Saturday's Series Spotlight: Keira Andrews' Olympic-Centric

⛸⛸This week's Saturday Series Spotlight isn't really a series but Keira Andrews has multiple Winter Olympic themed books and with the games starting I decided to go outside the box a little this week and share her Olympicy books.⛸⛸

The Next Competitor

Summary:

If I risk my heart, can I keep my head in the game?

I’m going to win gold in figure skating. I imagine it again and again: Olympic champion Alex Grady. I train harder than my competitors. I’m in the rink morning, noon, and night. The lack of filter between my mouth and brain affects my ability to make friends, but I don’t have time for a social life anyway.

As for a boyfriend? Forget it.

So what if I’m still completely inexperienced at twenty? The Olympics are only every four years—everything else can wait.

But for some inexplicable reason, I can’t stop checking out my boring new training mate Matt Savelli. Calm, collected “Captain Cardboard” is a nice guy, but even if I had time to date, Matt’s so not my type. I don’t even know what my type is!

Until I do.

Beneath Matt’s wholesome surface, there’s a sexy, tender man who awakens a desire in me I’ve never experienced. This is the worst possible time to be tempted. The worst possible time to let someone get close to me.

This is the worst possible time to fall in love.

The Next Competitor by Keira Andrews is a gay sports romance featuring grumpy/sunshine opposites attracting, sizzling first times, and of course a happy ending.

Cold War

Summary:

Enemies on the ice. Forbidden lovers in the locker room.

American figure skater Dev despises his Russian rival. Arrogant, aloof Mikhail is like a machine on the ice—barely ever making a mistake.

He’s also sexy as hell, which makes him even more infuriating.

Dev and his pairs partner have been working their whole lives to become Olympic champions. He needs to keep his head in the game.

The very worst thing he could do is have explosive hate sex with Mikhail in the locker room after losing to him yet again before the Olympics.

But you know what would be even worse? Discovering that under Mikhail’s icy exterior, he’s Misha. Passionate and pent-up, he eagerly drops to his knees. His sweet smile makes Dev’s heart sing, and his forbidden kisses are unbearably tempting.

Dev must resist.

But he’s falling in love.

Only one of them can stand atop the podium. To win gold, will they lose their hearts?

Cold War by Keira Andrews is a gay sports romance featuring enemies to lovers, forbidden hookups blooming into a secret romance, opposites attracting, and of course a happy ending. Previously published as The Winning Edge: Gay Figure Skating Romance.

Only One Bed

Summary:

Will friends become lovers this Christmas?

Sam

People joke that Etienne and I are boyfriends, but whatever.

Sure, I think about him all the time—he's my best friend. If I've missed him way more than I expected when he left to train with a new skating coach, that’s because he’s so easy to hang with. And yeah, he’s gay, but he’s not into me. Why would he be? I’m straight.

We're not boyfriends.

But now Etienne needs me, so I’m rushing to the mountain village where he's skating in a holiday show. That’s what best friends do.

Etienne

I know Sam will never like me the way I like him.

Never love me the way I love him.

But now that my competitive skating career might be suddenly ending, I need my best friend by my side. Thank god Sam’s spending the holidays with me.

It's okay that he'll never love me back.

It’s okay that there's only one bed in this cozy little cabin.

We’re best friends. Nothing’s going to happen.

Only One Bed is a gay Christmas story from Keira Andrews featuring friends to lovers, bisexual awakening, first times, snowy holiday vibes, and of course a happy ending.

Kiss and Cry

Summary:

Will figure skating enemies become lovers?

Henry

Everything comes easily for Theo Sullivan, whether it’s jumps or figure skating world titles. Everyone loves him—judges, fans, coaches.

I hate him.

Now he’s invaded my training center, and I have to see him every day as we prepare for the Olympics. I’m going to win gold if it’s the last thing I do. I’m going to beat him.

But the strangest thing is happening. I’m peeking under his happy-go-lucky exterior and discovering there’s more to Theo than I imagined.

This is a mistake. I can’t trust him.

I can’t be falling in love.

Theo

My mom’s convinced training with Henry Sakaguchi will distract me heading into the Olympics. No way—Henry’s epically boring and cold. He might as well be carved from ice.

But when I need help, he’s there. He tries to keep me at arm’s length, but it’s no use. He’s too kind. Too generous. He’s caring and gorgeous and hot, and I’ve never wanted anyone like this.

I might want Henry more than a gold medal.

Am I falling in love?

Kiss and Cry by Keira Andrews is a steamy gay sports romance featuring grumpy/sunshine opposites attracting, secretly soft-hearted boys, hurt/comfort, and of course a happy ending.

The Next Competitor

Chapter One

If Pavarotti can hit that high note, I’m going to land my goddamn quad.

The powerful surge of violins echoes in the frosty arena as I thrust out my arms dramatically, “Nessun Dorma” from the opera Turandot building to its first crescendo, my left leg stroking the ice powerfully as back crossovers take me around the corner of the rink and diagonally across.

Sucking in a deep breath, I visualize my quad Salchow, a.k.a. the jump that will vault me to the top of the Olympic podium in four months. I pull in and up off the back inside edge, arms crossing my chest tightly—one, two, three—

Slam!

My tangled feet hit the ice, my ass following as I crash down before completing the fourth revolution. Sliding to a dejected stop, I curl my hands into fists. The music dies, and I brave a glance at Mrs. C behind the boards on the other side of the rink.

In AP English senior year, we read a Yeats poem with the line: “A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun.”

Mrs. C in a nutshell.

Beneath the elegant mink winter hat over her silver hair—pulled back into an impossibly tight bun as always—her stare doesn’t falter. Her tailored leather coat hugs her petite frame. Diamonds glint from her earlobes, rings catching the harsh fluorescent light as she claps her hands once with an echoing crack in the frigid air. “Again, Alexander.”

Everyone else calls me Alex, but I guess it’s too friendly for Mrs. C. I don’t bother wiping off the seat of my pants as I haul myself up since they soaked through half an hour ago. I haven’t landed my quad Sal once today, and Mrs. C won’t let me continue my long program until I do.

Her last name is Cheremisinova, but no one can pronounce it properly outside Russia. Her first name, Elena, is easy to say, but she might seriously kill me if I ever dared call her that. They’d find pieces of me buried in the huge snow bank the Zamboni makes behind the arena.

As I skate back to my starting position, “M&M” whiz by hand in hand. Mylene Bouchard and Matt Savelli are the two-time Canadian pairs champions and definitely candidates to end up on a Wheaties box. I’m not sure if Canada even does Wheaties boxes, but M&M are perfect for it: wholesome, hardworking, and very nice.

In short, very Canadian. He’s twenty-four and she’s nineteen, and Mylene has some personality, at least. I suspect Matt might be made entirely of chiseled cardboard. He never seems to get mad, and if he sighs heavily or puts his hands on his hips, that’s his equivalent of throwing a hissy. I have to wonder if he even cares about winning.

As I take my position at center ice for the zillionth time, Matt and Mylene—pronounced “Mee-len” because she’s French Canadian—practice a pairs spin in the corner. They whirl in place, Matt holding her close as Mylene yanks her foot up behind her with both hands, right to the back of her head in a Biellmann.

A lot of skating moves are named after the people who first performed them: Axel, Salchow, Lutz, Ina Bauer. Others just have boring names like loop and flip. The pairs do death spirals, but they aren’t quite as dramatic as they sound.

Mylene is doing the heavy lifting in the spin, but then Matt does the literal lifting as they skate down the rink and he smoothly hoists her overhead, his T-shirt stretching across his muscles…

I apparently shouldn’t have skipped my morning jerk-off session, and I give my head a shake to refocus as the familiar strains of opera fill the air. After the intro of my program, I reel off a quad toe-triple toe combo, then emote through my choreography and circle the rink to build speed for the quad Sal. Up, up—

Down.

I bite back a string of curses, Mrs. C’s merciless gaze heavy as the music is silenced. My ass is numb and wet, and I just can’t get the damn jump around today. At this point, I’ll take a two-foot landing if it means staying on my feet.

I skate the long way around the rink, giving myself extra time to shake off the fall, a bruise on my hip smarting. Annie Frechette, one of the top Canadian women skaters, glides out of my path with a sympathetic smile. We all have time each day to play our music and do run-throughs, and the other skaters stay out of our way.

Kenny—really Kenjiro, but only his mother calls him that—Tanaka is at the other end of the rink, listening intently to Mrs. C’s assistant coach, Rick. Kenny’s been a Japanese national silver medalist twice and he trains in Toronto because skaters are rock stars over there and he can’t leave the house in Tokyo without being mobbed by hordes of teenaged girls.

His mother sits in the second of the few rows of bleachers lining one side of the rink, watching silently, as she does every single day without fail.

I don’t bother looking at Mrs. C as I take my spot again. Five more times the scenario repeats itself before I finally get the damn jump around and landed on one foot. There’s scattered applause from the other skaters, coaches, and dedicated parents in the stands, and I know everyone is just happy not to have to listen to the same minute and a half of music over and over again.

