Page 32 of Ice Dance

But I watched him move now. Sweat glistened on his brown skin and stuck his shirt to him. He had a kind of graceful strength that reminded me of Hasegawa. Although they were nothing alike. Saga was all flair and drama, loud and messy. Flouncy and flamboyant. Hasegawa was . . . I wasn’t thinking about him.

My phone rang. I dug it out of my bag and frowned at the long international number on the display.

International calls were either a scam or the press. Either way, I wasn’t picking up a number I didn’t know.

Saga’s music blared. He was a Latino pro, and he made for a great dance partner when I had time to mess around. We’d messed around in other ways over the years too, but nothing serious. Out of boredom, mostly.

I spotted the voicemail notification and lifted my phone to my ear, then stuck a finger in my other ear so I could actually hear the message over Saga’s music.

The smooth, monotone English male voice could only be one person. Someone I hadn’t ever expected to hear from again. “Navarro, it’s Hasegawa.” As though I wasn’t going to recognize his clipped English accent. I pressed the phone harder to my ear but missed most of the message. “. . . heard by now . . . like to talk . . . back.”

No, no idea.

I ended the call and waited for Saga to finish his steps. Then I walked over to his phone in the dock and paused his music. Saga frowned, but took the minute of free time to grab a towel and water.

With the studio now quiet, I listened again.

“Navarro, it’s Hasegawa. You’ve probably heard by now that I’m no longer in the competition. I’d like to talk. Call me back.”

I slumped against the wall and stared at the phone in my hand. Holy shit.

Saga used a towel to dry his face. “Who was it?”

“Just someone.”

He snorted. “Mr. Fucking Vague over here.”

The first time I’d heard Hasegawa’s voice in almost a month and he hadn’t even sounded sorry. Hadn’t even asked. He’d demanded I call him. “Call me back.” No please. Fuck that.

Saga smirked. “You got a little grumpy on your face.” He threw his damp towel at me.

I snatched it out of the air and flung it back, but laughed. “Asshole.”

“I am or he is?”

“Both of you.” I deleted the message, shoved my phone back into my bag, then went back to running practice in my head, doing it over and over in front of the mirrors so my body didn’t need to remember, it performed. I trained until I was wrecked and trembling. The phone rang again as I packed up.

Saga reappeared after checking all the other rooms were empty ready for closing and noticed me deliberately ignoring the ringing. “Someone’s persistent, mon beau.”

“He can be as persistent as he likes. I’m not calling him back.”

“Ouch.”

“What time is it in England right now?”

Saga searched on his phone. “Like . . . two a.m.”

I arched an eyebrow. Hasegawa wasn’t one to skip sleep. But if he really was out of the competition, then maybe he had nothing better to do.

We left the studio. Saga locked the internal door, and I ducked under the loading door that had never properly shut and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The old brick building held the day’s heat. Stickers and graffiti tags layered the loading door. Somewhere further down the block, a bus pulled from the curb, brakes exhaling. The sun was still clinging to the end of the day, painting the sky red. A hint of summer in the air kept it warm tonight.

“Hey, will you look up Ren Hasegawa? See if there’s been any news lately?” After he’d burned me at the end of selection week, I’d deliberately not searched him.

“Hasegawa, the figure skater?” Saga asked. He knew Hasegawa from when I’d made him watch a few YouTube videos with me a year ago, long before the Meridian selection drama.

“He ice dances, but yeah.”

Saga tapped on his phone. “Says he’s out of the Meridian Cup. Posted two days ago.” He shoved his phone in my face, showing a stock photo of Hasegawa forcing a smile at the camera.