Page 102 of Ice Dance

“I got injured, Saga, at the preview.” I sighed and slouched in the chair, looking at the ceiling.

“Why do I feel like this is going somewhere bad?”

“It started out just a few painkillers . . . then I met some ballet guys at the London gym. Those guys are hardcore. They gave me some stronger stuff, so I could carry on. I had it under control.” I dropped my chin and saw him leaning forward, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped, shaking his head.

“What are you taking?” he asked.

“Tramadol.”

He looked up, eyes serious. “You know that’s banned, right?”

I did know that now. I hadn’t at the time. But I’d looked it up, and by then, I couldn’t quit and dance. When I’d tried, I hadn’t been able to walk. “It was only meant to be for a few weeks, until the injury settled down.”

I rarely, if ever, saw Saga scared. But it was on his face now. “Cam, fuck.”

“I don’t need you lecturing me. I know it’s bad. I’m not doing it for fun; I’m doing it to get through the fucking day. Dancing was torture, it was fucking torture. I couldn’t keep doing it, but I have to. I have to. I can’t quit, I can’t stop, not until it’s over.”

Saga sighed hard. “You can’t dance on Tramadol, Cam. They will drug test.”

“I know.” My voice broke. “But on it . . . Saga, I’m free, you don’t get it. I love it; it comes easy. I can fucking fly. I enjoy dancing again. I’m not a prisoner in my body anymore. And I’m good, I’m real good. I’m as good as Hasegawa.”

“Man, I know. You do not have to tell me, I’ve been there.” He shook his head. “Anything to make it easier⁠—”

“I’m in debt, and teaching kids on Saturdays isn’t going to cut it. I need this win. I can’t fail . . . I can’t ruin this like I’ve ruined everything else.”

“You’re going to break yourself trying to keep up with him.”

I already had. “You know, people talk shit about him, they say he can’t keep partners, like he’s a psycho, but he’s not. He’s relentless, he’s driven. I wish I had half his motivation. He just does not stop, and yeah . . . it’s too much. That’s why his partners leave. He is too much, but not because he’s a bad person, he . . .”

I choked off and swallowed.

“He bought me flowers, Saga. And he was so cute about it. I know for a fact he has never bought anyone flowers in his life. He doesn’t do that. But he did . . . for me.”

Damn. That moment would be etched into my memory forever. His fumbling, the embarrassment, the uncertainty. All things he never did, never was.

“When he smiles—and it’s not often, believe me—but when he does it’s like . . . it’s earned. You have to earn it. I don’t even know what I’m saying. I don’t mean he’s an asshole. I mean when he smiles, it’s like the sun has come out after the rain, it’s genuine. He doesn’t give things like that away, so when it happens, it’s gold.”

Saga at least smiled at that. “I get it, but guys like that . . . He was right. I know you don’t wanna hear it, but you don’t have a future with him, and I’m not just saying that because I love you, I do. I’m saying it as a friend. He can’t give you what you need. He’s not ever going to choose you over his life, his dance. Maybe when he’s forty and retired, and he looks around and realizes he’s alone and miserable, but it’s too late then. You can’t wait for him, Cam, you’re better than that.”

I wanted to sink deeper into the chair. So deep I disappeared. “I wish I didn’t care about him. It was easier when I thought he was just some asshole dancer. But I do care. That’s why I can’t tell him. I’m going to dance, I’m going to take the Tramadol, because I have to, and hope they don’t do random drug testing.”

“They will, mon beau,” he said softly.

The sense of panic and fear and the weight of it all rushed back. “What am I supposed to do? If I stop, I’m out. If I carry on, I’m out. My leg is fucked. I can’t dance without drugs. I’ve put everything into this, all my money, everything I own, my whole body, even my fucking heart. Are you telling me you’d be able to stop? You could walk away?”

“No, no, you’re in the shit, that’s for real.”

“What the fuck do I do, Saga?”

He sighed again and flopped back in his big ol’ tired chair too. “I think you should talk to him.”

“I can’t.”

“If he’s not the dick everyone thinks he is, he’ll understand.”

“He won’t understand. He’ll hate me. All his partners fucking quit on him or get injured. Nobody is good enough. He deserves this win and he can’t win without me.”

“He’s not going to hate you. It sounds like maybe he’s going through some shit too, right? You dance into his life, being all you, easy on the eyes, sexy as fuck, outgoing, challenging, and this closeted gay who doesn’t do people or relationships is buying you fucking flowers?”