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TWENTY-ONE

LENNON

I have a tendency to push myself to whatever limit there is… mental, physical, emotional… whenever I feel like I’m failing.

Which is the result of spending your entire life thinking that failure isn’t ever an option.

I hate the thought of falling short in, well… anything.

My brain just isn’t wired that way. Especially when it comes to academics and figure skating.

“Damnit,” I groan painfully, my hands splayed on the ice beside me, my ass already feeling the brunt of my failed attempts at the double toe that I’ve been attempting for the last thirty minutes.

How is it possible that I’ve spent almost my entire life skating, but a single year off has completely derailed all the years of work and progress?

Or at least that’s the way it feels right now, seeing as I’m spending more time flat on the ice instead of skating on it.

I can’t even land a simple jump, one I’ve been doing for years.

I’m frustrated to the point of tears, hot and stinging behind my eyes, a bitter reminder of what the last year has been like.

I’m angry at my father for being the one to take it all away from me and at myself for allowing him to. For putting my parents’ wants and needs, their dreams, over my own.

Exhaling, I slowly push myself up off the ice and stand, ignoring the slight tremor in my legs as I straighten my spine and prepare to do it all over again.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you supposed to be upright when figure skating?” The unfortunately familiar, deep voice that haunts my dreams, I mean nightmares, comes from behind me.

Of course he would make his grand appearance now .

When I’m on the verge of tears, and my ass and legs are black and blue from all the times I’ve eaten shit today.

I slowly turn, finding him leaning casually against the boards, arms crossed over his broad chest, wearing a faded Hellcats Hoodie and gray sweatpants that I do not allow myself to stare at for more than a single second.

His dark hair is pushed into the backward hat he’s wearing, the first time I’ve ever seen him wear one, and I loathe how stupidly hot he looks in it.

Instead of choosing violence, I choose to ignore him. I’m already in a bad enough mood, and his presence is going to undoubtedly make it worse.

Especially with how good he looks in those stupid sweatpants and that stupid hat.

I lift my hand, giving him the middle finger with the most saccharine, smart-ass smile that I can manage, which only makes him chuckle.

That stupid, gravelly sound that I feel directly between my legs. It only makes me dislike him more.

I hate that my body reacts to him and that I feel so… out of control when he’s around.

“Mmmm. She’s feisty today,” he chides. “Careful, Golden Girl. You know how much I love when you get an attitude.”

Still ignoring him.

Turning, giving him my back, I exhale, trying to focus on the jump that I’m going to land, even if I have Satan as an audience.

I skate in the opposite direction, use a three-turn to get into position, and glide into my jump, punching my toe pick into the ice and twisting into another single loop. A single is easy; it’s the double that I can’t seem to stick to save my life.

I try for another, this time going for the double rotation, but I end up falling flat on my ass yet again.

Goddamnit.

I hit the ground hard, my tailbone stinging from all the previous times I’ve fallen.

“Damn, I know that one hurt. You good?” he says from behind me.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I ignore him, not letting him get the rise he so desperately wants out of me. It’s a game to him, but I’m not in the mood to play today.

All I want is to land this fucking jump. That’s it.

I try again, and again, and again, this time landing so hard that my tailbone feels like it’s cracking against the ice, a low, pained groan tumbling past my lips.

Fresh tears spring free, a mixture of frustration and the pain in every part of my body from the beating that I’ve put myself through today.

I hate this feeling. I hate it so fucking much.

God, I’m probably doing this for nothing because I’ll never be able to do what I used to. This is one of my easiest jumps, and I can’t even do it.

A second later, Saint appears in front of me, crouching down on his skates. “What the fuck are you doing? You’re going to hurt yourself.”

I keep my eyes down because the last thing I want is for him to see the tears wetting my cheeks, instead pretending to dust off some ice from the front of my skirt. “I’m fine. Why does it even matter? Shouldn’t you be over on your side playing with your little puck?”

