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Hayden Hunter Spotted at Private Aspen Resort with Friend
Thirty-Seven
PRESENT DAY
Hayden
Why didn’t we cross the line years ago?
Dating Penelope was the best thing I’d ever experienced in my life, and I now understood why she’d so desperately chased this euphoric high.
My days started and ended with her taste on my lips, her laughter against my chest, and conversations that I never wanted to end.
Our nightly strolls through Central Park were slowly trickling onto the smaller gossip blog sites via “Is Hayden Hunter Dating His Best Friend?” and “Is it Me, or Are They A Bit Too Close in These Pics?” type of posts, but there was nothing more.
And I honestly didn’t care.
I was in love with her.
Occasionally, she’d still say, “Please don’t ever hurt me,” and “I don’t have anyone else if I don’t have you,” when we spoke for a little too long, but I was determined to make her never worry about us breaking up again.
Armed with roses and wine, I stepped out of my car and walked up the steps to her brownstone. I wasn’t sure what came over me this afternoon, but I’d gotten up in the middle of a meeting and headed straight toward her side of town.
Walking into her kitchen, I pulled out a few wine glasses. Then I checked to make sure the catering would arrive before she came home from the rink.
As I was rinsing off the stems, Tatiana cleared her throat.
“You want to join us for dinner?” I asked. “I ordered Italian.”
“No, I’ll pass. I’d rather know how the fuck you live with yourself.” The harshness of her voice made me turn around.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard what I said.” She glared at me from across the room. “Are you happy holding Penelope back? Do you get some sick thrill out of it?”
I think I liked you better when you hated Penelope. “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”
“It must be nice to achieve everything you’ve ever wanted in life, huh?” She continued her one-sided conversation. “I bet you don’t have any regrets because the world laid out the red carpet for you, and you’ve never had to face anyone ripping it from under your feet.”
“You know, I vaguely remember you playfully swinging a bat at Penelope’s knees at a competition years ago,” I said. “Do I need to find that video and blackmail you into talking like a normal person again?”
“I’m being serious, asshole.” She looked like she was on the verge of tears. “Bora, Bora, Aspen, Hawaii. What’s next?”
“The Dominican Republic.” I crossed my arms. “I invited you to join us for all these trips.”
“Yeah, and you purposely threw in little hints at your gala about ‘Twenty-seven still being great,’ right?” She shook her head. “I’m sure you thought that was a nice, warm touch. So, let me ask you something. When’s the last time Penelope went to the rink and worked with a client?”
I shrugged. I honestly couldn’t remember.
“When’s the last time she gave a speech or did anything outside of flying around the world and fucking you?”
I said nothing, unsure of where she was going with this.
“You know her better than I ever will—and everyone who’s ever been around you two knows that.” Tears fell down her face. “Which is why I don’t understand why you’re being so fucking blind about standing in the way of what she’s chased her entire life.”
“Tatiana—”
“Her entire life.” She interrupted me. “I may have hated her for years, but I’ve always respected what she was trying to do. And I think she would’ve done it if she never fell. But she has a chance to make it now, and she’s giving it all up for you.”
“I’m honestly lost as hell,” I said. “Can you tell me what you’re talking about?”
She walked over to a drawer and pulled out two letters, handing them to me.
“The president of U.S. Figure Skating sent me a letter this morning, saying that Penelope nominated me to go in her place to help coach Team USA in Salt Lake City for the Winter Games.”
I raised my eyebrow. Penelope hadn’t uttered a word about this, and I refused to believe that this was true.
I opened the first envelope, the one for Tatiana.
“You’ve been highly recommended by Penelope Carter…”
I tucked it back into its envelope and opened the other. Then I flipped it over and saw that she’d received this weeks ago. It was timestamped for the week of my gala.
She never said a word about this to me.
“She watches her old performances in secret every night,” she said. “Well, before she was traveling off with you anyway. I haven’t been living with her for that long, but I’ve never seen someone watch all of their perfect performances and say, ‘Too bad I never surpassed my mom like I promised. I really wish I would’ve…’ And then she cries as if somehow her career was a fucking failure.”