The music plays on, and I nail my triple Axel, a jump that has always come easily to me, thank every deity in existence. In the old days—2010, to be exact—you could still win without the quad, but not the Axel.

These days, we need a quad in the short program and at least two in the long—preferably three. Some guys are doing four or five or even trying for six, but the rest of their skating isn’t as polished. God help me if that changes.

Now we need the perfect combination of quads, footwork, spins, and artistry. Every moment of every program has to be jam-packed to rack up the points, and any day now someone will start doing a quad Axel or some crazy shit. The Axel is actually a revolution and a half since it takes off forward, and three and a half is the max anyone is doing.

For now.

Sailing into a flying camel, I catch air before landing on my right foot and spinning, my left leg extended straight behind me at waist level, upper body leaning forward, one arm reaching to the ceiling as the world rushes by in a blur. The music suddenly cuts out, and I jerk up, skidding to a stop.

“Free leg needs to be straighter. You’re lazy.”

I gnaw on my tongue. Spins are one of my best elements, and Mrs. C rarely criticizes them. This day sucks and it’s barely even light out yet. I accept the inevitable as she regards me with cold eyes before issuing the dreaded order.

“Again.”

# # #

On my way to the gym mid-morning, I stop by a wall of windows to peer at the swath of trees surrounding the country club housing the rink. Here in the north part of the city, I can almost imagine we’re miles out into the country. Off to the right, clusters of people in visors and slacks—mostly rich seniors—play on the Valley Club’s golf course, still a vibrant green in the warm late September.

Maybe I should go for a run on the trails instead of the treadmill, but it’s too easy to twist an ankle. No, I have to be smart and stay focused. No unnecessary risks. Definitely not in an Olympic season. I snap a picture of the landscape and Instagram it with a caption about how lucky I am to train in such a beautiful place. Hashtag blessed.

Carrying a pile of textbooks, Mylene approaches, her flip-flops slapping. She wears jeans and a T-shirt proclaiming: I’m not short—I’m just concentrated awesome. At five-one, she’s pretty damn short, but that’s one of the things that make her perfect for pairs. She smiles brightly, which is her default expression and one of the other qualities I imagine make her a great partner. Too bad Matt’s so bland.

“Salut!” She stops and eyes my running shoes and workout shorts. “Going to the gym?”

No, I’m going skiing. Even though sarcasm tends to be the first thing to always pop into my head, I’m working on keeping it there, so I bite back the automatic snark. “Yep. What are you learning today?” Mylene’s taking a few classes at the University of Toronto, which frankly boggles my mind in an Olympic season.

“European history.” She doesn’t really say the letter h, so it sounds more like istory.

“So a bunch of white men building castles and oppressing people?”

She laughs. “Yep.”

If I wasn’t gay, I’d totally be into Mylene. Even though she’s tiny, she still has hips and boobs, and her wide smile is killer. The French accent is adorable, and her curly brown hair and green eyes gleam. Her skin is light brown since her mother’s white and her dad African-American. Well, African-Canadian, I guess, but so far I haven’t heard anyone in Canada use that term.

“I don’t know how you can worry about school when the Olympics are coming.”

She shrugs. “It’s nice not to think about skating all the time.”

“Not think about skating all the time? I’m not following.” I exaggerate the furrow of my brow, and she laughs on cue.

Then she gives me a shrewd look. “You know you really should take a break once in a while.”

“I’ll take a break when I win gold in Salzburg. You don’t understand what it’s like to actually be a contender. You’ll be, what? Top ten at most?” I run through the pairs in my head like a TiVo on fast-forward. “Yeah, I think the best you can hope for is seventh, and that’s assuming you land all your jumps and throws. So we’re not really on the same level, you know?”

Holding the textbooks to her chest, Mylene blinks, her warm smile vanished. “We’re aiming for the podium just like you. You’re not the only one here with Olympic dreams.”

Shit. “Oh, of course! I didn’t mean…” She stares and offers no help as I flounder. “You guys are great, don’t get me wrong!”

She laughs, short and sarcastic. “How would anyone ever get you wrong, Alex?” With that, she marches off.

Part of me wants to chase after her and apologize, but I have a workout schedule to keep. Besides, I’m not wrong, damn it. The only way she and Matt will make the podium is if a bunch of teams ahead of them implode. But that doesn’t mean they won’t make it in four more years—pairs are sometimes in their thirties by the time they build as a team and put it all together to win.

So not thinking about skating all the time is fine for her right now. But me? I’m going to be Olympic champion. I’m going to win. I have to win.

The gym—a bright, mirrored room containing several cardio machines, free weights, foam rollers, mats, TRX bands, and a weight machine circuit—is predictably deserted. Weekends are busy with club members, but on weekdays outside of summer we skaters have it mostly to ourselves. Our trainers come in a couple times a week, and I strictly follow my workout instructions.

Before hopping on a treadmill, I go to the mirrors and tug down the collar of my T-shirt. Running my fingers over the spot just below my right collarbone, I imagine the tattoo I’m going to have inked after I win gold in Salzburg. It’ll just be the Olympic rings in black—simple and totally cliché. But I’ve dreamt of this tattoo since I was a kid doing single Axels and I saw a Russian skater on TV with the rings inked on his bicep.

“You’re going to do it. You can do it. You can beat them all.” Staring at my reflection, I nod decisively, then turn to the treadmill and crank up the volume on my iPod.

I have a lot of hip-hop and dance playlists, but sometimes I listen to the songs I’ve skated to in the past. As I run up an imaginary hill, arms and legs pumping, I close my eyes and relive my long program from last season, one of my favorites of my career.

The music is so familiar now it’s practically been imprinted in my DNA. John Williams’s score from an old Spielberg movie called Empire of the Sun soars, driving my pace as I pound the treadmill.

Sweat beads on my forehead as the hill steepens, but I’m a million miles away in my head as the music swells and I perform a textbook triple Axel-single loop-triple Salchow sequence—in the second half of my program too, so ten percent bonus on the score.

In my memory, the crowd cheers so loudly the music is almost drowned out as I move into my footwork sequence. My feet fly across the ice as I weave my way down the rink, changing edges constantly, twisting one way and then the next, staying deep in my knees. My blades carve the ice effortlessly, body and mind in perfect unison, the endless training paying off.

This is the program I skated in Cincinnati seven months earlier when I won my first US national title, and I remember the surge of elation and roar of the crowd as I whirl into my final spin as if it were yesterday.

With a shout of triumph, adrenaline pumping, I thrust up my arms. In the moment of silence before the next song on my playlist, there’s applause that’s most definitely not in my head. I open my eyes to find Matt and Kenny standing by the weight bench, laughing and clapping.

My face flushes hot, sticky embarrassment sparking to anger as I yank out my earbuds, their laughter grating my nerves. I jab at the treadmill screen to stop my workout, then open my mouth to bark out a couple of insults so they’ll feel as awkward and embarrassed as I do.

Kenny approaches. “Are you big winner?”

Looking at his smile, I force my lungs to expand, pressing my lips together. Being mean to him is like kicking a puppy. Even though Kenny’s a medal contender and my competition, he’s so sweet I can’t resent him. Believe me, I’ve tried.

I manage a laugh. Okay, I must have looked ridiculous, cheering for myself on a treadmill. “Yeah, the big winner. That’s me.”

Kenny ducks in a little nod/bow and shakes my hand to mock congratulate me while Matt racks weights on a barbell, smiling. It still irks that Captain Cardboard is laughing at my expense—he doesn’t even know me—but I hop off the treadmill and ignore him and his stupidly perfect smile.

Matt and I have barely said more than a few words to each other in the couple months I’ve been training at the rink, but something about him rubs me the wrong way. He’s so calm and smiley, not to mention annoyingly good looking.

He’s several inches taller than me and more built. Yet he’s still long and lean, and not huge like some of the male pairs skaters. His dark brown hair is full and glossy, his thick eyebrows prominent over hazel eyes.

While we haven’t talked much, one day in the locker room I caught him frowning at me in obvious disapproval while another skater and I gossiped about the worst new costumes of the season. Sorry not sorry, but Tatiana Safina’s yellow, feathered monstrosity makes her look like Big Bird.

Matt’s clearly a total killjoy and goody two-shoes, as my Grandma would say. I’m not really clear on what that means, but I’m going with it. So as hot as he is, I’ll take a hard pass on Matt—not that I’m looking to hook up, or that he’d want me anyway. I suspect he’s gay, since there’s something about the way he doesn’t look at beautiful women around the rink, but I’m sure he’s banging dudes just as buff as he is.

Regardless, I jerk off to sleep most nights and again in the morning, and that’s enough until I win gold.

Kenny says to me, “Busy later?” He pauses, seemingly searching for a word. “Saturday?”

I only moved to Toronto this summer and know no one outside the rink, which is perfect. But Kenny’s so sweet he’s hard to say no to. I groan internally, bracing myself. “Just training. Um, what’s up?”

“My birthday. We go eat and dance. Salsa.”

