to sound like an idiot, but I might mess it up.”

I love Blaze’s smile. She could light up the night sky with that thing. “I’ve got some experience with that. Shoot.”

“I didn’t know that you, um, did the whole relationship thing? I thought you just . . . fucked a lot of people? So is that what you mean when you say poly?”

“I have done relationships in the past, but I’m not in one right now. I would’ve told you. Some people aren’t cool with making out with someone else’s girlfriend even if that person is totally cool with it. I respect that. So for the last year or so until you asked me not to and in Sapporo? I was fucking a lot of people.”

It’s a good thing I know she was trying to make me lose it, otherwise I’d feel bad about busting out laughing over that. “But if it’s okay, then do you date someone and fuck a lot of people?”

“Sometimes. Or sometimes I have one primary partner and a couple of other people I date more casually. Sometimes I see three or four people and none of them are more important than the others. Depends on what everyone is okay with and what my life looks like. Whatever is going on, everyone knows about it and everyone’s okay with it.”

She studies my face, and I hope I don’t look as though I’m thinking too hard. It’s just not something I come across every day. But why would I? I’m basically a hermit who sneaks the occasional lay during competitions. “Do you have any other questions? I’ll try to answer them as best I can. Communication is part of what makes the whole poly thing work.”

Right. Do I? “Not now. I think that was enough Poly 101 for one day.”

“Okay.” She uses the hands that have been gripping my biceps to chafe my arms instead, and it loosens something inside me, making me slump slightly in gratitude and exhaustion both. “Long practice?”

“Yeah.”

Blaze’s gaze darts up the stairwell in the direction of her suite. “I’d invite you in, but . . .”

“Your roommate’s socking it to an Israeli figure skater?”

She snort-giggles at my horrible pun, and it makes me feel even better. Looser. “Yeah, probably.”

We smile at each other. There’s still a buzz of conflict, but it’s settled into a muted hum now, and feels as though it could—with time and steadfastness . . . But what am I talking about? There’s no such thing. We’re here for another ten days. All I have to do is not be a fucking idiot for ten days and I’ll get to keep her for as long as this lasts. Then we’ll go about our own business, separately. Better that way, because I’m not sure how that conversation Blaze mentioned earlier would go.

“Maisy, I’d like to see other people.”

Insert me bawling because I am not, in fact, perfectly sufficient. Yeah, I can’t see that going super well. Also, we’re busy, travel a lot, have our own obligations, training schedules, lives to figure out after we’re no longer in fact, fit to compete at the SIGs.

But when I think of Blaze sleeping with other people? It doesn’t bother me as much as I’d think it would. Or maybe as much as it ought to. But again, moot. Irrelevant. There’s an egg timer on this, and that’s how it should be.

For now, though . . . “We could go to my place. Kristie might be there, so we might just be chilling.”

My offer is hesitant, because I don’t know that I’ve ever seen Blaze chill, but a grin splits her face. “Can we watch the women’s skeleton finals on your laptop? I’ve got kind of a thing for girls who dive in headfirst.”

I roll my eyes, because of course she does. “Yeah, let’s go.”

And so we do.