Beckett

Yesterday was the Opening Ceremony, aka the Meat Market. It’s not as fun when you already know who you’re going to be fucking for the next couple of weeks, and it’s way less fun when that person is someone who doesn’t want to have sex with you. At all. Wow should I have not made that deal with the she-devil. I mean, between those Italian slalom skiers, the South Korean speed skaters, and the Swiss lugers? Jesus, I could be having a fantastic couple of weeks.

Instead, every couple of days of the two weeks we’ve been here already, Jubilee and I have had very awkward sex. It’s not bad, per se, but it’s demoralizing nonetheless. I kind of get the feeling that if she’d let me in, we could make it really good. That maybe she wants to, but she won’t. I’ve caught her a few times, tiny sounds or small movements that make me think she has more feelings about this than she’s letting on, but never once has she asked me for anything, not a single time has she asked that I touch her. So I don’t.

In some ways, it’s frustrating. I could be having some crazy bendy monkey sex with someone who actually wants me, who would allow me to give them pleasure and not in the grudging way the Ice Princess permits. But in some ways it’s almost . . . nice? No, “nice” isn’t the word. It’s maddening as hell. Like banging my head up against a brick wall that shows the barest hints of wanting to come down but won’t actually crack. But maybe, if I just keep at it . . .

Also, while living with Jubilee, I’ve learned some things about her. She’s a stickler for her dental hygiene (not a surprise), she has a regimented schedule that she follows to the minute and it exhausts her to keep her shit together when a day doesn’t go as planned (the scheduling not a surprise, but the effect it going awry has on her is a bit), and last but definitely not least, my Ice Princess wears soft cutesy pajamas to bed and has literal bunny slippers. Those things, I did not see coming. Makes her seem like more of a person, less of a machine, and boy must she hate that. But curiously, not enough to hide them. Nope, she very studiously pulls on the flannel pants and sometimes a matching button-up shirt or coordinating tee, and looks like she’s strapping on armor instead of putting on Beauty and the Beast pajamas, or god help me, once a set of Care Bear footie pajamas. I almost died.

I’ve also seen exactly how little she interacts with the other athletes. I don’t talk to them a ton myself, but she seems to actively avoid them. Sabrina and Todd I don’t blame her for because they give us the stink eye whenever we cross paths in the arena or at team meetings, and there was that whole episode at the gym I’d rather not repeat, but the rest of Team USA and a lot of the international teams are pretty cool.

Which is why I’m trying to pry her out of our suite tonight. To try to make her enjoy some of the perks of being a SIG athlete instead of just being the get-off-my-lawn crank who gets mad even when, honestly, there’s no more noise than your average hotel, and far less than a college dorm. She needs to loosen up, maybe have some fun. And since she’s helped me, I’ll do my best to help her. Whether she likes it or not.

“Come on, Jubilee. Juju? Does anyone ever call you Juju?”

She shoots me a dark look from across the suite where she’s sitting on the floor doing stretches. Like she hasn’t already spent hours stretching today. “Not if they want to live.”

“What about Julie?” Jubilee is a mouthful, though I guess I should just be grateful she doesn’t insist on going by Jubilation Lee. Were her parents so very convinced they were going to have a pageant queen on their hands? Jubilee’s a lot of things, but pageant queen isn’t one of them. I mean, technically she was born in Texas, but she moved up to Boston to be with her skating coach, and she seems to fit in way better with those frosty New Englanders than I can imagine she’d do as the perfect Southern belle.

She tilts her head in a way that somehow indicates her complete and utter willingness to murder me. I don’t know how she does that—maybe it’s a talent gleaned from skating. After all, we have to at least make the audience believe we’re feeling something even though we’re gliding past them in a blink. No on the Julie, then.

“What do you want, Beckett?”

“I want to go out. Have fun.” She blinks at me like this is crazy talk. It’s not, which is why I start gesturing with my hands. “You know, be young, fit, attractive. I want to go to a goddamn bar and have women flirt with me, and I want to have a couple of beers.”

With that look she used the first time we met, like she wasn’t sure I was fit to be stuck to the sole of her shoe, she sizes me up. “You’re going to drink?”

“Christ, yes. I’m going to have a couple of drinks, okay? They’ll be long gone from my system by tomorrow, never mind by the time we’re competing. Scout’s honor.”

Her expression is, if anything, more dubious.

“Well, I don’t like it, but I can’t stop you. Be quiet when you come back so you don’t wake me up.”

With that pronouncement, she folds fully over her extended leg, touching her nose easily to her knee, and wrapping her slim, elegant fingers around the arch of her foot. It’s lovely and gives me some ideas I shouldn’t be having about what kind of sex we could be having if she actually, you know, wanted to be having sex with me instead of lying there in her missionary, disengaged, think-of-the-Gold position.