An excuse automatically cues itself up on my tongue, but looking at his hopeful face, I can’t pull the trigger. “Sounds fun. I can’t stay out late, but I’ll come for a bit.”

With a grin, Kenny does his little nod/bow again. The truth is, he kind of worships me. I’m popular in Japan, and even though Kenny’s a huge star himself now, when we toured over there in early summer, he still stuck to me like glue.

With the language barrier it’s hard to really have deep and meaningful conversations, which makes Kenny the perfect friend. We can just smile and have fun once in a while, and that’s that.

Kenny lowers himself to the weight bench and picks up the barbell as Matt stands just behind his head, spotting. Kenny grunts as he lowers the weight, and I marvel that anyone that small and skinny can reel off quads. For him it seems so easy, and I choke down a dark spike of resentment.

Settling on the rowing machine, I put my earbuds back in and play a workout mix. I quickly find a rhythm that matches the thumping beat, pulling with my arms as I push with my legs, feeling it in my glutes.

When I found out Mrs. C was moving her coaching operation from New Jersey to Toronto, and that Kenny was leaving his coach in Japan for her, I wasn’t sure what to think. But training with him pushes me to be better, and it’s nice to have at least one person around who adores me, since Mrs. C sure doesn’t.

I yank on the rowing cable, regulating my breathing in time with my strokes. Admittedly, I’m not always the easiest person to get along with. I’ve had four coaches since I was fourteen, and I’m twenty now. My last coach was way too motherly and coddling, and the one before that didn’t push me enough either. For all my bitching about Mrs. C, I need her. Warm and fuzzy won’t get me to the top.

In the past year, I won my national title and got the bronze medal at Worlds in March. I’m now one of the men to beat at the Olympics, and I have Mrs. C and her pitiless gaze to thank.

She was the Russian pairs champion a million years ago with her husband, Boris, and they won gold at Worlds a bunch of times and twice at the Olympics. Boris died a couple of years ago, so I never met him. Mrs. C has never mentioned his name once, but it’s not like we sit around and braid each other’s hair and talk about our feelings.

Now if I can only master the quad Sal, I’ll be on my way to the gold medal. Tanner Nielsen can do the toe, the Sal, and posted videos of training the quad Lutz this summer. The smug bastard.

I jerk a towel over my sweaty face, yanking harder on the rowing cable as images of Tanner and his golden hair, sky blue eyes, and perfect, dazzling smile invade my head. He’s the classic all-American jock, and he wouldn’t know true artistry if it bit him in the nuts.

Across the room, Kenny bounds up from the weight bench and smiles at me, flexing his slight biceps as Matt takes his place. I give Kenny a leering wink, and he giggles. He’s not gay, but we joke sometimes that he’s my skating boyfriend. It’s not like he has any competition off the ice anyway.

A lot of people outside skating think we’re all gay, but the majority of the guys are actually straight, even with their sequins and ruffles. Some of us are gay or bi, but every job in the world has LGBT people in it. Skating isn’t really that different.

It even has crappy homophobia too, which I know all too well. I’m not super popular with the people in charge of the United States Figure Skating Federation. To be fair, part of the reason is because I have a tendency to say things to the media that are…controversial. I like to think of myself as honest, but as Mom puts it, I was born without a filter between my brain and mouth.

Sometimes honesty isn’t the best policy, especially now with social media, where one offhand comment gets tweeted and dissected to death.

But regardless of my flaws, homophobia plays a role too. American networks love a champion with a beautiful wife or girlfriend they can show in the stands. If a male skater is married with kids, the commentators usually mention it approximately a zillion times. Things are changing, but not soon enough for me. For the Federation, the sun beams out of Tanner Nielsen’s hetero, muscular ass, and they weren’t too happy when I won the title.

Rowing harder, I revel in the memories of beating Tanner by seven glorious points at Nationals. Sure, he missed two of his jumps and basically handed me the victory on a silver platter, but I still won that gold fair and square.

Tanner is the poster boy for American skating, and advertisers love his perfect hair, square jaw, and beautiful girlfriend—who still reigns as America’s sweetheart after winning gold at the last Olympics.

Lisa Ackles promptly retired at nineteen after her surprise Olympic victory and now spends her time touring with ice shows or doing her bit looking gorgeous and fresh-faced in the audience cheering on Tanner. Her hair is so blond it practically glows, and she’s the spokesperson for American Girl makeup and a whitening toothpaste.

On the other hand, I have plain brown eyes and dirty blond hair I highlight so it isn’t a totally mousy shade. Even though I’m in damn good shape, I don’t ripple with muscles like Tanner.

I glance across the gym to where Matt is pressing the barbell, sweat glistening on his skin like it’s been sprayed there. He and Tanner are definitely cut from the same buff, six-pack-abs cloth.

I’ve always been on the thinner side, although at least I don’t look as if a stiff wind will blow me away like Kenny. I used to have a snaggle tooth I had fixed with veneers that weren’t cheap. Still, my smile isn’t quite as straight and flawless as Tanner’s or Matt’s. At five-seven, I’m not technically short, but I avoid standing next to Tanner without my skates on.

As for a camera-ready girlfriend in the stands, I definitely don’t have one of those. While I don’t wear a rainbow flag pinned to my costume, I’ve never really hidden my sexuality. I knew by the time I was ten that I wanted to kiss boys, not girls.

Granted, I’ve still barely kissed anyone, which is a little embarrassing at my age. But it’s only because training has consumed my life, not because I’m confused.

When I gathered my courage in junior high and told my parents I was going on a date—my first and pretty much last so far—with an ice dancer named Kevin, they just gave me twenty bucks and told me to be home by ten.

There are a few out skaters, like Rudy Galindo, Matty Marcus, Eric Radford, and Adam Rippon. Brian Boitano, but he took decades. They’re all retired, and even though I know it would probably be okay to come out officially, I need every tenth of a point to beat Tanner, and you never know which judges might have prejudices. I’m not giving him any advantage.

So it’s not a secret I’m gay, but I’m not prepared to put myself out there publicly. The girls in Asia love me because I’m the cover boy for Non-Threatening American Male Monthly. I make a good amount of cash over there doing shows, and now that I’m US champion, I made a King Sub sandwich ad in Jersey. It’s not much, but I need it to pay the bills, and I have an agent to try and get me more deals.

I make prize money when I do well at competitions, but skating is hella expensive. There’s ice time, lessons with Mrs. C, costumes and choreographers, trainers and physio, ballet classes, my boots and blades, sharpening, traveling costs for competitions and bringing Mrs. C with me. Never mind rent, food, gas, etc., etc., etc.

The Federation helps with some expenses, but to pay off my parents’ double mortgage—which they took out for my skating—and buy myself another car when my beater Honda Civic throws in the towel, I need endorsements.

Ugh, just thinking about it makes me want to reach for the Tums.

After my daily half-hour stretching routine, I nod to Kenny and Captain Cardboard and make a pit stop in the locker room to change back into my skating clothes.

A ratty old T-shirt and black stretch pants are all I usually wear in practice, although at a competition, my practice gear is new and color-coordinated since the judges are watching. With some judges, every impression counts. It’s not really fair, but welcome to figure skating.

In the club’s lounge, one wall of the sizable room is glass overlooking the rink a story below. On the other side there’s a small café with a few round tables and chairs. I buy a can of Coke, knowing Mrs. C is on the rink. Her face would pinch like she’d just chomped a lemon if she spotted me, but I need the caffeine boost.

Flopping on a soft brown leather couch by the large window, I pull my lunch from my gym bag. As I eat my peanut butter sandwich on enriched white—I can’t stand whole wheat even if it’s better for me—I watch Mrs. C coaching a young Latvian pair, Oksana and Maxim.

Maxim’s twenty and little Oksana’s only sixteen and not even five feet tall yet. Blond Maxim’s a jokester, always with big smiles, but she’s serious and shy, often saying little and watching instead while she winds her dark ringlets around her finger.

They came from Latvia to train with Mrs. C, and they rent rooms in her large house in the northern suburbs of the city. They drive in every morning with her and go home with her every night, and I fully expect them to go batshit within six months. I can’t imagine living with Mrs. C. Her house is probably like a museum where you can’t touch anything or relax, and she gives you that death stare when you take the last banana.

Chantal Penault, M&M and Annie Frechette’s coach, joins Mrs. C and makes a few comments about Oksana and Maxim, motioning to them as they practice a lift. Chantal never got very far as a skater herself, but she’s had a ton of success as a coach. Middle-aged, blond, and plump, she has a warm smile and a sing-songy voice.

Chantal and Mrs. C share opinions about each other’s skaters and offer suggestions, but aside from supportive smiles and a few comments now and then, Chantal doesn’t have anything to do with my training.

Mylene isn’t back yet, but I watch as Matt returns to the rink, gliding around it with powerful strokes, black Lycra clinging to his long legs. He reels off a gorgeous triple Lutz-triple toe-double toe, which I grudgingly admit is impressive for a pairs skater since their side-by-side jumps tend to be easier.

