How much have you read?
Five pages. But it’s been a good five pages.
You know if you read five pages a day it’ll only take 100 days to finish reading.
That's manageable.
Birdwatching, Russian literature, and hockey. You’ll slay at dinner parties.
Covering all my bases.
Chapter
Eight
On the drivefrom the airport to the hotel, I check the game score. I perk up when I see the Dingbats scored in the first quarter—but that’s the sum of their success. The game ended 1-3, no overtime.
“Tired?” Maude asks. A fucked-up question to ask after a day of travel. We’ve agreed not to practice today, but I still need to stay up a few more hours if I don’t want to sleep through Prix de France.
“Dingbats lost their first match of the season.”
“Ah,” she nods. “They tend to do that, no?”
“They have a new coach this year. Guess I was hopeful it would be a turning point for them.”
“A first game loss should motivate them.” She pinches my cheek. “Don’t be glum!”
I jerk my face away without her ripping any skin. Like a sulking teenager, I pop in my headphones, listening to my program music for the millionth time. While I rehearse in my head, I can’t help but open up my messages.
Roderick
Sorry to hear you lost the match.
Christos
Don’t worry about that. You’ve got your own game to worry about.
Match? What do you call it in figure skating?
Program, I think is the word you’re looking for.
Well worry about your program. I’ll whip the boys into shape for the next match.
I do appreciate you thinking of us.
I still have my headphones in during check-in. Maude and I aren’t sharing a hotel room this trip. When I was eighteen, there was nothing more exciting than having a hotel room to myself, my very own temporary bachelor pad. It’s still exhilarating, but because I have a bathroom all to myself. I practically sprint to my room to take a long, hot shower, washing off the travel ick.
The steam does little to relax my thoughts. I just need to be in the top five tomorrow to stay on track to qualify for the Grand Prix. Getting podium would be better. Standing at the very top of that podium is what I’m aiming for. The prospect of my photo at the top of another article, another thing for Christos and I to talk about when I get back home.
We are talking a lot. ‘Talking.’ Flirting is a kind of talking.
My wet hair soaks into the pillow as I scroll back through my text messages with Christos. Every text from him that doesn’t have to do the damn key makes my lip twitch, threatening a smile. The complements, the genuine care, the little jabs that feel more like love bites than insults.
I open up poundr, skipping past a new city's worth of hookups and going right to messages. Christos is at the very top and I check his profile. He still hasn’t added any photos. But he also hasn’t deleted the app. Scrolling back through our firstreal conversation, his messages make him seem like the perfect submissive, but now knowing the guy, I wonder if he’s more of a brat than he lets on.
A little green dot pops up next to his name. Only one way to find out.
TwinkleTop:You need to stop flirting with me over text