“Why don’t you come with me?” You could use a drink or eight to loosen up.

“No, thank you,” comes the muffled reply.

“Please? It’ll be fun, and then you won’t have to worry about me waking you up when I get back. Also, you could make sure I keep on the straight and narrow with my two beers instead of getting shitfaced and bringing home some girl.”

Jubilee straightens up, gives me another death glare before she leans over her opposite leg. “If you’re concerned about your ability to behave responsibly, then perhaps you shouldn’t go. You’re a grown man. I shouldn’t have to tag after you like your governess to make sure you don’t do anything inadvisable.”

It’s possible the kinky side of me gets a little aroused by the idea of Jubilee masquerading as a strict governess and rapping my knuckles with a ruler whenever I mess up, but that’s neither here nor there. Nope, not here nor there, just really in my pants.

Whatever. Clearly this line of coaxing and gentle persuasion isn’t going to work. She doesn’t seem to be going for the save-me-from-myself thing either. That was always useful with my ex, Felicia, who seemed pretty convinced that given the chance I’d get down and dirty with some guy. Which got old pretty fast. I mean, yes, I’m a figure skater, but I happen to be a straight figure skater. Even if I were bi, I’m pretty well built for fidelity. Liking men and women has nothing to do with whether you’re inclined to be unfaithful. I should’ve dropped her the first time she brought that up, but people don’t always make good decisions, and I stayed with her until I just couldn’t take her criticisms and insinuations anymore.

Jubilee on the other hand has never questioned my sexuality, which is probably because she doesn’t give a shit, but at least she didn’t act surprised when I said I liked women. But if those things are not going to get her to come out and have a little fun, what will?

That’s when it comes to me, because while I’m not the smartest guy, I do sometimes hit the nail on the head. Also, it’s worked before. You want Jubilee to do something? Tell her she can’t, put her pride on the line.

“Cool, then. I’ll go out and have some fun. If you’re worried that you can’t even handle a couple of hours at a bar because it will ‘affect your performance,’ I get that. You’re probably right.”

Jubilee’s head turns from facing her kneecap to facing me and by the way her eyes have narrowed, I know I’m on the right track. Gotcha.

“You think I can’t ‘handle’ going out?”

I make an exaggerated shrug. “I mean, it kinda seems that way. And hey, I get it. You’ve got your whole rigid routine thing going and that seems to work for you. So even if our competition is over a week away, your delicate constitution might not recover.”

Yep, I blink my baby blues nice and wide, knowing that’ll poke at her temper, her pride. That’s what I should’ve gone for in the first place. That whole anything - you - can - do - I - can - do - better angle? Jubilee’s such a sucker for it. And why shouldn’t she be? Basically 99.99% of the time, that is true. I mean, sure, I can do the lifts but she’s a far better skater than I am and her flexibility makes me look like a tree trunk by comparison.

“I am not . . . rigid.”

Says the woman whose back is straight as a board as she sits up to take me head on. “Sure you’re not, sweetheart.”

And we’ve reached the scowling portion of the program, right on schedule.

Jubilee does some sick gymnastic magic to come to her feet, shakes out her legs before putting one hand on her hip and using the other to jab a pointy finger toward my face. “Don’t call me ‘sweetheart.’ I am not some delicate fucking flower. I train just as hard as you do, I have more stamina in my pinky than you have in that big old blocky body of yours, and I can be flexible. I can.”

I hold up my hands in fake surrender, because I know who really just won here—it was me. I never win with Jubilee, and it’s making me a little giddy. “Okay then. Maybe change into something that doesn’t belong in a rag pile and we can go.”

She opens her mouth, probably to eviscerate my own fashion choices, but then snaps it shut and turns on her heel to head toward the closet.

Jubilee

How could I have let Beckett talk me into this? More like goad. Ugh. I could even see it as it was happening. He was doing it on purpose and smirking like he thought he was so freaking clever for tricking me into this. The stupid thing is I knew what he was doing, and he got me to do it anyway. Sometimes being stubborn in the face of any challenge that gets thrown at me has been advantageous. I’m in Denver, a legit medal contender after only having skated with Beckett for a couple of years. Not just anyone could do that.

And yet, I’m also here, in this stupid bar, with a virgin daiquiri of all things in my hand because it’s been such a long time since I’ve been in a bar I couldn’t remember anything else to order. I’m also here at this high-top table fending off idiots who keep trying to hit on me, watching while Beckett chats, dances, and drinks. Though he’s kept his word, I’ll give him that—he’s still on his first drink. He is having fun, and I am . . . not.

