“It’s happened before?”
“Unfortunately. But I broke out of the funk.”
“What helped stop it last time?”
My mouth snaps closed.
Last time the cure was Brody Saunders and the orgasms he gave me, but that will not, under any circumstances, be happening again.
That night is locked away inside a vault. Ironclad, impenetrable. I don’t play it back. I don’t daydream about it. I don’t let myself wonder how differently it could’ve gone if Riley hadn’t gotten hurt.
It’s sealed off. Closed up and finished.
Lately, though, I’ve found myself thinking about Brody when I’m lonely and confused and debating what the hell happens next in my life.
It’s not because I miss him.God, no.
I’ve never relied on another person to be my source of happiness, and he’s not going to be the first.
I just… I can’t help but hope he’s okay.
I’ve seen him from a distance at games and he’slookedfine. Intense in his coaching. Meticulous in the way he studies his whiteboard before giving his players orders. A playoff run last season despite the challenges the Stars faced.
That night… the way he left… it wasn’t him. At least, it wasn’t the him that I saw for the hour prior. The one who knew I skated and told me he had been thinking about fucking me formonths.
His departure hurt at first. I took it personally. I’m not justifying his shitty behavior and the ask for me to pretend like the whole thing didn’t happen, but the more time that’s passed, the more Iget it. He was scared. Grieving preemptively for a loss he thought was coming, and it was never about me.
I would’ve bolted too.
The flowers he sent the next day helped soothe the sting. A big bouquet. Dozens and dozens of roses that match the tattoo on the back of his hand. No note, but I knew who they were from. An apology, an acceptance he can’t change what’s done, but he can better about not being a total dick going forward.
Brody was right that night, all those months ago. Thereisn’ta world out there where a thing between the two of us could ever mean more than sex, but I can’t deny the impact he had on my skating.
I was doing well in the aftermath of our hookup.
A silver medal at the Eastern Sectional. A pewter medal finish at the U.S. Figure Skating Championships after a weak program, but the excitement has faded. That same discomfort creeps up when I lace my skates, and this time, I don’t know how to fix it.
“Something that’s impossible to replicate.” I shove away the thought of his palms exploring my body. The brush of his fingers against my jaw. “I’ve been tossing around the idea of stepping away from skating.”
“You’re going to retire?”
“Maybe temporarily? This sport is all I know, and the longer I go through a rough patch where my technical work is shit and I’m unmotivated, the more obvious it’s becoming I need to figure out who I am away from the medals and pressure of constantlyperforming at such a high level.” I sigh. “I need to fall back in love with skating, and that’s not going to happen if I keep pushing my body to do things it doesn’t want to do.”
“Okay.” Tierney scoots her chair closer, taking my hand. “How are we going to do that?”
“Ah. Another question I don’t have the answer to.” I laugh and lace our fingers together, grateful for her. The knot of tension I’ve been carrying with me for weeks starts to unravel the more I share, and I’m glad I was honest. “The first order of business is dropping out of Skate America. After that? We’ll see.”
“Drop out? You’re projected to place in the top spot for the women’s singles. Everyone is saying it’s your comeback, and?—”
“I’m not happy, T. What good is an attempt at another medal if I’m miserable trying to earn it?”
“Fuck. You’re right. I’m sorry for suggesting otherwise. Forget about the medals and rankings. Other than the burnout, are you doing okay mentally? Being an athlete is such a fucking trip, I swear to god. And the comments on social media? It’s a hellhole.”
I swallow. I’m not ready for the backlash I’m going to get from fans when I announce my decision to pull out of next month’s competition. The rumors will fly. There will be speculation. I’ll have unwanted attention on me, but disappearing into oblivion without so much of a word about my absence isn’t fair to the people who like to watch me skate.
“I might need to disable comments on all my Instagram posts,” I say weakly.
“I did that years ago, and I’m much happier. Do you want to take a weekend away? Jamal has a game in New York on Saturday. We could get courtside seats. Find a hotel room overlooking Central Park and order room service.”