Mylene appears, bending to remove her skate guards before gliding onto the ice. As Matt nears, he extends his hand, and she takes it without even looking. A strange jealousy pulses in me, low and prickly.

It’s stupid, since I’d be a terrible partner. First off, I’m not tall enough, but more importantly, I get so mad at myself when I make mistakes that I’d probably be a complete dick to the poor girl stuck with me.

Still, as I watch M&M circle the rink hand in hand, I can’t help but wish I had a big, strong man to be by my side and catch me when I fall. Obviously not Matt, since he’d probably put me to sleep being so pleasant and bland all day long, but…

Snorting, I take a big bite of my sandwich, the peanut butter sticking to the roof of my mouth. Sure, maybe I want a boyfriend sometimes, but I have zero time for that. Zilch, nada, nope. I have my hands full with my own bullshit, let alone someone else’s.

Soon I’ll be competing on the Grand Prix circuit in my two assigned events, trying to get enough points to make the final in December. The top six skaters or teams overall in each discipline square off at the final, and the momentum from a win there will be vital heading into the Olympics. I have to win. Have to prove I’m the best.

And Jesus, then I have to defend my title at Nationals in January. I can’t be beaten by Tanner. I cannot.

Washing down the sandwich with my forbidden Coke, I try to calm my racing heart. The nails on my left hand dig into my palm, leaving accusatory half-moons. On the ice, Matt and Mylene are still holding hands, stroking around the rink with easy smiles for each other.

I crumple the Coke can, and when I get on the ice, I put on my broad, beaming competition smile and pretend the judges are already watching.

Cold War

Chapter One

December: The Grand Prix Final

Dev reached for his partner’s hand, and he and Bailey glided onto the ice wearing matching bullshit smiles as a voice announced: “In second, and winners of the silver medal, representing the United States of America—Bailey Robinson and Dev Avira!”

Thunderous applause filled the arena, and flashbulbs popped as they took their bows and waved to the cheering Japanese crowd. Dev wished he could soak in their love and choke down the acid bitterness currently lodged somewhere around his sternum.

Smiles still firmly in place, he and Bailey hopped onto the carpet surrounding the podium where the gold medalists waited in all their sequined and red-feathered glory. Leave it to the Russians to make their Firebird costumes as literal as possible. Kisa Kostina, not a bleached-blonde hair out of place, beamed as she bent to air-kiss Bailey’s cheeks.

Dev’s jaw clenched as he shook Mikhail Reznikov’s hand. He hated himself for the skitter of electricity when their eyes and palms met. Mikhail’s lips curved briefly into an approximation of a smile. At thirty-one, with his short dark brown hair sweeping over his forehead, his steel-blue eyes, his broad shoulders and lean, tall body, and his truly spectacular ass, he was stupidly handsome.

Asshole.

Dev and Kisa exchanged air-kisses before he helped Bailey step onto the second tier of the podium. He took his place behind her and waved again to the audience while the third-place Canadians skated out to take their bows, followed by more air-kisses and handshakes. Although Dev and Bailey genuinely liked the Canadian team, this ritual was so painfully fake. They were all here to win, and there was only one satisfied team on the podium.

And satisfied the Russians certainly were. With his regal air, Mikhail was one of the most pompous, egotistical people Dev had ever met. He was the king of the pairs world, and he damn well knew it. Sharp-eyed Kisa was the ice queen, and together they were a perfect, humorless match. They kept to themselves off the ice, always civil but never friendly.

How Dev would love to see Mikhail Reznikov brought to his knees. He ignored the flare of desire in his belly at the other implications of that thought and refocused his attention on his resentment of Mikhail’s place on the podium.

The Grand Prix Final was the last international competition before they all returned home for their national championships in late December and into January. Olympic teams would be determined, and then on to the Games in Annecy in February. Since he was seven, Dev had dreamed of winning Olympic gold. He was so close he could taste it.

The officials presented flowers and medals, and Dev played his jovial part. Being on the podium here meant they were among the best of the best, yet the silver medal hung around his neck like an albatross. He knew he should be grateful for what he had, and proud of everything he and Bailey had accomplished. And he was. But second place wasn’t good enough.

He wanted to win.

As the all too familiar “Hymn of the Russian Federation” played, Dev watched the flags rise to the arena’s rafters. Just once, he wanted the Stars and Stripes to have the middle position. Sure, he and Bailey had won plenty of competitions. They had narrowly missed making the last Olympic team, and that disappointment had fueled them. They’d dominated American pairs skating ever since. Three-time national champions. Winners of multiple Grand Prix events—including Skate America, Skate Canada, NHK Trophy, and the Cup of China.

But they’d never beaten Kostina and Reznikov. Every time they faced the Russians, they came up short. They were the reigning world silver medalists, and even though they’d worked endlessly on their artistry and connection and edges and transitions—it was never enough.

It wasn’t as if the Russians weren’t good. Dev could admit they were amazing, particularly on the technical side. They were three-time world champions, and when they were on, they were unbeatable. But tonight Kisa had fallen on their throw Salchow and they’d lost unison on their side-by-side combination spins. Yet they still won by eight points. Eight! Sure, Bailey had put a hand down on their side-by-side triple toes, but it was a minor error. It felt like the judges had decided Kostina/Reznikov were the winners before any of the pairs even stepped on the ice.

The crowd cheered as the anthem ended, and all the skaters squeezed onto the top of the podium for photographs. At five-ten, Dev wasn’t the biggest of the male pairs skaters, but tiny Bailey only reached his shoulder. Mikhail stood a good three inches taller beside him, because of course he had to be better in absolutely everything. Dev grinned for the photographers and held up his silver medal as he fantasized about elbowing Mikhail off the back of the podium.

The torture continued as the teams posed for more photographs on the ice with their flags. Then it was time to circle the rink for a victory lap. Dev and Bailey stopped to hug a few fans, including Amaya and Reiko, two young women who attended almost every competition around the world. Dev had no idea how they afforded it, but he was always grateful to see them in the stands.

Reiko handed him a stuffed elephant. The elephant was the state animal of Kerala, the Southern Indian state where his parents had grown up before immigrating to the US, where Dev was born. He’d mentioned once in an interview that his good-luck charm was a tiny elephant pendant carved from jade that he wore during every competition on a silver chain, hidden beneath his costumes.

Ever since, fans had given him elephants in every imaginable form, from dolls to statues to goofy hats. He loved every single one, and his mother collected them in what she called the Elephant Room back home in Belmont in the Boston suburbs.

He kissed Reiko’s cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart. Hope we’ll see you in Annecy?”

She bounced. “Oh yes! We would not miss this. And we love new costumes!”

“Glad to hear it!” Dev grinned.

After NHK they’d scrapped their initial costumes, which didn’t quite capture the darkly romantic tone of their Jane Eyre long program—officially called the free skate—set to the score from the 2011 film. Now Dev wore navy trousers and a button-down silk shirt with a simple white cravat, while Bailey’s navy dress with delicate white embroidery at her wrists and around her neck perfectly set off her auburn hair, which she wore twisted into a braid wrapped around a knot. Dev had grown his thick black hair a little on top, where it curled in what he liked to think was a rakish fashion.

Reiko’s smile gave way to a frown. “The results not correct. You and Bailey are true winners today. Everyone thinks this.”

Amaya nodded vigorously.

“Thanks, guys. We love you!” Bailey gave them another hug before they skated on.

After yet more photos, they finally escaped backstage. Their coach, Louise Webber, walked them to the dressing rooms. Louise had been a pairs skater herself in her youth, although she’d never gone past the national level. Now in her forties, she was still in amazing shape, which she attributed to her “Asian genes.” There wasn’t a streak of gray in her short black hair, and while she often said Bailey and Dev would give her wrinkles when they didn’t follow instructions to her satisfaction, none were in evidence.

Dev just wanted to get back to the hotel, but there was still the mandatory press conference to contend with. “Is this over yet?”

“You did your job out there. The rest of it is out of your hands. I’m proud of you.” Louise gave them both a squeeze. “Don’t let it get to you.”

“I’m not. It’s fine. I’m fine,” Dev insisted.

Bailey snorted. “Uh-huh.” She patted his hip before disappearing into the women’s dressing room. “See you in a few.”

Of the six teams that qualified to compete at the Grand Prix Final, the three who didn’t make it to the podium were long gone. In the men’s dressing room, the Canadian, Roger Jackman, was already zipping up his hoodie and stuffing his feet into his sneakers.

“Hey, man. I gotta call my wife back home. The baby’s due any minute now and I want to catch her tonight before it’s too late. Or early. I’m so fucked-up with this time change. Don’t rush getting changed, okay? I need a few extra minutes. See you in the press room.”

“Sure, no problem.” Dev held out his fist. “Great skate tonight.”

Roger bumped him back. “You too.” He shrugged. “What are you gonna do, right?”

