Page 29

Chapter 29

Ginny

I stand near the edge of the rink, arms at my sides, my fingers gliding across the lacy fabric of my costume as I watch the couple on the ice move with effortless grace. Their jumps are flawless, their timing impeccable. Every twist, every lift, every movement is in perfect harmony. It’s no surprise they’re in first place. I can already hear the judges tallying up their scores in my head. Antony and I are currently sitting in second place, but we still have one final routine left to perform.

I should be focusing, running through our routine in my head, mentally preparing myself. But instead, my thoughts drift to Carter, Chase, and Blake. I wish they were here. They wanted to be, but I convinced them it would raise too many questions with my father if he saw members of his hockey team in the audience.

We’re not ready to answer those questions.

Not yet. Hopefully soon. I just have one problem to deal with before I tackle that hurdle.

My mind wanders, wondering what they’re doing right now. Probably watching some old sports highlights, or maybe bickering over something stupid. The thought makes me smile. My heart races thinking about my upcoming date—three short days from now—with Chase and Blake. I’ve been asking for it all week, but between my dad increasing my training schedule and their own, it hasn’t happened. And honestly? I wanted to give them more time to reconnect. To be them again. The fact that they’re finally getting there, and that they’re letting me back in. It’s worth the wait.

We can’t exactly go out in public together, so we’re keeping it simple. A quiet night in at Chase’s place. Cooking together, talking, just... existing in the same space. Whatever happens, happens. Carter’s making himself scarce, planning a night out with some of the guys from the hockey team so we can have privacy. It’s the first real step toward rebuilding what the three of us lost, and I don’t think I’ve ever looked forward to anything more.

Someone steps up beside me, brushing against my arm, and the warmth of my thoughts is instantly doused in cold nausea.

Antony.

“They're good,” he mutters, watching the couple on the ice. “We’re better. That is, if you don’t keep fucking up our routine with your mistakes.”

I clench my jaw, fisting my hands, my nails digging into my palms to keep myself from slapping him. “Mistakes?” I ask, turning my head just enough to glare at him. “Oh, do you mean landing each jump perfectly? Skating circles around you? Pouring actual emotion into the routine that will have the judges weeping? Yeah, I’ll make sure not to do any of that.”

His hand shoots out, fingers clamping around my wrist like a vise. I try to yank it back, but he only squeezes tighter.

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you, Geneva,” he hisses low, his voice like acid in my ear. “All it takes is one conversation with your father to ruin your fucking life. You might think you’ve got him wrapped around your finger with this good girl act, but it won’t last. I know the truth.”

I narrow my eyes, ignoring the way my stomach twists at the venom in his words. “And what truth is that, Antony? That somewhere over the years you’ve turned into a psychotic asshole? Or that you’ve always been one and just cleverly hid it?”

He laughs—low, dark, and sinister. The kind of laugh that makes my skin crawl.

“Oh, Ginny,” he purrs, his breath hot against my ear. “We both know the lies you’re spinning. So tell me—who are you whoring yourself out to?”

The words hit like a slap, and my breath catches in my throat. My blood boils, but before I can open my mouth, he keeps going.

“Because you’re not out with that new little friend of yours,” he sneers. “I made a visit to the coffee shop. All it took was a few compliments, a few well-placed touches, and one of those sad little baristas was spilling everything. I have your ‘friend’s’ work schedule. And guess what, Geneva? The dates don’t match. Yeah, you went out with her a couple of times, but where were you the rest of the nights? The ones where you so cleverly got your father to occupy my time so I couldn’t keep tabs on you?”

My heart slams against my ribs, but I force myself to keep my expression blank, not letting him know he’s affecting me. “You’re grasping, Antony. Paranoid much?”

“Oh, I’m not paranoid,” he says, and for the first time, I realize how eerily calm his voice is. “I know what I want. The Olympics. And you? You’re my ticket there.”

I swallow hard, but he’s not finished.

“And if your daddy has his way, I’ll be your boyfriend, too.” His lips curl into a cruel smirk. “And you’ll be my own little fuck toy to do with as I please.”

The floor feels shaky, as if it's about to open and swallow me whole. I force my legs to stay locked, my voice to remain steady. “I wonder what my dad would say if I told him you just said that?”

Antony’s smirk only deepens. “Go ahead. Tell him. Who do you think he’s going to believe?” He tilts his head, feigning innocence. “Me? His golden boy? The one who can do no wrong?” He leans in just enough that I can see the gleam in his dark eyes. “Or you? The daughter who’s given him nothing but grief?”

I stare at him, my breathing shallow, hands curling into fists at my sides. “Is that a threat, Antony?”

“No, Geneva.” His voice drops to a whisper, sending ice down my spine. “It’s a promise.”

And with that, he releases my wrist, brushing past me like nothing happened. I turn, watching as he strides straight for my father, his face breaking into an easy smile, his hand clapping against my dad’s back like they’re old war buddies. My father beams at him, laughing at something he says.

I wrap my arms around myself, trying to shake the sinking feeling settling in my stomach.

This isn’t just about skating anymore.

This is war. And no way in hell is Antony going to be the victor.

I shift in the backseat, stretching my legs out as much as I can without aggravating my already throbbing ankle. The ice pack does little to dull the ache, and with every sharp turn my father takes, I have to bite my lip to keep from wincing.

