Jubilee

You want to play chicken, little boy? He’s messing with a master. I’m the one who gets tossed around the ice like a rag doll, who has his hands all up in my crotch on a regular basis, and he thinks the threat of sex is going to scare me? Pfft. And now Beckett is standing there with his eyes bugging out of his head and his mouth hanging open. It’s tempting to reach out and use a couple of fingers to close it. But let him stew in his own stupidity for a few seconds. That’ll teach him.

Honestly.

Yes, he had the upper hand briefly, because he had the element of surprise, but if he thought I was going to back down, he was so very mistaken. I’m not afraid of sex. Not that I’ve had a lot of it since Stephen died, but I’ve had . . . some. Mostly with random guys I’d pick up at a bar because my left hand and my vibrator just weren’t cutting it anymore. They wouldn’t know who I was, and they wouldn’t care. All they knew was that I was reasonably attractive and wanted to fuck, and that seemed to be good enough for them. Do I want to sleep with Beckett? No, because life has taught me that getting involved with your partner is a surefire way to emotional ruin.

It doesn’t matter anyhow, because it’s not as if this is actually going to get that far. Beckett is going to shut his mouth—eventually—and then he’s going to apologize, and give in. He’ll get over it. Not being able to fuck as many willing partners as he’d like over the next month or so isn’t going to kill him. Who knows, maybe all those people who swear by not fucking in the days leading up to competitions are actually onto something, and he’ll be even better than he usually is. Maybe I’ll even leave earlier than I’d planned so he can have the room to himself to shag whomever he’d like for the last few days of the bacchanal. I could do that. It’s not like I want to stick around any longer than I have to. In the meantime, I’ll wait. Wait for him to come to his senses, because Beckett doesn’t like me. Tolerates me because I’m his ticket to the SIGs, and has respect for me as an athlete, but I don’t think he enjoys my company, and as he made clear moments ago, gives no shit about what I do with my time away from him. Nor have I ever had the slightest indication he finds me attractive.

When Stephen and I were teenagers and would train together, there were more than a few times that I noticed he was sporting some pretty serious wood. Yeah, some of that was because we were kids and he was still learning how to control his dick, but some of it was that he wanted me. Thought I was pretty. Liked my body. We could be ourselves around each other, chat and laugh. He liked me. And it wasn’t super long after that we started fooling around and then sleeping together. Who else were we supposed to go out with? We spent all our time with each other.

I suppose I should’ve found someone else, though, because when I lost him, I lost goddamn everything. Which is why I will never, ever, ever, fall in love with my teammate ever again. Beckett’s made it easy thus far. Yes, he’s good-looking, but that curly flounce of blond hair women seem to go wild for does nothing for me, nor do those clear blue eyes. Also, he’s younger than I am—not by that much, but the way he acts makes it feel as though he’s eons behind. Maturity is definitely not his strong suit. Not to mention his jokes are terrible. Yes, Beckett’s made it easy not to fall anywhere near in love with him.

All that’s left to do is wait for him to duck out of this ridiculous game of sex chicken. I have mastered the ice, and I have walked through fire. He may be very good, but he doesn’t have anywhere close to the power of elements, he’s still just a man. I fucking dare you, Beckett. Try me.

“Are . . . are you serious?”

Oh, how the tables have turned. He may be taller, faster, and stronger, but I am absolutely the brains of this operation and now I get to toy with him, even though he’s still looming over me. “Sure. Why not? Like you said, I won’t have to worry about finding you here with someone else, you won’t wake me up when you stumble in at three in the morning because you can’t even be bothered to sleep over—”

Beckett cuts me off with a finger pointed in my face and an expression dripping with affront. Clearly, I have insulted his fragile masculinity. “Hey, I spend the night. And I make breakfast, too.”

Why am I having this conversation? I don’t want to know about how Beckett thinks he’s god’s gift to women because he makes a goddamn omelet before he leaves and never talks to them again. I need to move this along, get him to give up. Ounce for ounce, he can’t compete with me in stubbornness or cleverness. He should at least be smart enough to know that he shouldn’t try.