As Mikhail strode in, Roger hurried out, tapping his cell phone. Dev sat on a bench and unlaced his skates. From the corner of his eye, he watched Mikhail peel off his black bodysuit festooned with shimmers of burnt orange and red. Several feathers floated to the tile floor. Underneath he wore a black tank top and boxer briefs that clung to his narrow hips and muscular thighs.

Swallowing hard, Dev quickly stripped off his costume and transferred it to a garment bag. Wearing dark boxer briefs as well, he reached for his track pants, but found his attention drawn back to Mikhail. The arena’s locker room had been gussied up with several wardrobe racks and a bank of makeup tables with mirrors and chairs. Still in his underwear, Mikhail went to one of the mirrors and leaned close.

The ego on this guy. It wasn’t bad enough that Mikhail had to always win—did he have to parade around the dressing room half-naked? Still, Dev had to swallow hard as traitorous desire seared in him. Mikhail steadily met his gaze in the mirror, and Dev jerked his head away, cheeks hot. Stupid! The last thing he needed was to get caught lusting after this asshole.

“Don’t worry, your guyliner isn’t smudged,” he snarked before glancing over.

In the mirror, Mikhail’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing and pulled a lash from his eye.

For some reason this refusal to engage lit a fuse to the anger simmering in Dev’s gut. “You know, you could lighten up once in a while. We get it, you’re an artiste. So tortured and…Russian. With your flailing arms and your nines for Performance and Execution even though you just go through the motions. You always get nines, and I bet you did tonight, despite Kisa cleaning the ice with her ass on that throw. You guys even fall artistically according to the judges.”

Mikhail straightened and faced Dev. His gaze raked down Dev’s body and back up. Nostrils flaring, he asked, “You have a problem?” His accent was fairly thick, but his earlier years training in Connecticut gave him a strong command of English. “Talk to the judges. We don’t control them.”

Dev barked out a laugh and took a step closer. “We both know your federation has the judges in its pocket. Skating has always been about politics, and no matter what scoring system they bring in—it always will be.” He shook his head. “Why am I even getting into this?” he muttered, more to himself than Mikhail. He headed toward the bathroom. “Forget it.”

Mikhail stood unmoving, and maybe Dev meant to get a little too close and knock his shoulder. But he definitely didn’t intend to end up slammed into a locker with Mikhail gripping his arms, his eyes blazing and face twisted. Dev’s skin burned where Mikhail touched him.

“You think it’s so easy for us? You know nothing. Nothing!”

Dev shoved against Mikhail’s chest, but he didn’t budge. Fingers curling in Mikhail’s tank top, Dev struggled to focus when he wanted so much to rip the cotton away and feel Mikhail’s pale skin. “Cry me a river! You win everything just by showing up. You could drag Kisa around by her hair for four and a half minutes and you’d be golden.”

“Poshel na hui,” Mikhail spat.

Dev had been around Russians long enough to translate. He gritted his teeth. “Fuck you too.”

Their harsh breathing filled the air, fingers digging into each other’s skin, bodies so close and—

They were kissing, mouths open and teeth clashing, tongues battling as they rutted together. The metal of the locker was cold against Dev’s back, but everything else was fire—desire pumping through his veins, and the unstoppable urge to get closer, closer, closer. He moaned raggedly as his brain tried to connect with his body.

What am I doing? Stop!

His body ignored him, and he spread his legs as Mikhail jammed his thigh between them. They were both already hard in their underwear, and Mikhail groaned as Dev grabbed his ass and ground their hips together. Dev hated him so much, but he couldn’t stop touching. His hands roamed over the hard angles of Mikhail’s body, and he panted into wet, messy kisses. Mikhail clutched Dev’s hips and thrust their cocks together.

Anyone could walk in. Stop! I hate him! Wrong, wrong, wrong!

The scattered snippets of thought only made his pulse roar louder, and his balls tightened already, his body desperate for the release. They jerked together, and Dev could only give in to the madness that had taken over.

When Dev’s orgasm ripped through him, his shout was muffled by Mikhail’s palm slapping over his mouth. Mikhail hunched over as he rubbed against Dev in a frenzy, his quiet little gasps warm and wet against Dev’s neck. He came silently, shuddering with the pulses of his release. Dev’s body hummed with aftershocks, and he closed his eyes, breathing hard through his nose since Mikhail’s hand still covered his mouth.

Then the heat vanished, and Dev opened his eyes. Mikhail backed up across the dressing room, shaking his head slowly, eyes wide. Dev was frozen in place against the locker, his briefs sticky, and his arms hanging at his sides. They stared at each other as the seconds ticked by.

“Gentlemen?” a man’s voice called, accompanied by a sharp knock on the door. “We’re ready for you in the media room.”

They leaped into action, yanking on clean underwear, street clothes, and shoes in a blur of movement, not meeting each other’s eyes. Dev made it out first, and he smiled and made his apologies to the officials, following them to the press room. Sweaty and sticky and in desperate need of a shower, he tugged on his fleece and felt exposed even though it wasn’t as if there were wet spots on his track pants.

In the press room, the other skaters sat behind a long table on a raised dais. Kisa waited in the middle with the Canadians on her left and Bailey her right, everyone seated in their medal positions. On the rows of chairs in front of the table, the media, coaches, and various event and federation officials waited. Dev avoided looking any of them in the eye as he took his seat.

He couldn’t avoid his partner, and he smiled in what he hoped was a low-key, completely normal way. His mouth felt raw. Jesus, do I have beard burn? Bailey’s brows knitted together, and she reached up and straightened his hair. Shit. His hair.

Everyone knows! It’s flashing all over me in neon letters. Neon and all caps!

Breathing deeply, he struggled to unscrew the cap from the bottle of water placed on the table in front of him. It took two tries, but he got it, and gulped. His heart pounded so loudly he was sure everyone could hear it.

“Everything okay?” Bailey murmured.

He nodded.

Under the table, she squeezed his thigh. “We’re almost there. Just think—tomorrow we leave Kyoto and get to sleep in our own beds again. At least for a few weeks.”

With a rush of affection, he took her hand. If there was one thing he could count on, it was having Bailey beside him. He exhaled and concentrated on her familiar warmth.

Mikhail entered the room, head high and shoulders back, his hair artfully swooped over his forehead. He managed to make warm-up pants and his red Russian team jacket look like Armani. Expression calm, he took his seat next to Kisa. While Dev wanted to crawl out of his skin with a mess of emotions from shock and anger to a shameful craving for more, Mikhail Reznikov appeared utterly unaffected.

Dev had never hated him more.

Only One Bed

Chapter One

Sam

If my grandma wasn’t so cute, I’d tell her to bite me.

She beamed up at me with her crinkly grin, white hair peeking out from her red Team Canada toque. She wore her usual prim and proper outfit of slacks, blouse, and cardigan, her face fully made up—Yuko Tanaka did not leave the house without her rose-colored lipstick.

But every time we went to a skating competition, she proudly topped her outfit with the red woolen hat. I’m not especially tall, but she barely reached my shoulder, the hat’s pom-pom giving her a few extra inches.

Her elbow struck just below my ribs as she asked again, “Where’s your boyfriend?”

I rolled my eyes at her old joke as I stepped back to let a woman pass through the concessions line. This was a brand-new arena in the Calgary burbs built for the Olympics in fourteen months, but there still wasn’t enough room on the concourse. Never was. “You know Etienne’s not my boyfriend. He’s my best friend.”

“Eh?”

I leaned down and repeated firmly, “You know Etienne’s not my boyfriend.”

“Why not?” Her brown eyes sparkled.

“Because I have a girlfriend. Obaachan, stop trolling.”

Fine, I used to have a girlfriend. Though Mandy had nothing to do with why Etienne wasn’t my boyfriend. I was straight. It was my older brother, Henry, who was gay. The end.

She hmphed. She loved this game of being unconvinced that Etienne and I weren’t secretly on the down low. “Why isn’t he here?” My grandma didn’t follow skating results unless Henry was involved.

“Etienne and Brianna didn’t make the Grand Prix Final. They’re not at that level, remember?” I quickly added, “They’re still having a great season! But only the top six teams from the Grand Prix events make it. They didn’t medal at either of their competitions this fall.”

They’d been fifteenth in ice dance at the last World Championships, which was amazing when you thought about it, but they weren’t medal contenders internationally. They never got the scores they deserved, but the judging was so political and fucked-up.

“Mmm.” Now her gaze turned critical. “What did you do to your beautiful hair?”

“Cut it.” It was shaved close at the back and sides and longer on top. I’d spiked up the front with gel.

“Don’t be a wise man.”

“I’m not. No frankincense or myrrh on hand. Definitely no gold.” I elbowed her arm gently. “Get it?”

She snorted. “Very good, Samu.” She’d called me that for as long as I could remember.

“It’ll wash out.” I ran a hand over the tips of my hair that I’d highlighted a metallic silver-green in contrast to my natural near-black. “Eventually.”

The pom-pom danced as she shook her head. “Your cousin Keiji in Osaka just got a big promotion. No green hair.”

“Keiji’s a banker. I’m in third year sociology at UBC. No one cares about my hair.”