A beat of silence unfolds between us, and I squeeze my eyes shut when I can’t hold the tears back, the dam of frustration and disappointment in myself breaking free.

When I finally lift my face to him, I see his jaw tense, dark, stormy gaze boring into me as it drags over my puffy, swollen eyes.

“I’m the one that’s going to have to peel you off the ice when you snap your fucking ankle or break your tailbone, that’s why it matters. You’re crying, for fuck’s sake.”

Yeah, and you’re the last person I want to be around when I do , I want to say, but I roll my lips together, trying to keep more tears from falling.

“I’m fine.” My words are whispered as I tear my gaze away.

“Obviously, you’re not when you’re punishing yourself like this. Why?” he says gruffly, voice full of reproach.

My throat feels tight as I push down a swallow, the frustration and emotion I’ve been feeling all day overwhelming me.

“God, I don’t know, okay?” The words tumble out before I even think. I reach up and brush the tears away. “I just want to land this stupid fucking jump, one that I used to be able to do effortlessly, and I can’t seem to do anything anymore.”

He sighs. “What are you training for? Why is this jump so important that you’re willing to hurt yourself, Golden Girl?”

His tone is soft, lacking the normal patronizing tone. For once, the nickname doesn’t feel like a jab, but it doesn’t make the question any easier to answer.

The truth is, I don’t know why I’m pushing myself this hard, why I’m striving so hard to be perfect.

Maybe because everything else in my life feels so out of control lately. Maybe because this is the one thing that’s mine, that I’m reclaiming, that I refuse to let anyone take from me ever again.

The only thing I can control.

I hate feeling so raw and exposed in front of anyone else, especially Saint.

I hate that I’m failing at the thing I love the most and that it brings to the surface the fact that I’ve let my parents control my life this badly, that I gave up my passion because I was too blind to see it.

I hate that all of this goes hand in hand, and it makes me see things for what they really are. And it suddenly feels like too much, like I’m caving under the weight of it all.

“I’m not training. For anything,” I finally say, my voice low, holding his stare.

Part of me feels terrified being vulnerable with him, while the other part of me feels relieved saying this out loud to someone besides myself.

“I… I just want to prove to myself that I can still do it. To reclaim my passion after it was taken from me. I used to be able to land these jumps in my sleep and even more challenging ones. And now it’s like I’ve never put on a pair of skates before.

I hate it. I hate feeling this way. Maybe I should just admit to myself that I don’t have what it takes anymore. Give up while I’m ahead.”

For a second, he’s quiet, silence hanging between us until it feels like it might choke us both before he speaks. “Okay, so get up.”

My brows pinch together in confusion, and he stands to full height so I have to tilt my head to look up at him.

“You’re not fucking giving up. That’s the easy way out.

If you’ve done it before, then you can do it again.

So get off your pretty little ass and prove to yourself that you can still do it. ”

For a brief moment, I’m stunned into silence. Holy shit, apparently, this is the leader of hell’s version of a pep talk.

Even so, I suck in a breath and push off the ice, standing. He’s not wrong.

“You can do it, but you have to get out of your head, or you’re going to end up really fucking injuring yourself, and that move or any move is going to be completely off the table.

It’s the mental that’s the problem. Take a breath, recenter, and then do it again without you shit-talking yourself while you’re trying to accomplish it,” Saint says matter-of-factly, unbothered.

If I hadn’t spent the last couple of weeks getting to know him, against my will or not, I’d think it to be true, but I see the flare of something in his eyes. Something that feels a lot like concern.

“Are you… worried about me, Saint?” I taunt, skating closer. “That’s not very cliché bad boy of you.”

His lip tugs upward.

Unsurprisingly, he doubles down. In a heartbeat, he’s in front of me, toe to toe, so close that I worry he might actually hear the erratic pulsing of my heart.

He leans closer, gaze dropping to my lips before he murmurs, “Nah, just pretty inconvenient if you break a limb during my ice time.”