“Whatever. My point is that it’s efficient.” Yes, I’m really going to sell this plan on its merits. He’s going to be so bored he won’t even be able to get it up. Perfection. “I know you don’t think so, but I’m actually human, and I get urges, too, you know. We won’t have to devote time or energy to finding people to fuck, which means we’ll be able to devote all of our resources to competing. We may as well scratch that itch.”

I’ve said some not-super-nice things to Beckett in our time together, but he generally shrugs them off, either because he doesn’t understand my insults or he doesn’t care how I feel about him. Apparently, though, I’ve gone a bridge too far, because he looks as though I’ve just impugned his character or accused him of doing something particularly unsavory.

Elite athletes tend to have healthy egos, because why the fuck shouldn’t we, and Beckett has never struck me as insecure, but apparently that’s only because I’ve never questioned his aptitude at wielding his dick.

Beckett

“Sweetheart, I’m not an itch-scratching kind of lay.” I turn on my best panty-melting grin, but Jubilee’s nose wrinkles slightly. How can she not be affected? I am an attractive man, and she of all people should appreciate things other women pretend to be impressed by but don’t really understand. No, figure skating isn’t at the tops of manly man sports that men play, but Jubilee knows how badass you actually have to be to do it well. So I pour it on thicker, because god knows doubling down is always a good idea when it comes to her. “I don’t mean to brag, but I’m phenomenal in the sack.”

Her brows go up a fraction of an inch and it makes me want to shake her. What do I have to do to impress you, honey? You know I’m strong, talented, work like an ox. A lot of people would kill for a chance at this. I’m only stuck with you because you said so.

Her doubtful “Okay?” makes me want to go out and obtain references from everyone I’ve ever fucked. And cooked breakfast for, thankyouverymuch. I make a mean omelet. But I’m not going to stand here like some kid and stomp my foot, insist that I’m the best. Even though I totally am. Okay, maybe just one more and then I’ll let it go. Because, come on.

“Seriously. I’m not going to scratch that itch, I’m going to obliterate it.”

“Great. Can we get this over with?”

There’s the awkward sound of a record scratch in my brain. “Wait, what? Like now?”

Jubilee checks her watch and smothers a yawn with her hand.

“I mean, yeah, I guess. I’ve got nothing better to do and you seem like you’re in a pretty big hurry to prove yourself, there, big boy.”

Wow. If there was ever anything that could encourage a guy to get hard less than this lack of enthusiasm, I don’t know what it could be. Maybe when she said us fucking would be efficient. That gave me chills, and not in a good way.

I’ve heard Jubilee called the Ice Princess before—have maybe called her that myself out of her hearing—and gotten in on some jokes about how she’s a frigid off the ice as on. I’ve never cared much as long as she can keep up with me on the ice, and she can. But it’s just become my new mission in life to get Jubilation Lee Buford all hot and bothered. Not in the I’ve - annoyed - her - during - practice way, either, because that I do basically without trying. No, I’m aiming for the best - sex - she’s - ever - had way. Yeah.

“Okay then. Just, you know, give me a minute.”

Jubilee’s eyes get big and doubtful, and she heaves what is probably the most massive sigh possible given her small frame. “Sure, Beckett. You just let me know when you’re ready to blow my mind. I’ll be reading my book.”

Well, shit.

Jubilee turns and flounces away, parks herself on her bed and cracks open her Kindle. Me? I’m standing here like a dumbass. My duffel’s still on the floor, I’ve been traveling for the better part of the day, she’s just insulted me—multiple times—and now she wants me to fuck her? Except “want” seems to be too strong a word. She’ll tolerate me fucking her. This is not what I’m used to. Is any dude? I mean usually my partners are pretty into getting dirty with me, like, enthusiastic. Not a shrugging well - I - guess - it’s - efficient. Like, what the fuck, Jubilee? Argh.

But then it occurs to me that maybe, much as I’m fucking with her, she is fucking with me. That’s not going to work. I much prefer being the fucker to the fuckee, or whatever. The point is, two can play at this game.

