Page 64 of Ice Dance

My head spun, anger all mixed up with regret and shame. Saga, I knew. This beaten-down dance studio, I knew. This was my life. Water stains and broken windows. This was me. I pinned his wrists and kissed him back. He purred, writhing under me. Then I pulled free, slapped him loosely on the side of the head and rolled off.

I could sleep with Saga, and we’d have a blast, we always did. Then what? Hate myself for it?

I was drunk, but not that drunk. “You let me down, you dick.”

He stayed on his back, breathing hard and staring at the ceiling. “I didn’t post it. I swear. Chaney does the socials. She didn’t know what she was posting. Don’t fight her too, okay? Unless I can join?”

“We can’t dance here anymore. I have to go to England.”

Saga put on a posh English accent, or something that sounded like English. “Have a cup of tea with His Royal Highness Hasegawa.”

I let my hand flop over my chest and stared at the peeling paint. “I can’t screw this up, Saga. He’s . . . a lot, but on the ice, he’s like . . . I don’t even know how to describe it. First time I saw him perform, I got chills, man. He glides . . . like a bird.” I swooped my hand through the air. “Like the ice is just a suggestion. He makes the ice his bitch.”

“So poetic.”

“Screw you.”

“I was hoping we’d end up that way, but guess not, huh?” Saga rolled onto his side and propped his head up on a hand. “You falling for him?”

“No.” I laughed. The idea was ridiculous. Hasegawa and me as an actual couple? I was pretty sure Hasegawa didn’t know he was gay, or was so deep in the closet he wouldn’t ever allow himself to be gay. Which was a damn shame, because he’d be absolute fire in the bedroom. The small taste I’d gotten had rewired my entire brain and body, until all of it had tuned into him with painful precision.

“So have you?” Saga purred.

“Have I what?”

“Fucked him?”

“No.”

“But you want to?”

I swallowed and didn’t answer. Saga didn’t say anything for a while, clearly thinking things through. Did I want to sleep with Hasegawa? Yes, but not if it destroyed us, and considering everything that had happened so far, the chances were high that it would.

“How long do you have to work with him, mon beau?” Saga asked.

“Until the competition in December.”

“Wow, that’s gonna be a challenge, my friend. Working that close with him, every day, and not giving in? You sure you don’t wanna fuck me now? Because you’re going to have blue balls by the end of it.”

“No, and stop.”

He sighed and sat up. “Your head’s already with him, I get it.”

“It’s not. Even if I did want him—not saying I do—it can’t go anywhere. He’s some rich English guy who probably lives in a mansion, and my tiny apartment looks like a bomb went off in it. At best, he’s curious, right? It’s nothing more than that. And honestly . . . he’s not even my type. He’s laughed maybe three times since we met.”

Saga snorted. “Babe, you are smitten.” He waggled a finger at my face that I had to bat away. He winced, then leaned closer. “Might have given you a black eye back there, pretty boy. Sorry.”

“Goddammit, Saga.”

He laughed, got to his feet, held out his hand, and dragged me upright. “Go home, sleep it off, then go be amazing in England, and prove to all those stuck-up rich figure skaters you’re as good as them. One of us has to be a winner, right?”

I flung an arm over his shoulders and wobbled, my hip bumping his. Saga was a good friend. I was going to miss him, miss this place. It was home. How was I supposed to behave in England? What if everyone hated me there? “I’ll send you a postcard.”

He laughed. “Wow, how ever will I accept such a fine gift, milord?”

Dylan worked fast. I got the call at four a.m. Flight to London Heathrow at eleven. I packed, half asleep and hungover, dug out the passport I’d needed for a school trip I’d been kicked out of before getting the chance to go, then crawled into a cab and met them at Montreal departures terminal. Hasegawa of course looked as though he’d had his clothes laundered and pressed by people paid to do that for him.

I dumped my carry-on at our feet and tucked in my shirt. He saw my shades and arched an eyebrow. “Is that a black eye?”