Still, the pain in my ankle is nothing compared to the anger burning in my chest.

I narrow my eyes at the back of Antony’s head, my fists tightening. We were so close—just tenths of a point away from taking the top spot. And why? Because of a tiny wobble on my landing, a mistake I never make. A mistake that wouldn't have happened if Antony hadn't dug his nails into my arm right before the jump, hissing in my ear that I wasn’t smiling enough.

Like that was the problem.

Fucking asshole.

Yet here he sits, perfectly relaxed in the passenger seat, already dissecting my so-called errors with my father, like he wasn’t the reason we lost those points.

“We need to refine her landings,” Antony says, his voice smooth, calculated—fake. “She needs to stick them every time if we want to avoid point deductions like this in the future.”

My father nods, his focus on the road, but his mind already spinning with ways to push me harder. “I agree. We’ll adjust the training schedule, add more practice time. And Geneva, I think it’s best if you start limiting your time with your new friend.”

The sharp shift in topic sends a fresh wave of irritation through me.

I cross my arms, jaw tightening. Of course Antony would jump on my father talking about my friend and use it to his advantage, planting the seed of doubt in my father’s mind. And it seems to have just fallen right in his lap.

“How’s your ankle, Geneva?” my dad asks suddenly, glancing at me in the rearview mirror as we stop at a red light.

“Peachy,” I say dryly.

He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed with my response.

I sigh, rolling my eyes. “It’s achy, Dad, but fine. Probably just sore from the landing.” Then, pointedly, I add, “I think Antony had too tight of a grip on my arm and didn’t release me soon enough.”

The words hang in the air for a beat too long.

Antony turns in his seat, his expression the perfect picture of disbelief. “Geneva, really?” he scoffs. “I think you need to take responsibility for your error in timing. You’ve had the same issue in practice. Maybe if you were getting enough rest—if you weren’t out so late—you wouldn’t have wobbled.”

My jaw clenches. The audacity of this prick.

“Antony’s right, Geneva,” my father chimes in, his voice dripping with authority, the same voice I’ve heard him use with his hockey team.

I let out a sharp huff, crossing my arms over my chest as I sink deeper into the seat. Of course he agrees with Antony. He always agrees with Antony.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and my fingers twitch with the urge to grab it. I hope it’s from them —my guys. The rapid buzzing tells me there are multiple messages, which only makes me more desperate to see what they’re saying.

Antony sighs dramatically, shaking his head as if I’m the problem. “See? Just listen to that. She’s glued to her phone. Too much social life, not enough dedication to her craft.”

I grit my teeth, gripping my phone without pulling it out. “Whatever, Antony.”

“ Geneva, ” my father says, his tone sharp.

I snap my gaze to him. “ What? ” I ask, exasperated.

He sighs heavily. “He’s not wrong.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, come on! He’s acting like I threw the landing on purpose. We placed second, Dad. We’re still moving forward. It’s not like we’ve hurt our chances at anything.”

“That’s exactly the problem, Geneva,” Antony interjects, his voice dripping with mock exasperation. “I’m thinking first place , and you’re just thinking about getting by .”

I glare at him, my hands curling into fists. I swear, if he weren’t sitting in the front seat—if I didn’t already know my dad would lose his mind —I’d launch my ice pack straight at his smug face.

My father exhales loudly. “Okay, you two. Let’s put a plug in this until we get home.” He shifts his focus back to the road as the light turns green. “But Geneva, I need you to think about what Antony is saying, because he’s not wrong.”

The smug look Antony shoots me over his shoulder makes my blood boil.

I narrow my eyes at him, then, without thinking, stick my tongue out at him.

Petty? Yes.

Effective? Absolutely.

His expression flickers with irritation before he rolls his eyes and turns back around. Small victories. I have to take them when I can.

Finally, I pull out my phone and scan through the messages, lighting up the screen.

Carter: How did you do?

Chase: Did you place first?

Blake: She did amazing. We know she did good.

Chase: Can you come over when you get back? We miss you. We’ll even have food for you.

Chase: How’s subs?

I can’t help but smile. They don’t care that I was first, just that I did well. I’d love to head over there as soon as Dad puts the car in park, but I know it’s not happening. As soon as we get home, the lecture will continue as I get berated by not only Dad but Antony about my shortcomings.

Me: Came in 2nd. Not shabby, just tenths of a point from 1st. I wobbled on a landing no thanks to Antony and twisted my ankle a little. I’m currently icing it in the back seat and shooting daggers at the back of Antony’s head.

Chase: Congrats baby doll. 2nd place is amazing.

I smile. Somehow over the last couple days of texting, his nickname for me had slipped back in. I love that he’s excited for me—no, proud of me, even if I didn’t hit the top spot.

Chase: Are you sure you’re okay though?

Blake: The dick did what? Swear I’ll run his ass over with a Zamboni.

I smirk at that.

Carter: Need us to sneak you out of your house tonight? Because I’m down.

Me: I’d love that, but I don’t see me going anywhere tonight. I need to talk to my dad about Antony. I can’t keep doing this with him.

Blake: Again I could easily take care of the prick. One word. ZAMBONI!

Chase: A freak accident. I think we could do it. We need to start planning.

The warmth in my chest spreads at their words, at the way they check on me, the way they care.

For the first time since stepping off the ice tonight, my body relaxes.