Jubilee

“What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” Beckett’s got that look on his face that makes me want to call him Captain Obvious. Damn good skater, but the brightest bulb in the box he’s not.

“This is my room. See?” I gesture around to the things that make that perfectly obvious. My skates lined up in the corner, my costumes hanging in the closet, my lucky pillow on my bed, and my Kindle on the nightstand. Not like I’ll actually have time to read, but sometimes glancing at a couple of pages helps me fall asleep at night. Gives me just enough of something else to focus on besides the stress of competition and missing Stephen like crazy.

I put my hands on my hips, daring Beckett to argue with me. He might be as much of a fusspot on the ice as I am, which is great. A driven, pedantic stickler? Yes, please. We’re very well-matched in that regard, because even in a sport where everyone’s a perfectionist, Beckett and I eat, sleep, and breathe flawlessness in a way that’s too much for anyone else. On the ice, yes, but off the ice, he tends to be more flexible than I am. More naturally personable, carefree. We’re for damn sure not on the ice now. This is my refuge from the competition, and from everything that reminds me so much of Stephen.

It’s not that Denver is so similar to Sapporo, or really alike in any except the most basic ways that all SIG towns are, but god, it still feels like I have a ghost on my arm everywhere I go. Sometimes it’s nice to have that voice whispering in my ear—it can be the only thing that gets me through the day or a really rough practice, but sometimes it just . . . hurts.

And here’s Beckett, looking around like he’s never been in a girl’s room before. I know that’s not true because he has a good time with women when we’re on the road. It makes me want to hide my more personal items nonetheless. I don’t think he’s been dating since he moved to Boston to skate with me, but he has a reputation as a ladies’ man and I’m not any fucking lady. I’m his partner and I really don’t need him seeing anything but my hard on-ice edges.

“Yeah, well, this is my room too. This is the room they assigned me. My keycard opened the door.”

He waves a crumpled letter he’s pulled from his duffel bag at me, and I don’t want to touch that. Who the fuck knows where it’s been. It does, however, have the distinctive SIG seal on it, and I can’t deny that his keycard did, in fact, unlock the door. But fuck if he’s staying here. I may be willing to cut a bitch who tries to snatch him away to skate with, but otherwise, the rest of the word can have him.

“Maybe it’s the room they assigned you, but they’re going to assign you a different one.”

I try not to be a precious princess—can’t be with the kind of bruises I get on the regular or the way I sweat every damn day—but occasionally my inner diva comes out, and this is going to be one of those times.

I am not going to be able to make it through this month without crying at least a few times, and Beckett doesn’t need to know I have feelings. He also doesn’t need to know about my fuzzy bunny slippers or my cutesy pajamas or my sleeping mask with the eyelashes on it. I don’t know that they help keep the dreams of Stephen away, and I don’t know that I’d want them to, but the whole fluffy, adorable package makes going to bed more appealing. Let me indulge in those silly, comforting things without being mocked by the man I have to be handled by eight hours a day. All he needs to know is that I can skate.

Before he can protest, I yank my cell out of my pocket and call our coach, Daphne. She’ll fix this. She fixes everything.

Daphne doesn’t even bother with a hello because she never does. Knows I won’t either. “You finished feathering your nest?”

“Yes, I am, and now I’ve got a cuckoo here.”

“Hey, who are you calling a—”

I shush Beckett verbally and with a death stare, which makes his eyes pop wide.

“What do you mean a cuckoo? There’s someone else there?”

I pace away from Beckett’s open mouth. “Yes. Beckett is here with a working keycard and a letter that says this is his room. I don’t know what the hell happened, and I don’t care. Just get this fixed, Daphne. I don’t give a shit how. I’ll wait for your call.”

It’s times like these I’m sad that landlines aren’t a thing anymore. A handset crashing into its cradle would’ve been so satisfying, and yet all I can do is press my screen hard. Not enough of an outlet for my displeasure, not at all. When I turn back to Beckett with my arms crossed, he’s just staring.