He can blame it on me being rigid all he wants, but really this just isn’t my scene. I’d rather go back to our room, put on my ballerina pajamas and my bunny slippers and watch Tangled for the millionth time. I could even be flexible about what we watched. We? Why is my brain inserting Beckett into my hermit fantasies? Me, my laptop, and my bunny slippers, that’s all I need. No Beckett with his ridiculous hair that would probably block my view of the movie, or him hogging all the popcorn and taking up all the room on the bed, or him asking me questions during the movie. No him trying to cuddle up to me, which would inevitably lead to the sex which is getting more and more difficult for me not to enjoy. Or even pretend not to enjoy.

No Beckett at all.

Maybe that’s what I should do. Pack it in because I feel ridiculous here in my jeans and my low-cut sweater and my boots with the fur on top. I clearly look okay because Beckett had looked a little off his game once I came out of the bathroom from doing my hair and my makeup, like he didn’t quite know what to say, and that guy can rarely keep his mouth shut. Also these randos who have been coming up to me and trying to buy me a drink or get in my pants. I want to ask if they know who I am, or tell them I have someone to fuck already, but I don’t. Yep, home it is.

I gather up my scarf and my coat and my purse and push my way through the crowd. It’s a plus to be petite in pairs skating—helps your partner toss you around easier, for one—but in most life situations, it’s not helpful. Like in a crowded bar. Luckily I have sharp elbows and I’m not afraid to use them.

Finally I make it to the table where Beckett’s surrounded by a bunch of swoony girls and some equally smitten dudes, and he’s flirting his ass off, telling them some story about how during a practice with his childhood partner, she totally sliced his face open with her skate blade. That’s true. I’ve seen the scar that cuts a pale path through his dirty-blond brow and gets perilously close to his eye.

She could’ve fucking blinded him, and I want to yell at the people fawning over him. Don’t they realize what could’ve happened? We could’ve lost one of the finest and hardest-working skaters on the ice today because his partner was careless and reckless, and wasn’t worthy of skating with him. He deserved so much better. Good thing he’s mine now; I would never imperil Beckett’s body or his livelihood like that.

A feeling of possessiveness washes over me. It’s . . . uncomfortable. And illogical. Except it’s not, I suppose. He’s my partner, and I don’t want to see him tire himself out too much and jeopardize our chances next week. Yes, that explains why I feel a particularly acute lurching sensation in my stomach when the woman standing next to him puts a hand on his forearm, leans in and whispers something to him, and after he nods, calls over a waitress, presumably to order Beckett another drink.

It’s loud in here, so I go around to his side of the table, nudge my way through until I’m next to him, and wrap my own hand around his biceps. It’s startling, the intimacy of it. I touch him all the time during practice. Hell, our bodies end up pressed together in all sorts of ways, and his head ends up on my crotch on a regular basis. And dammit, we’re screwing on the regular now. It doesn’t make any sense at all that this innocent touch—over his sweater, even!—would send a pulse of something through me. Maybe it’s just that it mirrors how the woman on the other side of him is now clinging to him.

He gives me his attention immediately, his head turning so fast, it sends his curls into a whirling halo. “Hey. You having a good time? This was a good idea, right?”

Oh, Beckett. He’s such a puppy dog. Of course he’s having fun. I won’t be the evil bitch with a heart of ice to make him feel bad about it. Not tonight. He pulls this the night before we have to skate our first program and I’ll garrote him with my skate laces when it’s over, but for now he can enjoy.

“Sure. But I’m going to head back. I’ll see you later, okay?”

I try to plaster a smile onto my face, but he must recognize it as fake. He would, given that he’s seen it so many times in competition and in practice.

“You aren’t having fun.” It’s not even a question.

“It doesn’t matter.” I shrug, and try to make my smile more genuine, but it’s hard. I don’t really remember how. “You should stay and have a good time. It was nice of you to invite me.”

Which it was. He didn’t have to, and he was trying to be kind. The least I can do is leave him alone to enjoy his good time.

Sometimes when we’re learning new choreography or trying a new jump for the first time, Beckett will get frustrated. He’ll lose his temper and then need a few minutes to cool off. But once he’s blown his top, he settles quickly and gets this determined look on his face. That’s the look he’s getting now. Somehow I think my plan for a quick and easy exit is not going to work out. I should’ve texted him when I was back safe in our suite, where he wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.

“You aren’t leaving here until I know you’ve had at least sixty seconds of fun.”

Putting a hand on my hip, I give him my best raised-eyebrow look. “And how do you propose to do that? I mean, score the fact that I’m having fun. It’s not like the ISU wrote a guide on that.”