First, I pick up my bag from the floor and start putting stuff away, making it clear that no matter what else happens, I’m staying here. No, it shouldn’t have happened, but with thousands of people showing up and expecting to be fed, housed, clothed, and otherwise provided for, it’s not surprising there’s at least one bump in the road. Truth is that if either Jubilee or I had much in the way of friends, they’d likely be other athletes and one of us could shack up with a friend while we were waiting for this to shake out.

We don’t, though. Have friends, that is. Acquaintances, yes, people we nod to and exchange pleasantries with at competitions, but we’re both such workaholics that friends—even inside the sport—don’t come so easy. So here we are, barreling toward an encounter of the sex kind because we’re both too stubborn to bow out. There are worse things that could happen, I suppose.

The other reason I’m putting my shit away—laying it away in drawers, hanging up some things in the closet, shoving my headphones and my tablet in a desk drawer—is that some women I’ve been with can’t really enjoy themselves if things are nagging at their brains. Are her keys still in the front door lock? No dice. Did she send that e-mail to her boss? Sorry, buddy. A container of takeout still on the counter instead of in the fridge? No joy. My stuff strewn about will have Jubilee peering over my shoulder, wondering when I’m going to get my socks off the floor.

Big stuff, though, is a different story. Stress that’s not going away, say like a high-pressure job, overarching angst at the state of the world or—just saying—the pinnacle of their athletic careers? That’s when a lot of them want to fuck to forget, find abandon and relief in the form of an orgasm. Or three.

Jubilee peeks periodically over her Kindle, maybe wondering what exactly I’m up to. Being sly like a fox, that’s what. Don’t count me out yet.

When everything’s put away, I head for the shower. If our positions were reversed, I wouldn’t care if she scrubbed up beforehand, but Jubilee seems kind of . . . what’s the word . . . fastidious to me. Like she likes things clean and neat and smelling good. Which is funny considering she spends most of her time sweating in workout clothes with her hair frizzing out of her messy buns. But I bet that given the choice, she’d have things just so, and that would include her sex. Fine. I can take a shower. Plus, I wouldn’t be sad to get this travel grime off me. I don’t know what it is, because it’s not like you’re exerting yourself, but being on planes or in taxis always makes me feel a little gross. So into the shower it is, where I’ll try to figure out what be the magic ticket to getting Jubilee to crack—either in my bed, or out of it, doesn’t matter to me, but I’m going to break her one way or another.

Jubilee

Beckett takes a good long while in the shower. I’m not sure what he’s doing in there, but whatever it is, it’s distracting me from my book. I did appreciate that he put his things away instead of leaving them on the floor, but that’s barely softened the brick of animosity in my stomach. And now he’s going to try to seduce me? With what? Tossing that head of curly hair isn’t going to do shit for me, winking will make me want to punch him, I’ve already seen his body plenty of times and have a pretty good feel for what it can do, so there’ll be no impressed swooning on that front. I wish he’d just give up, but if he’s anywhere near as determined now as he is when we train, I’m shit out of luck.

When he finally emerges, it’s in a towel. Some part of me is shocked by it, which is ridiculous. I’m no puritan, and god knows he isn’t, either. Plus, it’s not like I’ve never seen a man’s body before. I have. And even his in particular. But there’s something different about seeing him with a sheet of terry wrapped around his waist, grinning at me with intent, that’s different from his shucking his clothes to do a quick change, or him in just shorts because we’re busting our asses during a run or a training session.

Beckett jerks his chin up and then points at his towel, still smiling like he’s getting paid for it. “Efficiency, right? Thought you’d like that.”

Most of his jokes are bad, but that was in the neighborhood of funny. I’ll give him some credit, but not enough to laugh.

I close my Kindle, place it on my bedside table, and then cross my arms and my ankles. “So are we going to get this show on the road?”