“Did you just call me a cuckoo?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well that seems harsh.” Oh, pouty Beckett. This is new. I wouldn’t say I like it, but it is entertaining. He’s like a puppy who didn’t get a treat after performing its latest trick. With his curly, fluffy mop of blond hair, he’d be a goldendoodle or something. “You don’t need to call me crazy and stupid. At least not to my face.”

I roll my eyes because I can’t even help it. Whoever Beckett’s tutors were while he was coming up through the skating world did not do a good enough job. “I wasn’t calling you crazy or stupid. I was calling you a parasite. Cuckoos lay their eggs in other birds’ nests, and when their eggs hatch, the babies roll the nest owners’ eggs out. Little bastards.”

“I don’t think a parasite is much better than stupid.”

“It’s not, but it’s more accurate.”

Beckett’s blond brows scrunch in the middle, and I want to tell him to knock it off, because makeup can only hide creases that are so deep. Also, I’ve already expended more energy on this than I’d care to and I’m done. I’d like to get back to stretching. Maybe he could go hang out in one of the common lounges until this gets worked out? Or the gym? The village bar? Basically anywhere but here because I’d like some peace and quiet in which to get my emotionally fragile state under control.

“Anyway, don’t bother unpacking. I’m sure Daphne will be calling back any minute to straighten this out. And there’s no need for you—”

Looking me straight in the eye, Beckett drops his duffel in the middle of the floor and plops himself on the second bed.

“—to settle in.” Fucker.

“Look, I’ve just spent a bunch of hours in transit. I wasn’t flying first class like you, so it wasn’t pleasant. All I want is to—”

“No. No. Beckett Donovan Hughes, I swear on all that is holy if you lie on that bed—”

Then he does it. Swings his long, powerful, denim-clad legs up onto the bed, and drops his curl-covered head back onto the pillows. And then has the nerve to sigh like he just kicked back on a lounge chair by a pool at some tropical resort. Oh hell no.

Irritation is bubbling up through my body, and pretty soon it’s going to spill out my ears. Patience for some things I have in spades, like learning a new jump or lift or spin, sewing crystals or sequins that have come loose back onto my costumes, or getting choreography just right—but people invading my personal space is not something I tolerate.

Then he’s threading his fingers together behind his head and crossing his ankles. Makes me want to throw something heavy at his irritatingly pleasant face, or gut him with my toe pick. I jab a finger at him and scowl when I realize his eyes are closed. He’s keeping me from even bringing the full force of my wrath down upon his head. “Don’t get comfortable. Daphne’s going to be getting you out of my hair any second.”

Right on cue, my cell rings. I jab my finger at him once more for good measure, and because it makes me feel better even if he can’t see me. “See? This is her, and you better get ready to go because I’m sure she’s calling with a new room assignment for you.”

I turn away and stalk toward the bathroom, because it’s as far away from him as I can get. Slamming the door, I turn on the shower, partly so Beckett won’t hear what I’m saying, also because I find the white nose soothing. And I need some goddamn soothing at the moment.

“Daphne. Thank god. What’s Beckett’s new room assignment? He’s all acting like he owns the place already, so the sooner I get him out of here the better.” I should be annoyed he didn’t take his boots off before he swung them up on the bed, but I didn’t comment because that’s one less thing he has to do before he gets the hell out of here.

She makes a clucking noise that does not bode well, and I brace myself for the verdict. “So, here’s the thing . . .”

Beckett

I expected Jubilee to pace, because she does that a lot, but instead she walks into the bathroom, slams the door as well as she can given how cheap and flimsy they are, and proceeds to crank on the shower. While I completely agree she could use a good cooldown, I doubt she’s actually hopping into the shower. Instead, I hear her voice rise, and I can tell she’s yelling at Daphne, even if I can’t understand the words being said.

At some point, between the travel fatigue and the bizarrely soothing combination of the white noise of the shower spray and poor Daphne getting chewed out, I must fall asleep, because I get yanked out of a very pleasant dream of the kind of fun I’d like to have with the Swiss Alpine skiing team by someone grabbing my feet and shoving them off the bed, nearly making the rest of my body follow. “Hey!”

“Were you raised in a barn? Get your boots off the bed.”