No, just the extremely detailed Code of Points that will be determining where on the podium we’ll stand in a little over a week, or if in fact we stand there at all. It’s better in some ways then the old school perfect six-point-oh which was notoriously easy to tamper with, but is also still imperfect, and tends to reward people who go for big-point components and don’t quite nail them over competitors who stick to lower point value elements but nail them.

A big grin breaks out on Beckett’s face, making his cheeks round and his mouth open so I can see his perfect teeth. “Was that a joke? You made a joke. I like it.”

I should punch him for making me sound so humorless and terrible, especially in front of all these people. The truth is that the smile on his face makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside, and I’d forgotten we were in a crowded bar surrounded by people who are fawning all over him.

“Well, I’m glad to have entertained you, but seriously, Beck . . .” I trail off, and look longingly toward the door.

“Okay, okay, don’t want you to turn into a pumpkin or anything, but . . .” Beckett looks around, as though he’s trying to find something in this godforsaken place to tempt me. He won’t be able to. His gaze lands somewhere beyond my shoulder though and he gets that look on his face again, the one that’s as good as a lightbulb over his head. “Give me one dance. That’s all I ask.”

Well, fuck.

Beckett

She’s thinking about it, I can tell. The way she presses her lips together between her teeth and looks up and to the side. She wants to say yes, but if she lets herself think about it too much, she won’t. I know she won’t. But she deserves to have a few minutes of fun. She works so goddamn hard. I do, too, but at least I know how to blow off some steam every now and then. Jubilee is like a water heater that has its outlet blocked. It’s amazing she hasn’t blown.

I’ve tried to figure out what it is that keeps her from enjoying . . . anything. She doesn’t seem at all religious, so it’s not like laughing is the work of the devil. I don’t know if she’s punishing herself over what happened to Stephen—which was in no way her fault—or maybe she’s got a case of survivor’s guilt, but whatever it is, the woman lives as though having fun is a crime punishable by death.

Before she can talk herself out of it, I take her stuff and leave it on the bar stool I just vacated, and then grab her hand, the way I have a million times before. Off the ice, it feels different. I don’t let it bother me, or the disappointed looks and death glares some of the people I’d been chatting with shoot me as I drag Jubilee toward the dance floor. Yeah, it had been fun, but they’re people in a bar, and Jubilee is my partner. Not like I could go home at the end of the night with one of them anyhow. I promised, and I’ll keep my word.

So onto the dance floor we go, and I can’t ignore the people who clearly know who we are. By ourselves, Jubilee especially, we don’t usually get noticed. Me and that speed skater Blaze Bellamy could probably vie for most recognizable hair, so we get recognized more often, though still not always. But given the context and that Jubilee and I are together? Yeah, people know who we are, and they make space around us, as if they’re expecting us to launch into a choreographed routine.

We don’t have one.

What I do have is Jubilee pressing her face into my chest as if she’s trying to hide, and maybe she is. She mumbles something and I have to lean down to ask her to repeat herself.

“I’m . . . not actually a good dancer. You know that, right?”

How is that possible? “What do you mean? You’re one of the most elegant, flexible, athletic people I know. How can you not dance?”

“Being able to pull a Ginger Rogers with knives on my feet and get tossed around like a Frisbee doesn’t mean I can jam out to the Top 40,” she hisses.

“Okay, fair.” Now that I’ve put her in this position how can I get her out of it? Or maybe more importantly, through? I can’t help with the skates, but I can help with something else. “How about you just do what you always do and let me lead?”

She looks up at me with that sweet little scowl on her face. “I have so much fuck you in my heart right now.”

I bet she does, but in mine, I’ve got some kind of toxic goo made out of affection, protectiveness, amusement, and I don’t even want to know what that green thing floating over there is. It feels a little like I really, really like this woman, which would be great if it were literally anyone except Jubilee, and if it had waited until I was done skating competitively. It’s her and now, though, so I slam a lid on it, wrench the lock tight, and start to move my body. Bodies are easy, we do that just fine. It’s the whole swamp of feels that I shouldn’t go wading into.

Despite her furious protests, she aligns her body with mine in a way that’s going to help her take cues.

I won’t let you down, Jubilee.

We might look kind of crazy, positioned like we’re about to start a waltz but with our bodies pressed together, but I’ll start her off someplace she’s comfortable. Finding the beat isn’t hard, so I set us to moving from foot to foot, side to side, and with that small latch onto a thing she feels comfortable with, I can feel the confidence returning to her body.