“No ripped pants either. You look like you’re poor.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being poor. It’s a social construct.” Although my jeans had not been cheap. “I know, I know, no baggy hoodies for Keiji either. Or Henry.” Between my perfect cousin and my uptight, extremely tidy brother, my grandma had a ton of comparison material. My mom said she’d done the same thing to her when she was growing up and to ignore it.

Hand snaking under my hoodie, she pinched my waist. She was still lightning fast. “You’re a good boy anyway.”

I lightly batted her pom-pom. “I love you too.”

We reached the front of the line and ordered hot dogs, fries, and pretzels. The menu here had a Wild West theme, but aside from the chuckwagon chili, it was all the usual crap. I was an expert in arena food, and while the content of hot dogs was questionable at best, the pizza was never fresh and suffered more from sitting under warmers.

Obaachan insisted on carrying the tray of pop, already sucking on her Orange Crush. “It’s Henry who really needs a boyfriend,” she said.

“Shh!” Juggling the tray of food, I squirted ketchup into little white paper cups at the condiment stand.

I glanced at the people milling around. Between fans, families, friends, coaches, and media, skating was a small world and gossip was a main food group. Henry was a former world champion fighting for gold in singles against his arch nemesis from the States, Theo Sullivan. Everyone here knew who Henry was, and he would not appreciate Obaachan discussing his love life—or lack of it—so loudly.

I mean, she wasn’t wrong—Henry needed a boyfriend. Or at least to get laid. Not that I knew for sure he wasn’t getting any. My big brother would discuss his real or nonexistent sex life with me right about never in a million years. I worried sometimes that he was lonely, but he was too obsessed with skating and beating Theo to date.

Etienne said he was too busy these days for a boyfriend too. I wasn’t a world class athlete, and while I had enough to do between classes and my job re-shelving books at the library, I wasn’t sure what my excuse was for not seeing anyone again since Mandy. It had only been a few months, though. I’d been happier playing League online with Etienne on weekends.

It was fine—I didn’t have to party all the time to meet another girl. My buddies at school kept telling me about all the hot chicks they picked up with the latest app. I said I’d download it when I was back home in Vancouver in January. I’d be busy enough playing with Etienne anyway. We were really close to reaching the next level and couldn’t stop now.

Obaachan and I shuffled to our section through a short concrete corridor and then down the steps. We were in the third row in the corner near the Kiss and Cry, and a family had to stand up to let us squeeze by to our seats. A dance mix of “Last Christmas,” which I hated yet knew all the words to, echoed through the arena as the Zamboni steadily cleaned the ice, leaving it shiny and smooth.

After handing off food to my parents, I tried to get comfortable. Seriously, who fit in arena seats? I was on the skinny side and only five-six, but my knees hit the chair in front of me. Obaachan and the kids under ten beside me were the only people who didn’t look uncomfortable.

On my grandma’s other side, Mom asked, “Sam, you’re sure you only want money for Christmas?” She tapped her phone, frowning.

“Uh-huh. There’s no point in having to carry stuff home.”

It was mid-December, and we’d be heading to Toronto soon to spend Christmas there with Henry since there was no way he’d stop training for the holidays. He’d be forced to on the days the rink closed, but he was too obsessed to take an actual week off or something.

I missed the old days when Henry and Etienne both trained in Vancouver and I saw them anytime I wanted. I opened my texts, itching to send Etienne a message. But I shouldn’t distract him when I didn’t have anything specific to say. “I miss you” would just be weird.

After the judges and officials were introduced, which always took a stupidly long time, the overhead lights temporarily dimmed and thumping music played in time with strobes as the six women competing in singles skated to center ice for their introductions.

We applauded the lone American, two Japanese skaters, and three Russians. We didn’t always attend all four disciplines when we went to Henry’s competitions, but at the Grand Prix Final it was only the best and we had an all-event pass.

Just before the American girl began—but after the noise of applause had faded—Obaachan declared, “That dress makes her look like a stewardess.”

Mom and I shushed her in unison. As a kid at one of Henry’s competitions, I’d mercilessly roasted another skater who fell on half his jumps, even though my parents told me to lay off. Turned out that the skater’s mom was sitting right behind us, which I only realized when he joined her later, his face all red and puffy from crying. His mom gave me the biggest stink eye, and I’d wanted to sink through the floor.

I’d hated being dragged to Henry’s competitions back then, but the shame of being so mean had stuck with me. I’d grown to like skating way more over the years, especially after I became friends with Etienne in grade nine. I knew how much criticism skaters had to deal with from every direction.

Admittedly, Obaachan wasn’t wrong about the dress—all that was missing was a scarf around her neck and a tray of drinks.

After the women’s short program ended, there was another break before the men began. The Zamboni rumbled out again, and I chewed the ice from the bottom of my pop. The arena announcer told us there were surprise guests.

In the Kiss and Cry, the TV reporter who did the post-skate interviews got on the mic. A familiar couple stood beside her, their image flashing up on the scoreboard screen to thunderous applause.

Huh. What were Chloe Desjardins and Phillipe Vincent doing here? They’d reigned as the top Canadian ice dancers for years and had won three or four world championships. Maybe five? They had been pegged to win Olympic gold, but they fell on their twizzles in the rhythm dance—those quick spins on one foot in perfect unison were like the quads of ice dance. The Russians beat them.

They retired after that, so why were they in Calgary for the Grand Prix Final? Probably doing some charity thing or maybe fluff pieces for the network. Their outfits were too stylish to simply be attending the event. Chloe’s lips shone her trademark pink, her golden curls perfect.

“You’ve got a big announcement today, don’t you?” the reporter asked with a coy smile. Chloe and Phillipe looked equally coy. Even smug, which was weird. Maybe they had a new endorsement deal? They’d already gotten engaged, though they weren’t married yet.

My stomach clenched. Oh fuck. No. Don’t say it. Do not say it. Don’t—

“That’s right, Karen! We’re coming out of retirement and competing next season!” Chloe exclaimed with a beaming smile.

Fuuuuuuck.

The audience lost its shit, cheering and clapping and probably tweeting the news already. Even my mom was clapping as Obaachan asked us to repeat what they’d said.

Mom answered, “Chloe and Phillipe are coming back!”

“Mom!” I hissed.

“What?” She blinked at my outrage in confusion. “That’ll be nice for them. They really should have won gold in France.”

“Not so nice for Etienne and Brianna!”

It took her a second before understanding dawned. “Ah. How many spots are there for us in ice dance?”

“Two for Worlds this year. I can’t see them placing high enough to earn three for the Olympics.”

My heart raced as I did the math. If Etienne and Brianna made it to Worlds this season, they and the other team—which would surely be the reigning champions, Anita Patel and Christopher Ferguson—would have to rank high enough that their placements added up to thirteen.

Anita and Chris had been sixth in the world last year. If they matched it, then Etienne and Brianna would have to be seventh. There was no way they’d jump up that high even if they skated their very best. Canada would only have two ice dance spots for the Olympics, and Etienne and Bree were screwed.

Fuuuuuuck.

I apologized to the family beside me as I leapt up and practically crawled over them to reach the aisle. The ice resurfacing would take a bit longer. They still had to introduce the men’s judges since it was a different panel for each discipline, then the skaters would have their warmup. Henry was skating fifth, so with judging and replays, there was time.

I had to talk to Etienne.

After taking the stairs two at a time, I ducked outside through the first open glass door I could find since there were too many people around for privacy. In the fading light, a blast of frigid air slapped me, my fingers instantly numb as I pulled out my phone and tapped. Snowflakes swirled around me, the Rockies barely visible in the distance.

Etienne picked up the video call almost immediately, grinning into the camera. “Hey!” He looked like he was in the gym. Buds dangled from his ears, and a row of elliptical machines extended behind him, only one in use. He held up a bottle of disinfectant. “Just finishing the machines.”

His brown hair was damp, and sweat glistened in the hollow of his throat, so he’d probably worked out recently. He and Bree were allowed to exercise for free at the private arena gym in exchange for cleaning.

It looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days, a shadow of stubble over his pale skin. His chest hair peeked out over the V-neck of his workout shirt.

“Um, hello?”

I realized I was staring and jerked back to attention. “Yes! Hi! How’s it going?”

His mouth went tight, and he shrugged. “Okay. I mean, it’s good. I’m good!”

Honestly, I thought Etienne was miserable in Hackensack. Yeah, he and Bree were training with the hottest coach in ice dance, but neither of them seemed happy. It bugged me that Etienne wouldn’t admit it, but I didn’t want to piss him off by pushing. It was like when my grandma still smoked. She had to get to that point herself where she wanted to make the change.

Etienne squinted. “Where are you?”

“Outside the arena.” Shivering, I side-stepped until I was under one of the big lights coming on. Snow was drifting, and I regretted only wearing Jordans. Not to mention only being in my hoodie.

“Your hair!”

“Oh, yeah.” I swiped at the highlights. Maybe it had been a bad idea.