Now she cares about my shoes on the bed? After I’ve sat up and rubbed my eyes, I open them to a crossed-arm Jubilee standing in front of me. She’s got on her usual off-ice uniform of yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt, and her hair’s up in this ponytail that’s so tight and high, I’m surprised she can still move her face.

“So what’s the verdict? Where am I headed to? The boiler room? Equipment storage? Broom closet?”

Jubilee uncrosses her arms, narrows her eyes and her mouth tightens just enough for me to know that she’s using every bit of her willpower to not bite my head off. While some people might twitch and be apologetic, Jubilee is not other people. The only sign I get that she’s disconcerted at all is that her thumb won’t stop rubbing her phone.

“Unfortunately, the village is overfull as it is. There’s no place for you to go.”

What? But before I can interrupt, she continues in that strung-taut voice that might break if it got plucked in a perfect way. “If someone from Team USA needs to go home for whatever reason”—and we all know those reasons are never good, so neither of us will wish for that—“you may be able to move, but at this point, we’re stuck together. So I suggest you take your shoes off before you lie down again. Also, if you’re going to snore like that this entire month, please stop and get me some ear plugs, because you sound like a chainsaw. Not a new one either. Don’t move my things, don’t touch my things, don’t comment on my things. Don’t hog the shower, don’t touch the thermostat, don’t hide food because we’ll get pests. Don’t talk to me unless you have to, and don’t bring anyone back here. I need privacy.”

Way to roll out the welcome mat, Jubilee. So much for Southern hospitality. I don’t really have a problem with any of that, because I’m not exactly thrilled to be bunking down with her either, except the last bit. I have been waiting months for this. I am going to have sex. A lot of it. She can set our schedules and I’ll stick to them because she knows what she’s doing, but she is not going to make me be celibate. I don’t mind abstaining when we’re back home because there’s the possibility of a relationship—do not want—but here, where everyone knows the score?

“You can’t forbid me from bringing someone back here.”

“I just did.”

“Jubilee—”

She shakes her head so hard her hair whips around her face. “No. I will not be coming home to you . . . doing whatever it is you plan to do with whomever you plan to do it with. I find a sock or a note on the door, I’m coming in, and pitching a fit until your . . . companion leaves. Got it?”

I wish the extra desk was sitting in front of me instead of being across the room. I’d really like something to flip or bang my head on right about now. Speaking of banging, though . . .

“No. I do not agree to those terms. I have been working my ass off for you for the past two years. Do you know when the last time I had a girlfriend was?”

Her arms are back across her chest but she doesn’t interrupt me. Also, I don’t really want to answer that question. Sure it’s been my choice to keep things the way they are, but two years is a long time and I don’t like it. Not to mention I’ve pretty well settled on being single until my competitive career is over, so I can’t entirely foist that on Jubilee. But what I can blame her for is me not getting in some meaningless, stress-busting, mind-clearing sex while I can with women who aren’t going to expect anything more because we’ve got the same M.O.

“The only times I get laid are when we go to competitions. I show up at practice, I show up at performances, I am crazy charming during all the press you insist on. I show up at every goddamn thing you want me to do and I’m at the top of my game, but you’re not going to tell me I can’t have a sex life.”

Her head tilts ever so slightly, her dark ponytail falling over her shoulder. “Been wanting to get that off your chest for a while now, huh?”

This woman is maddening. No wonder she couldn’t keep a partner before I showed up. I mean, sure, some of them were just flat out not of her caliber, because not many people are. But some of it is her ice princess attitude. I don’t so much mind the possessive part, especially when we’re skating against our old partners. That actually makes me feel good in a way. Wanted. But she’s also as controlling as Sabrina ever was, and no one else would tolerate that. Except I guess for Todd Everhardt, and good luck to that poor bastard.

The only reason I’m still here with Jubilee is that she’s the best. We’re well-suited on the ice. After an uncertain couple of years, we’ve proved to be each other’s tickets to this year’s SIGs, and if we’re lucky, to Trondheim in four more years. Bottom line, I don’t care at all if she likes me or not, or whatever else I have to put up with, we have to win. The sacrifices I’ve made at least make sense because they’ve led to Denver. But being a poster boy for abstinence? This is too far.