After a few intro beats, the song moves into something slightly more chaotic, the vocals starting. With it, I put a hand to her back and swivel our hips together. While her eyes pop wide at the motion, she lets me do it, tightens her grip on my hand, and follows. After a couple of full circles, I press her out and use our extended arms to pull her back with a twirl. She ends up against me with my arm around her, her free hand pressed against my chest, a tiny smile on her face.

“See, this isn’t so bad, is it?” My taunting is met by a roll of her eyes, but also a shake of her head. Got her.

The beat isn’t quite right to be a cha-cha, but when we’d first started pairing together, we’d practiced a program with some cha-cha elements, and it’s as close as I’ve got to something to work with. Spinning her out before pulling her back in, I put my hands on her hips and guide her into the rolling, rocking hip motion. She picks it up easily, and then starts to add things on, improvise, and it’s then I realize she’s not bad at dancing. She’s just maybe never connected it with the skating she’s done before.

Spins, steps, and a dip or two into the song, she actually looks happy, and it makes that whole cocktail in my chest feel like it’s going to erode the cap I’d sealed it with, just let everything gurgle out and spill all over everything, which is not a good idea at all. No leakage. Leakage is bad. Jubilee doesn’t take kindly to . . . kindness.

So I make this more about athleticism, upping the difficulty of the moves, but making them mirror things we’ve done on the ice before, and I get her moving pretty good, even laughing. Toward the end of the song, there’s a few seconds where the percussion takes a break and lets the melody slow down and shine. I take the opportunity to pull her in close until we’re pressed together practically from shoulder to knee, off a bit given the height difference between us. And then she’s bending backward, sweeping her laid-back form from one side to another, which happens to make her pelvis grind against me, and I have to grit my teeth against the intimacy of it.

This isn’t on the ice, so it’s not our job, but I still shouldn’t be having pants feelings. I mean, for god’s sake, I’ve seen her naked, touched every inch of her body, been inside her, and yet this feels like the closest we’ve ever been.

As she sweeps up to standing, she’s got a smile—a big one—on her face, and it cracks something inside me. I reach a hand up to cup her face and am so frigging close to bending down to kiss her. But that road only leads to heartbreak, to my partner feeling she has an unreasonable amount of control over me, and a shanked performance we can’t afford. Luckily for me, the beat is back, and launches into the hectic last thirty seconds of the song, and I take the opportunity to move my grip like quicksilver down her body, grasping at her waist and tossing her into the air.

It’s not as much height as she gets on the ice, but she still tucks her limbs in and her rotation is perfect and lovely, allowing me a text book catch but also forcing her body to slide close down mine since we have no momentum, no movement. Yep, definitely pants feelings as her small breasts end up in my face. No man should be tortured like this.

We finish off with a dramatic dip back, and I can feel her ribs heaving in the cradle of my arm. It wasn’t as strenuous physically as our usual routines, or any of our practices, but she was nervous starting out and that must have taken a toll. I ease her back up and grab her into a hug that she returns, pressing her face into my chest, and her arms sliding up my back until her hands are resting over my shoulder blades. Her breath is hot against me, and she’s not moving away, maybe even pressing herself to me, letting herself be held and for no good reason besides maybe she’s enjoying it.

I’m yanked away from cataloguing every detail of this moment by applause. What the hell? We’re in a bar, there’s no live music, who the hell are—

Oh. Right.

Given the heat I’m feeling in my face, I’ve probably turned a blaring shade of red. This is . . . not what I meant to do. The point wasn’t attention, and it wasn’t admiration. The point was to get Jubilee to have fun for a minute or two. Mission accomplished and all that, but now she’s looking around like a deer in headlights.

“We can leave now. Let’s go.”

She shakes her head but doesn’t look mad. “We can’t do anything. The rumors would be out of control if we left the bar after that hand in hand. You bet your ass there’d be headlines on Celebrinews and half a dozen other places that we’re a couple, and I can’t . . . I mean, we’re not, so . . .”

Of course we’re not. Before we got to Denver we spent 80 percent of our waking hours together, and since we got here it’s more like 95 percent, plus our sleeping hours since the roommate debacle. We know each other better than any other living person, and we have sex regularly. Yeah, nothing about that says “couple.” And yet I know what she means.

I give her a squeeze, pick her up and swing her around like I’ve done after our performances. “I get it. You head home now since you’ve been asking to go, and I’ll follow in like an hour or so. No questions, no suspicions.”

There’s a hesitation as if maybe that’s not what she actually wants to do, but then she’s nodding against my shoulder. I set her down and then she reaches up and ruffles my hair. Mostly she does that to get my goat, but this time it feels like gratitude, so I’ll take it that way.