Summary:
Love on the Ice
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.
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.
Saturday Series Spotlight
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.”
CHIRP / AUDIOBOOKS / TANTOR / KOBO
EMAIL: keira.andrews@gmail.com
Kiss and Cry
Love on the Ice Series