“I love it.” Etienne flashed his perfect grin. He’d had his teeth fixed last year after a skating official mentioned it. I kind of missed his crooked canine. Not that I spent time thinking about my best friend’s smile.

“Yeah?” I was weirdly relieved. “Cool. Thanks.”

“Looks like it’s snowing.”

I brushed flakes from my head. “Yeah, a bit. Anyway, I just wanted to…” Shit. He clearly hadn’t heard the news yet. How was I going to break it?

His thick eyebrows met. “What’s up? Did Henry fall in the short?”

“No, he hasn’t skated yet. I need to get back inside soon. The thing is…”

Etienne’s frown deepened, his eyes flicking up and finger moving toward the screen. “Sorry, bunch of texts coming in.”

There was the figure skating gossip machine exploding into action. I blurted, “Chloe and Phillipe are coming back!”

Etienne had lowered the phone to wipe a cloth over a weight bench, and he bolted upright, the phone jerking with him. He looked down into the camera, practically a nostril view.

“What?”

“They announced that they’re returning to competition next season. They’re here in Calgary, which is a big flex considering their top rivals are all in the building.”

Etienne wiped his forehead. He breathed harder now. “They’re coming back?”

I nodded. “I’m sorry. I know this is… I’m sorry.”

“Tabarnak!” Though he spoke fluent English and only had a slight French accent, when he was upset, this classic Quebecois swear word was his go-to.

He closed his eyes, and yep, I could see right up his flaring nostrils from this angle. Then he was moving, and the camera showed the ceiling and walls, bouncing around. Etienne’s heavy breathing was the only sound.

I hugged my free arm around myself, fidgeting and pulling up my hood as the dry wind gusted, hard snow peppering my cheeks. Etienne’s face reappeared, creased and grim. It looked like he was in a gray bathroom stall now.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated.

He nodded. “We thought maybe, but…”

“Is Bree there?”

His mouth tightened as he shook his head. “It was a bad day for her.”

Crap. She’d suffered a concussion months ago, and the effects were lingering way longer than anyone expected. “Do you think her phone is on?”

“Yeah, even though it shouldn’t be. I need to get home.”

Etienne and Brianna shared an apartment near their training rink in New Jersey. They got sick of each other sometimes, but skating was expensive AF.

“Okay. I should get inside. Henry’s coming up.”

Etienne nodded. “Hope he does great.” He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Thanks for telling me. I guess we’ll—I don’t know.” After a silence, he nodded again. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Yeah, of course.” I wanted to say something reassuring, but all that came out was, “Later.” He gave me a tight smile and disconnected.

Teeth chattering, I ran to the closest entrance and joined the line. There were lots of exits and only a few doors letting people in. Because this day was trash, I realized I didn’t have my ticket since my mom had them all on her phone.

Fuuuuuuck.

Kiss and Cry

Chapter One

Henry

That saying about the exception proving the rule was true. As a rule, I didn’t hate my competitors. Like most athletes, I hated losing, especially when my performance should have been better. But sometimes, I admired my rivals. Sometimes, I was jealous of them. Sometimes, I would have liked to be friends if I had time for friendship.

Not Theodore Sullivan.

I hated him. Loathed. Despised. Detested. Abhorred. I could have gone on—I had an excellent vocabulary. When I was a child, people said it was ironic I loved words since I spoke so little. (I’d quickly given up trying to correct the rampant misuse of the word “ironic.”) What they didn’t understand was that the less you spoke, the safer you were from saying the wrong thing.

Manon was still talking, and I tried to focus through the red haze of resentment. I must not have heard her correctly over the rush of blood in my ears.

I blurted, “Pardon?”

Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the love seat in the corner of their office, Manon and Bill shared a glance. Even for married people, my coaches had impressive silent communication. I didn’t always know what they were thinking, but I recognized the wary expression that meant: Henry isn’t going to like this.

The knot in my stomach tightened. I sat frozen on the mismatched couch across from them, my socked feet gripping the shaggy throw rug I liked to use for strengthening toe scrunches. My throat had gone dry, but I couldn’t even move enough to grab my water bottle off the ring-stained coffee table between us. The lack of coasters had always baffled me, but the wood was too far gone now anyway.

“Theo wants to join our training center.” In Manon’s Quebecois accent, the name sounded like “Teo,” and for a moment I let myself dream that perhaps she was talking about another figure skater. Any other skater.

But it could only be Theodore Sullivan, especially judging by the little grimace creasing Manon’s face. She seemed to be waiting for me to react badly.

She said, “We know it’s last minute and probably a bit of a shock, and of course we’re having this sit-down with you before we give him an answer.”

“Sit-downs” always happened in this corner of the cramped office in the arena basement. Manon sounded calm and measured, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. Her nails were glossy with a deep purple polish that matched the big hoops in her ears.

She had dark brown skin and kept her afro short, and she must have owned hundreds of pairs of earrings. Even in her usual black leggings and hoodie, she looked far too glamorous for the saggy leather love seat and ugly red rug.

And too glamorous for Bill, if I were being honest, but they worked somehow. His blond hair was almost gray and in need of a cut. While Manon made workout gear look elegant, Bill reminded me of my dad puttering in the garage on weekends. He’d gotten too much sun; his nose was burned a distracting red. He really needed to use sunscreen.

Bill smiled in the encouraging way he did when I was about to try my shaky quad Lutz. “It could be the best thing for you to train with one of your biggest competitors.”

Incorrect. The best thing for me was Theodore Sullivan on the other side of the continent. “But he trains in California. It’s too late for such a big change.”

“Making this move at the end of September isn’t ideal,” Bill said, holding his meaty hands out wide. “But we have more than four months until the Olympics.”

“A hundred and twenty-nine days,” I said automatically. “He can’t change coaches now.”

I swiped at my bangs impatiently. My hair was sweaty from my morning jump drills, and it flopped into my face. When I styled it, my bangs made a neat swoop, but I was due for a cut.

I was fortunate to have thick hair, and my grandma still mentioned how naturally black it was. Obaachan grew up in Japan and had always dyed her brown hair jet black.

“We wouldn’t even consider taking on Theo if we thought this would harm your training. It’s going to fuel you.” Manon’s brown eyes lit up as she leaned forward. “This is the final key in your Olympic preparation. It won’t be easy, but this will make you stronger.”

“You know how many recent world and Olympic champions trained with their fiercest rivals,” Bill said. “Look at the Russians. That daily motivation and competition is powerful stuff. I wish like hell I’d had it back in my day.”

Bill had once been Canadian men’s champion, although he’d be the first to admit he only won that year because the favorites messed up. Still, he’d gone to Worlds a few times and had made an Olympic team. He’d become known as one of the best jump technicians in coaching, second perhaps only to the legendary Walter Webber, who’d been his coach.

“I have competition here. Ivan is almost landing his quad Sal. He’s a national champion.”

Manon raised a narrow eyebrow. “You know as well as we do that Ivan represents Ukraine because he’s not strong enough to make the Russian team. We’re very proud of how far he’s come, but he’s not a medal contender.”

“If Julien was old enough to compete as a senior, he could be.” My heart thumped. This wasn’t part of the plan. Theodore Sullivan coming to Toronto to train was not the plan.

Bill said, “True, but he’s not, and Theo is currently ranked number one in the world.”

I was very, very aware of that fact. “But you’re my coaches.” I cringed at my plaintive tone. I was an adult. I shouldn’t have an emotional reaction to this news. Skating and coaching were a business.

Their faces softened, and Manon reached across the ring-stained table to briefly squeeze my hand. “We are. And we’re committed to helping you be your very best. You know we love you, Henry.”

The saggy love seat springs creaked as I squirmed, dropping my gaze and nodding. Manon spoke so openly about love and feelings, but it made me want to be anywhere else. Not that I didn’t appreciate it and reciprocate her affection, but did it really have to be said aloud?

“He’s been taking from Mr. Webber for a long time.” I thought back and calculated. “Four years. He won Worlds in March. There’s no reason to switch coaches.”

You didn’t change the formula when you were winning, and I could bitterly confirm that Theodore Sullivan had been undefeated the past two seasons.

They shared another look, this one serious and sad. Bill blew out a long breath. For a terrible moment, his perpetually chapped lips quivered, and I thought he might cry. “This isn’t public knowledge yet, but Mr. Webber’s been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He needs to start aggressive treatment immediately.”

My heart sank. “Oh.”

Even though Bill was in his late forties, he still called his old coach “Mr. Webber” like he had as a pupil and as most everyone in the skating world did. Many coaches were known by their first names, but Mr. Webber was a legend. He was almost eighty now and had always seemed indestructible.

When I was younger, I’d dreamed of being coached by him, but when I had to leave Vancouver three years ago, Theodore Sullivan was Mr. Webber’s star pupil. I hadn’t even considered training with my archrival. Having to see him and his careless smile and natural jumping ability daily? No.

“You can imagine how upset Theo is.” Manon shook her head. “It’s a shock for everyone. Mr. Webber sounds in good spirits, though. He’s going to fight this.”

“You talked to him?”

