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“Let’s talk some more, huh?” He seethed. “Say something else.”
He didn’t give me the chance. He opened one of the kitchen cabinets and slammed it against the side of my face.
He did it again and again until I fell to the floor.
Then he stood over me and fucked me up harder than he’d ever fought any opponent.
No referees came in to save me.
Forty (B)
Seventy Two Hours Post Breakup
My blood dripped onto the marble floor, and my voicemail system tormented me by playing Penelope’s messages on repeat.
I tried to open my eyes a bit wider, but it was no use.
Over the past several hours, I’d managed to string a few things together—albeit very little since I was pretty sure my skull was fractured.
One, my first former best friend thought I was a pedophile.
Two, my far more important best friend thought that I’d cheated on her with a supermodel.
Three, my fucking voicemail machine was officially broken, and it was the first thing I was going to have destroyed once Lawrence or Sarah showed up looking for me.
“I hate you, Hayden Hunter,” Penelope’s voice came through the speakers again. “I. Hate. You. I hope your cock falls off and you lose every dime in your bank account. Those things are all you’ve ever cared about anyway.”
Beep!
Jesus Christ.
Forty-One
Present Day
Hayden
“I thought I told you to leave me here to die.” I looked at Sarah as she adjusted the bandages around my legs.
“I was planning to, but I saw that I wasn’t in your will, so I wouldn’t gain anything from your death.” She poured a glass of water and set it next to me. “Now, if you’d told Lawrence that, he might’ve obliged.”
“What day is it?”
“Healing day.”
“What day of the week, Sarah?”
“Healing day.” She smiled. “It’s a new addition.”
“Fine. How many days have I been like this, then?”
“Lots.”
Okay, fuck it. “Where’s my phone?” I asked. “I need to call—”
“Penelope?” She shook her head. “She won’t answer you.”
“Can you give me my phone so I can test that theory for myself?”
“I’ll give you the whole thing whenever you’re well again.” She pulled it out of her pocket, and then she took out the battery before tossing it to me.
“Sarah, give me my entire phone.”
She picked up the remote and turned on the TV. Then she left the room.
I tried to get up, but it was too hard. My legs were still too numb.
“Sarah!” I called for her, but there was no answer. Before I could try again, the Behind the Scenes: Journey to the Olympics program appeared onscreen.
They panned the compound in Utah, then the interior facilities, and then Penelope.
The sight of her made me risk the pain of sitting up. Dressed in a bright red Team USA windbreaker, her hair was pulled atop her head in a messy bun, and her skin was glowing.
“It’s an honor to be here,” she said to a suited reporter. “I’ve truly missed being a part of this world, and I’m hoping to guide the incredible Katie Folds to her best performance yet when the games begin.”
“Well, we’ve more than missed you.” The suit smiled. “Years later, and we still haven’t seen anything like The Perfect Feather in this sport. You were one of a kind. Truly.”
She smiles uneasily, and I can see a hint of pain in her eyes.
As he gushed about her accomplishments, several highlights of her career began to play onscreen.
The last one, one of her nailing four back-to-back quadruple lutzes in Italy and pumping her fists, merged into what happened once the music ended: Her running toward me in tears of joy.
“I did it, Hayden! I did it!”
In excruciating pain, I managed to get out of bed within an hour. I headed to the kitchen, so that I could grab my other phone and charter a jet to see her.
But my legs gave out, and everything went black.
Fuck.
Forty-Two
Present Day
Penelope
Salt Lake City, Utah
The sound of skates hitting the ice had never seemed so jarring and annoying. From the moment that I stepped into the training Arena, I felt out of place.
As if I didn’t belong in this world anymore.
All of my days blended in a montage of nonstop workouts, media appearances, and nonstop questions about my former fall.
My emotions were still playing an out-of-sync symphony of sadness, and for whatever reason, I couldn’t get completely locked into coaching.
Katie Folds was extraordinary in every way, and she didn’t need any guidance; my presence was a mere formality.
Sighing, I sipped my coffee and signaled for her to take a break. “Let’s take twenty!”
She nodded and skated over to me.
“For the record, I watched you all the time when I was younger,” she said. “I’ve saved all of your competition tapes for inspiration. Well, you and your mom’s. You two are my favorites of all time.”
“That means a lot to me, Katie. Thank you.”
