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I’ve done my best to forget about wasting my first time on an asshole, and I’ve spun through a few other first dates—landing on a guy who believes in romance for a change, but my skating has hit a robotic, complacent plateau.
“You want to continue reigning at number one?” My coach interrupts my thoughts. “You want to cement your legacy as only here to get first place and being the best skater to hit the ice since they invented this goddamn sport?”
“Yes.”
“Then tomorrow morning, I want to see you go out there and shut your eyes. Dig deep into your best thoughts of you and your boyfriend Francis—”
“Frankie. His name is Frankie.”
“Really? That name is even worse than Francis.” He shudders. “Anyway, go out there and pretend like every move is a passionate plea for Frankie when he’s making love to you. Get the hell out of my sight until then.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Skate America,” a loud voice comes through the speakers at Washington Arena in the morning.
Far across from me, in the front row, Frankie is wearing a bright blue “Go Penelope!” sweatshirt. Several rows behind him, Hayden is attracting the attention of every woman in a hundred feet radius as usual, but his eyes are locked on mine.
He waves, mouthing, “Travis says sorry he couldn’t be here. Raincheck?”
I wave back. “It is what it is.”
Frankie blows me a kiss, and I smile and hold onto it—not wanting that to get misdirected. Ever.
For half an hour, I watch my competitors dance on the ice with my heart locked in my throat.
It’s as if they’ve all noticed my slight slump into complacency, and they’ve raised the bar in hopes of finally dethroning me.
Especially Tatiana Brave.
When it’s my turn, I glide to the center and shut my eyes.
Think about Frankie. Be passionate about Frankie.
An instrumental version of “Time After Time” sifts through the speakers, and I push off backwards—launching into my routine.
My light blue skirt flutters as I spin around on the ice, as I jump into a triple axel, and again when I complete a double lutz. Instead of following my already-challenging program to the letter, I replace every double jump with a triple salchow or the ever-elusive quad that’s always come so easily to me.
Gasps from the crowd fill the arena with my every move, and I keep picturing Frankie kissing in my bedroom, him slowly pulling off my clothes and making love to me.
I know without a doubt that every move is perfect, that by the time the song ends and I complete a final Hamill spin that I haven’t made a single mistake.
Except when I finish and the crowd—judges included, are standing to their feet and clapping, I realize that it’s not Frankie who I was envisioning making love to me.
It was Hayden.
Thirty
Present Day
Hayden
Boston, Massachusetts
If it weren’t for the fact that I was adamant about keeping my promises, I would’ve spent the rest of my weekend in bed with Penelope instead of chartering a mid-day flight to Boston.
Alas, this date was set months in advance, and I’d always agreed to show up to the opening ceremonies for Travis’s chain of workout gyms. It was something that ensured that even in our busiest years, we scheduled the time to support each other.
By the time my plane landed and the town car whisked me down Newbury Street, I was twenty minutes late.
I rode a private elevator to the top floor of the building, finding the usual suits already lined up for the photo.
Forcing a smile at the anxious press, I took my place right next to Travis.
“Thank you for blessing us all with your presence today,” he muttered. “So glad that I’m worthy of your time.”
“You’re not,” I said. “I’d much rather be in New York.”
He laughed. “Penelope said she was coming, but apparently she’s too sick to make it.”
No, she’s too sore to make it. “I’ll check on her when I get back.”
“Thank you.”
“On the count of three, say, ‘Congratulations on location number seven, Mr. Carter,’ everyone!” The photog saved me from letting that conversation go anywhere else.
“One … two … three!”
“Congratulations on location number seven, Mr. Carter!”
Everyone smiled as Travis held a pair of oversized scissors above a red ribbon.
With the photogs trailing our every move, we walked around the gym and posed for perfectly curated shots for the next hour and a half.
“Which penthouse suite did you book for the weekend?” Travis tossed me a free weight after they snapped the final picture.
“None,” I said. “I’m flying back home.”
“Why so soon?”
“I have some personal business to handle.”
“You’re not the slightest bit interested in hanging out with me before I have to completely lock in for the fight of my life?”
I’m more interested in your sister. “I have plans.”
“Some best friend you are.” He feigned hurt and pulled a folded paper from his back pocket. “Guess who I spotted on the cover of Page Six this morning?”