Bill nodded. “He called us yesterday to ask personally if we’d take on Theo.”

My heart sank all the way down through the ugly shag rug. How could I say no?

Manon seemed to read my mind. “We realize we’re putting you in a tough spot. But we truly believe this is the extra training push you need.”

“I’m going to beat him.”

I’d imagined seeing my name in first place over Theodore Sullivan for years. Gold: Henry Sakaguchi, Canada. Silver: Theodore Sullivan, USA. Or sometimes he didn’t even make the podium. I imagined wiping that infuriating smirk off his perfectly symmetrical face.

Manon grinned. “That’s the confidence we love to see. Our job is to train you both to be your best, and then it’s up to the judges. It’s a win-win if you two can push each other to new heights.”

I wanted very badly to argue, but they were right. I’d been the top skater at the Ice Chalet the three years I’d trained here. I knew I couldn’t be childish about the idea of my coaches helping the competition. It was the norm in skating these days.

“What’s the verdict?” Bill asked. “Of course we understand if you want to sleep on it.”

It was selfish to deny Manon and Bill the prestige and potential income that would accompany coaching another world champion. Even if it plagued me that while we were tied at two titles apiece, he’d beaten me the last two years running. He had the momentum and was the favorite going into these Olympics.

It was selfish to deny them even if I hated Theodore Sullivan.

I thought of Mr. Webber being sick, and my skin prickled with a hot rush of guilt. Manon and Bill waited for me to respond, though Bill’s foot tapped on the rug, jiggling his knee.

They were good about giving me time to find the right words, but I could see the tension in their bodies. They wanted this opportunity. Really, they didn’t have to ask me at all—they were the coaches and this was their business. If I didn’t like it, I could hire someone else.

But I didn’t want anyone else. Where could I even go at this point? My old coach in Vancouver would probably take me back, but… I quickly shut down thoughts of returning to that particular arena.

What if I ran into him in the locker room? My stomach lurched. It was bad enough to be dealing with Theodore Sullivan—I didn’t need to think about my humiliation in Vancouver too.

I nodded, and they exhaled in a rush.

“You won’t regret this.” Manon’s grin gleamed.

“But he’s not disciplined.”

They shared another glance before Manon said, “It’s true that Theo is blessed with an abundance of natural talent and perhaps not such a strong work ethic. You’ll be an excellent influence in that regard. And he’ll get under your skin with his ability to toss off quads at the drop of a hat.”

That I could certainly agree with.

“It’s going to be great,” Bill said. “This is the Olympic season, and we’re turning it up to eleven!”

That was one of Bill’s favorite references, from an old movie I’d never seen. I nodded miserably.

Manon frowned. “There’s no issue with Theo we should know about, is there? Aside from beating you sometimes. He hasn’t been unkind, has he?”

I shook my head. Though we’d never been friends, he was unfailingly friendly, which was honestly infuriating because it made it more difficult to resent him. I still managed.

We were rivals, and I’d prefer it greatly if he’d ignore me the way I tried to ignore him. Win or lose, he was the same, smiling and cracking jokes. All the way back to our junior days, I couldn’t recall him ever being upset about anything.

I said, “It’s time for cardio.”

“So it is.” Bill patted his stomach under his worn T-shirt. “I should race you and burn off those Timbits.”

He said that often but never did. I was relieved as I escaped upstairs and laced my running shoes so tightly I had to redo them or risk the blood flow to my toes. I jumped over a pothole in the Ice Chalet’s parking lot as I jogged out.

The arena’s brick had been decorated with mountains in the eighties, and I could still make out the edges of a snowy peak in the corner where it hadn’t been painted over properly.

Cars whizzed by on the road, some turning into the plaza across the street. The Shoppers pharmacy drew most people, though I heard from other skaters the tiny roti restaurant had excellent food. I’d try it if I ever allowed a cheat day.

A few of the storefronts were up for rent, and the wholesale flooring warehouse was going out of business. The grassy field next to the plaza had a big sign saying another subdivision of identical houses was coming.

Past the field was a trail that led down into a woodland valley I hoped would never be sold for tract housing. I counted my inhalations and exhalations as I descended, leaping over roots, a few dry leaves crunching beneath my feet.

It was still mostly green, and birds chirped in the mid-morning sunlight. I usually only listened to music while running when there were other people around who might want to talk to me.

Today, Theodore Sullivan barged into my meditative focus of breath and footsteps and forest sounds.

“There’s no issue with Theo we should know about, is there?”

I could have told them he was a distraction. It was the truth—I stumbled as the path twisted toward the tall maples crowding the valley floor and wanted to shout, “See?!” as I caught my balance and increased my stride, my footsteps thudding on the earth.

But I couldn’t tell them all the reasons Theodore was an issue. I couldn’t confess that on the eve of the free skate at the junior world championships when I was fourteen, I’d seen Theodore Sullivan and his new body hair naked in the communal shower room in a concrete Croatian arena.

I’d still been small for my age, but he was sixteen and had had a growth spurt in…every way imaginable. Our eyes had met after he caught me gaping. After he’d spotted my erection.

And he’d smirked.

He’d laughed. Carelessly. Light and airy as though nothing mattered. When everything mattered.

I’d run, shampoo still lathered in my hair, and yanked on a winter hat and sweats over my wet body. I’d always been focused on skating and school, and I was so confused by the new desires that were inconvenient at best.

I’d had an extremely explicit and detailed dream that night of Theodore. The next day, I’d blown my lead from the short program and missed both my triple Axels. I’d ended up with bronze—barely—while he took gold, and the worst part was that I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Couldn’t stop thinking about kissing him. Doing…more. I wasn’t even sure what, but doing everything with him. I’d been reluctantly attracted to boys before that moment in the shower room, but actors on TV weren’t real.

Wet, naked Theodore had been very, very real.

I’d apparently imprinted on him like an infant duck, much to my horror and humiliation. Other people seemed to shrug off embarrassing incidents and blithely forget them, but I couldn’t fathom how.

Even now, my heart pounding as I raced through the trees in an outlying Toronto suburb nine years later—nine years—I imagined what grown-up Theodore would look like wet and naked.

Light brown hair, thick lips, dimples, lean muscles, and dark hair scattered over his pale chest, accentuating pink nipples. A trail of hair below his navel leading down to…

I roared in frustration, sending a flock of birds flapping out of a birch tree. I shouldn’t have been thinking about this. Normally I could quell this sort of distraction. Though occasionally, I’d been tempted to finally shrug off what had happened the first time I let down my guard and trusted a guy…

Acid flooded my stomach with the surge of familiar anxiety. I wanted to crawl into a hole with the shame of it, which was pitiful all on its own. It’d been three years and eight-point-five months.

I’d left Vancouver. I was an adult now—twenty-four. I should have been able to put that incident behind me. I shouldn’t have felt like I was still a gullible teenage virgin.

The ground was soft in a shady gully with a few lingering puddles from rain the day before. My shoes squelched as I ran and ran, my head a jumbled mess. Theodore Sullivan had nothing to do with my humiliation in Vancouver. I had to focus.

My stubborn, pathetic attraction to Theodore didn’t top the list of why I hated him. No, the worst thing was that it all came so easily for him.

He didn’t follow the unwritten rules. He was famous for skipping practice. For partying. For making a joke out of hard work by winning anyway with undeniable natural talent. He made a joke of the blood, sweat, and tears I’d dedicated to skating my whole life.

It wasn’t fair.

And I knew my resentment was petty and beneath me, but he seemed to have this way of charming everyone, including the judges. It was natural to be jealous of other skaters once in a while. But they worked hard. They didn’t get PCS handed to them on a silver platter like Theodore. Our program component scores were supposed to reflect artistry and skating skills.

My component scores should have been higher due to the quality of my musicality, deep edges, and transitions between elements—but with every quad he landed, his PCS went up. The two scores shouldn’t really be related, but the better you were at jumping, suddenly your artistry improved in the judges’ eyes too.

It had taken a lot of work with my sports psychologist not to obsess about how the judges scored me. So much of it was politics and which federation had which judges in its pocket. Still, it was a challenge not to examine Theodore’s scores with gritted teeth.

Every tenth of a point had grated. For years.

I was an excellent jumper, but that was because I worked at it constantly. He’d seemed to learn new quads overnight and started reeling off quad-triple combinations like they were nothing. He’d stopped losing concentration and rushing takeoffs.

Now I’d be stuck with him in my face every day being charming and perfect and lazy and gorgeous and infuriating.

Taking a deep breath, I raced up the other side of the ravine, legs burning and sweat sticking my T-shirt to my back. Manon and Bill were right. This was the final push I needed. I hated Theodore Sullivan, and I was going to use every ounce of that loathing to fuel me straight to the top of the podium.

Author Bio:
After writing for years yet never really finding the right inspiration, Keira discovered her voice in gay romance, which has become a passion. She writes contemporary, historical, fantasy, and paranormal fiction and — although she loves delicious angst along the way — Keira firmly believes in happy endings. For as Oscar Wilde once said:

“The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means.”

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