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It was this last part that mattered most. Elyna may be younger. She may physically be at an advantage with her height and physique. But there was one thing Dillon knew she didn’t have. She didn’t have her drive—or her capacity for pain. The entire success of Dillon’s career had stemmed from her willingness to do more, to push harder, to commit herself to do the things others wouldn’t. Even when they hurt.Especiallywhen they hurt.

Striding across the room, she snatched up the silver medal, and dumped it in the rubbish bin.

Fuck Henrik Fischer.

She sank onto the couch, rubbing absently at her left knee. It had begun to grind halfway through the cycle, but she hadn’t paid it much attention. She’d worry about it at the end of the season. Or after Los Angeles. Some other time.

Exhausted, she closed her eyes. Tomorrow she’d fly to London, where she’d spend two weeks before heading to Japan. Then it was back to Leeds. And after that, she wouldn’t see home for a while.

When she opened her eyes again, the sunlight streaking through the edges of the blackout curtain had softened, the color warming to the golden hue of late afternoon. Her watch said it was four PM. Five PM in Nuuk. With the long daylight hours, Kam would probably still be working.

She rocked her stiff body forward, dragging her duffel onto the couch, and dug out her phone. She’d meant to text her earlier, before things had gone sideways.

As the mobile powered to life, she sat back and stared at the photo on her lock screen. It was a selfie Kam had sent her a few weeks earlier, standing on the ledge of a glacier overlooking the sea. She was bundled in a parka, her nose red and lips cracked from the cold, still somehow managing to look runway pretty.

The infamous ice sheetKam had captioned the text, followed by a winking face. She told Dillon she’d had to spend two days filming ‘practically nude’ on the ice-covered coastline, beneath the northern lights. Dillon had sent back a photo of her in a hot tub after an early morning training session, to which Kam had responded with an emoji of flipping the bird.

It had been two months since they parted in Hollywood, but they’d managed to talk almost every day. Dillon looked forwardto Kam’s texts in the morning, and had made it a habit to call her—if even just for a few minutes—before she went to bed at night.

It hadn’t been like that with Kelsey. When they were in the middle of their respective seasons, they could go days—weeks, even—without speaking. It had frustrated Kelsey, Dillon’s inclination to grow reclusive, but it was simply how it had always been.

This, with Kam, was different from the start.

I miss you.Dillon typed out a text and hit send.

Her phone immediately rang.

“I thought you might still be on set,” she answered, watching a palmetto bug scurry up the wall.

“I hate this place.” Kam sounded like she was in a tunnel. “It finally stopped snowing, and instead rained all day. We couldn’t get anything done.”

Dillon tried to repress her disappointment. Kam’s filming in the Arctic had been close to a wrap, on track to finish two weeks early—a windfall which would have allowed them to meet in Aberdeen for at least a day before she left for Japan. But a late spring storm had hit the southwest coast of Greenland, halting the production, and now they were behind schedule, dashing the hopes of a rendezvous in Scotland.

“Well, if you look on the bright side, you’re going to love Scotland’s weather compared to what you’ve been through these last two months.”

“I’d have loved it more if I’d gotten to see you in it.”

Dillon couldn’t help but smile.

Kameryn continued. “Tell me about the race.”

“I lost.”

“I followed the feed on Twitter. Coming in second isn’tlosing.”

“It’s losing to the winner.”

“And beating forty-seven other women in the process.”

“It still isn’t a win.”

“Oh, please.” She could practically hear Kam’s eye roll. “Even if you’d won you wouldn’t be happy with the result.”

Dillon half laughed, and turned the subject back to filming. She didn’t want to talk about the race.

They chatted for over an hour as the sliver of light from the curtain narrowed its stretch across the floor. Usually, their conversations were brief, interrupted by timezones and conflicting schedules, but tonight Dillon lingered, loath to say goodbye.

Kam seemed to understand.