Not that I have anything better to do exactly, it just seems like we could get this charade over with sooner rather than later. It’s not like he’s actually going to go through with this. He’s not, right? Not if his now-brittle smile is any indication. If I give him another minute, he’ll crack. No way we’ll actually end up having sex. No fucking way.

“Yeah, definitely.” That’s what his mouth says, but his expression is far less certain. Almost as if he has no faint clue what he’s doing. I appreciate him not treating me like the other women he must’ve been with, using his best lines and turning up the charm, because god knows that wouldn’t work. He tried for about a split-second and then gave up the ghost. I’m hoping if I wait long enough, I’ll get him to give up entirely. But maybe a little nudge would move things along so I can get back to my book . . .

“Okay. I mean, I’ll totally admit that it’s been a while, but I’m pretty sure we can’t fuck if you’re standing all the way over there.”

Beckett has the good grace to blush—or perhaps merely the anatomical inability to stop it. The pink graces his cheeks and he looks more boyish than usual. A distance of four years between us isn’t much, but it’s times like this that make me feel like an ancient and jaded crone.

“Right, yeah, of course. I know that. I’ve had sex a lot of times. Like, all the times.” He’s nodding, trying to look convincing. I believe the final countdown to Beckett giving up has begun. Three, two—“And since I’m such an expert, I know you have to take all your clothes off. Or, at least some of them.”

Ugh, fine. If he’s going to play this out until the very last second, so can I. And dammit I will play it cooler than he is. I know what people say about me, and I can play the Ice Queen if they want.

I stand up and strip off, leaving all my clothes in a pile on the floor, not bothering to be sexy about it because this is miles away from seduction. And then I sit back down, not knowing what else to do.

Things with Stephen had never been this awkward. It always felt right, natural . . . inevitable. Not that things were never awkward, because sex can be awkward and hilarious, and if you’ve never been the least embarrassed while doing it, you’re either some golden deity or a sociopath. And sure, there’s been some inelegance when I’ve picked up a random guy, but it’s never been this bad. Not even close.

Beckett takes a few steps toward me and I start to feel like I’m a pit full of vipers. If I darted out a hand and clamped my fingers around his wrist, I’m pretty sure he’d scream. God, is that tempting. But no, I’ll play fair. Try not to crack up as he edges toward me, clutching his towel around his waist though I’m stretched out on my bed like I’m sunning myself at a nude beach.

Then finally he’s standing within touching distance—if I stretched anyhow, which I’m not inclined to do. With a look of some consternation, he drops his towel. I take my time looking at him, mostly because I can, and he’s sure as hell perusing me like I’m a sushi boat that just got delivered to his table. Although judging by the look on his face, it’s maybe at the end of the night at a counter not known for its freshness in the first place. Way to make a girl feel wanted. Though I suppose I’m not doing much better.

Beckett is objectively handsome, attractive. Broad shoulders and a good coat of hair curling across his chest, making him look like he’d be good to cuddle up to on a cold night, like he’d definitely keep the chill away. Of course he’s got those arms and shoulders thick with the muscles he uses to lift and toss me into the air, and a whole line of abs marching side by side, because you can’t do any of the things he does without a hell of a lot of core strength. At his navel, the thatch of hair that had trailed down to his waist picks up again, leads down to straight hips and thick thighs, and a penis that while perfectly reasonably sized appears to be in no way excited to see me. Okay, then.

His lower legs look like some sculptor’s dream come true with their shapely and defined cuts of muscle, and his feet . . . they’re not pretty. Never mind that most men don’t have pretty feet, we’re elite figure skaters which means we spend an inordinate amount of time with our feet shoved into close-fitting boots. Which may not be uncomfortable, but it takes a toll. I won’t pretend mine look much better. All in all, there are a lot worse people I could be obligation-banging.

“If we’re going to do this, you’ll probably need to, um, do something about that.”

Beckett narrows his eyes, and emits a small huff through his nose. “Yeah. I know. You’re not the only one in the room who’s had sex.”

“That’s right,” I say, completely deadpan. “You’ve had all the sex. So, by all means, get us started, Mr. Awesome-in-the-Sack.”