“No. I don’t care the rest of the time, because we have our arrangement. We both work ourselves to the bone to get this right, to get those gold medals around our necks, to win. But in the hours we’re not training, I don’t belong to you. You may have bought and paid for our coaching, but control over my dick is not part of the package. I don’t give a crap how many people you fuck or when or how or if you want to take a vow of celibacy to appease the gods of the rink or some shit. As long as it doesn’t interfere with how you perform, I don’t give a rat’s ass about what you do at all.”

“Okay, then.”

For a second, I think there’s a flash of . . . hurt? that flits across Jubilee’s face, but that must be a hallucination, because the woman is a machine. Never seen her cry no matter how hard the fall, never seen her smile no matter how hilarious the joke I told—and my jokes are frigging hilarious—never seen her feel anything at all except driven. I take that back. There was just one time, but we don’t talk about that, because I think if I ever mentioned it she’d manage to slit my throat and make it look like a freak side-by-side camel spin accident.

The thought makes me rub a finger over the scar I’ve had since I was a kid. The one that runs through my eyebrow and, if my partner had been much closer, could’ve cost me my sight in that eye. That’s . . . not as funny as some of the other ways she could hypothetically murder me.

At any rate, another woman—another person—might be hurt that someone they spend eighty percent of their waking hours with doesn’t give a goddamn about how they spend their other twenty percent, but not Jubilee, oh no. Feelings may as well not exist as far as she’s concerned.

“Look, I’ll do what I can to keep it in my partners’ rooms, but I’m not making any promises. I am goddamn well going to get some ass this month, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Except do very bad things to me in my sleep and possibly murder me after this is all over. No way she’ll murder me before, because she works as hard as I do and it’s all been for this. She’s not going to toss it away on revenge. I have no idea if she’s planning on trying to compete in Trondheim. I hope she is, because I’d like to without having to find yet another partner. If Jubilee does, she’ll be on the older side, especially for a woman, but if anyone could defy the odds it would be her. Hell, we shouldn’t even be here after partnering for only two years, but here we are. In this one small suite, about to rip each other’s heads off.

I guess that could only happen if Jubilee’s head doesn’t explode first. She looks about ready to pop, her face red with rage and her small hands curled into fists. Which is when I get an idea. An idea she’s not going to like at all, which is absolutely goddamn perfect. I know I’m not the smartest guy around, and that’s fine. I’m also not dumb as a rock, and I have other things going for me. But when I have a good idea? It’s really freaking good, and this one is fan-fucking-tastic, emphasis on the fuck.

Finding my stride, I push off the bed, and it forces Jubilee to give a little ground before she plants her feet and all five feet and one-hundred pounds of her makes a stand. I don’t need her to move. It’s actually better if she stands there. I walk up close enough that she has to tip her head to look at me, and woo boy, she must hate that.

“There is another solution.”

Hands on her hips and dark brows forming a threatening V, Jubilee narrows her eyes. “And what’s that?”

“You could sleep with me and then you wouldn’t have to worry about any visitors. You’d have all the privacy you wanted, you wouldn’t have to worry about me coming in late and waking you up. You wouldn’t have to worry about me being late to anything because we’d be together. All. The. Time.”

I lean down a bit to punctuate each word, and we’re nearly nose to nose by the time I’m done. Sometimes—okay, yeah, most of the time—I find her dark eyes intimidating. They’re so dark brown you almost can’t tell where her pupils end and her irises begin. It’s freaky as hell. But at the moment, she doesn’t scare me. She actually looks uncertain, and her gaze skitters from mine for just a second. Yes. I’ve got her precisely where I want her. I can practically taste it, how sweet victory is going to be when she gives in and tells me to do whatever the hell I want and to just not fuck things up before she hauls to the bathroom in a huff. How do you like them apples, Jubilation Lee?

But as soon as I taste the victory, the corner of her mouth ticks up ever so slightly. The honeyed sweetness that was resting on my tongue turns to vinegar in the space of a heartbeat, and when the next sentence leaves her mouth, I almost choke.

“Works for me.”