Page 2 of Wanted By the Champion

“Cate,” I breathe, eyes glued to the screen. I feel like I can barely breathe as the program starts, her small, graceful body moving fluidly with Danny’s, gliding across the ice. Her dark hair is wound up in a bun on top of her head, the silky strands glinting under the arena’s bright lights. I watch the muscles in her arms and legs move as Danny launches her into a massive throw triple loop that she lands flawlessly. A radiant smile bursts across her face when she does, and something in my chest goes hot and achy at the sight of it.

I’m rapt throughout the routine, not taking my eyes off of her. I don’t even blink. Watching her is hypnotic. Her face is expressive, selling the emotions of the program.

She’s beautiful. Angelic. She’s strong and an incredibly talented skater. She’s graceful and flexible and skates with artistry and finesse.

She’s perfect. Not just perfect. She’s perfection personified.

The program finishes and she lets out a whoop and launches herself into Danny’s arms, celebrating the flawless skate. An unfamiliar sensation burns in my gut as she beams up at him and he brushes a strand of hair off her face in a familiar gesture. I don’t know Danny, but I suddenly want to break his fingers.

What the fuck? Am I…Jesus, am I jealous?

Of what?

I realize then that I’m half-hard and my eyes bounce back to Cate on the screen, taking in her sweet face with her full lips and wide smile, the tiny stud in her nose, the colorful paint on her nails. The rounded curve of her muscular ass, the toned shape of her calves. The image of those legs wrapped around me slams into me with the subtlety of a cement truck.

Oh, fuck. I don’t just want to skate with her. I want her. I want her more than I’ve wanted a woman in a long time. Maybe ever.

I palm myself over my sweatpants and swallow thickly. That’s a bad combination. Mixing feelings with a professional athletic relationship is often a terrible idea. And then there’s the fact that she’s young. Really young. Too young. I should click away. I should check out the other skaters.

I tell myself these things knowing full well I’m not going to. I want Cate. I want Cate. It’s as though I’ve been struck by lightning, and my life will now be forever categorized into two parts—before I saw Cate, and after.

I watch the other video of her and Danny that Kurt included in the email, and when it’s over, I stay on YouTube and search for more of her performances, ignoring the links to other skaters. My mind is racing with questions. Why isn’t she skating with Danny anymore? How have I never heard of her before? She trains only an hour away from here, at a less prominent rink.

How old is she?

I watch her skate with Danny again, drinking in her every movement, down to her fluttering eyelashes, and then I open a web browser and search her name, hungry for more information. My heart stutters when I see her birthday.

I was in middle school when she was born. I’m more than a decade older than her.

Then, I find the news articles, referring to her injury, to the accident, and I need to know what happened. My stomach lurches when I find it. The video is labeled “Cate Wilson/Danny Swanson Shocking Fall,” and my heart is galloping in my chest when I click on it.

The video starts mid-routine, classical music soaring through the speakers, Cate twirling in Danny’s arms in a white skating dress with a skirt that flutters around her toned thighs. The dress’s jewels catch the lights, sparkling as she moves with what I’m already recognizing as her signature grace.

I watch in horror as Danny starts to lift Cate but then seems to lose focus, making him catch an edge. He falls hard to the ice with Cate above his shoulder. She falls even harder than he does, and I swear the edges of my vision go black as her head hits the ice and she doesn’t move. For several long seconds, they both lie there, the music still playing. When she does move, her movements are slow and groggy, her hands clutching her head. The music stops, and medical personnel rush onto the ice.

Everything inside me is wound tight, and even though this happened two years ago, I have an intense urge to race out onto the ice and scoop her into my arms. To protect her from anything and everything.

I read in an article that she was badly concussed after that, and switched to singles skating the following season.

Does she even want to come back to pairs skating? The question makes my stomach sink.

I pull up several of her singles performances, sitting back on the couch and drinking her in. I can’t stop watching her. I’m addicted to her smiles, her little triumphant laughs when a routine goes well, the little teasing glimpses of her covered pussy in her skating dresses. Outside, the sun sets. Inside, the baseball game ends. And I’m still watching Cate, hard as fucking steel.

There’s a whole litany of reasons I shouldn’t request a trial skate with her. She’s too young. She’s had a terrifying injury. I’m already way too obsessed. And I don’t just want to skate with her—I want her. I fucking want her like I want air, and I have no idea how I’m going to navigate that if we do skate together. I have no experience with that because I always felt a kind of brotherly affection towards Charlotte. I never wanted her the way I want Cate.

But none of that matters. Because the words I type in reply to Kurt’s email feel like an inevitability, not a choice.

I want Cate Wilson.

Cate

Iwill not throw up.

I will not throw up.

I will not throw up.

Okay. I might throw up. That iced oat milk caramel latte that was supposed to calm my nerves is dangerously close to making a reappearance.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com