Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm now apparently making them ice skate.

Anyagal is kindly prereading for me. If you're not reading her fic, No Measure of Time, you should be!


Here & Now

"So, what do you think?"

"What you mean, what do I think?" Lips mashed into a pathetically disguised grimace, Katya looks from the screen on the wall to the nymph perched on the corner of her desk. "I think choreography is difficult and busy, perhaps too flashy."

The nymph's eyes sparkle. "In other words… it's perfect, right?"

"Perfect? What is this word?" With a snort, Katya taps the remote, and the screen blinks black. As she skirts the desk to find her chair, she scruffs Alice's inky mop along the way. "I did not say this. When did you hear me say this?"

My choreography coach–a spritely wunderkind with her petite, heart-shaped face and the kind of energy and inventiveness most couldn't even dream of possessing–remains undeterred.

No, Alice just folds her hands together across her knee and beams. "You didn't have to, Katie-did. It's written all over your pretty little face."

"Fu." Blonde bun quivering, Katya grumbles under her breath before turning to me. "I take it you like this…" She motions wildly at the wall. "Whatever this is."

"I…" I hesitate, trailing off as I fight off the wave of melancholy that threatens to crest. But then I do what I always do. Straightening my shoulders, I grit my teeth, slap on a smile, and nod with what I hope resembles enthusiasm. "It'll be great."

And it is a great program.

Hell, it's a phenomenal free dance program for singles.

It's just not the program I want. And after the other day on the ice, for those few seconds when I finally felt like myself again as Edward Cullen spun me around so fast I could barely see, I'm not sure if I ever will want it.

At least not in the same way.

For once, Katya doesn't grill me about my attitude. Instead, she looks at me for a long, painfully silent moment, as if she knows I'm on the verge of cracking, before finally dipping her chin.

"I agree," Katya says, drumming a set of slick cherry-red nails against her armrest. "It will be great because you will make it so." Her voice softens, albeit in her own gruff way. "As you always do."

My brows climb at the unexpected reassurance. Before I can reply, however, Katya's sapphire blue gaze cuts over to Alice, and she clucks her tongue in sharp irritation. "Despite the fact that some of these elements are not exactly allowed, even in singles dance, which someone here in this room should already know… Alice."

"Oh, puh-lease." Flicking a dismissive hand, Alice rolls her eyes with put-on drama. "You and I both know they'll just be minor deductions… that is, if she opts to go into a scored event at all this season."

Ouch.

That stings a lot worse coming out of someone else's mouth.

"Minor? Really?"

"Of course. I've done the math." Alice's beaming smile turns sly. It's borderline disturbing. "The points she'll get for difficulty far outweigh the deductions, if she executes them perfectly, that is."

Katya tuts and glares. "Which she will."

I look from one woman to the other, half annoyed, half amused at the standoff going on between them. "Hellooo? Does the one doing all the skating get a say in this?"

They both stare at me like I'm an idiot before saying in unison. "No!"

I bang my head against the squeaky cushion and gaze up at the pale gray drop panel ceiling. They just grin at each other before Alice claps with mischievous delight. "Then it's settled. We'll start off-ice in the studio tomorrow!"

Thirty minutes later, after a long discussion on this year's rhythm dance theme, Alice throws me a conspiratorial wink and slips out the door. Hauling myself out of Katya's ancient vinyl chair, I start to follow, only for Katya to stop me with a curt shake of her head.

"I have potential try-out for you."

For a split second, I freeze.

Then as her words sink in, my pulse jumps. I instantly go boneless, falling back into my chair. "What? Are you serious?"

"No, of course not," Katya says, rolling her eyes. "I just make up some bullshit sentences for you to guess."

"Okay, fine." A laugh spills out, even though inside, I'm roiling. My knee bobs with nervous energy as my brain recreates the phantom pressure of a firm, reassuring grip holding me tightly against a warm muscular body. When I blink, behind closed lids, all I can see are vibrant gothic lines and images crawling up a pair of toned forearms. Swallowing, I dare to hope, regardless of whatever I told Ang before. "Who? Who is he?"

"Petro Tkachenko." As she spins her monitor around, Katya looks at me over a pair of bright red readers. "Originally from Ukraine, but his parents moved him to UK when he was a child. Two years ago, he won bronze at European championships. Last year, silver."

Elation wars with disappointment, and I immediately want to smack myself for the latter. Tamping that down hard, I focus on the screen and watch a dark-haired skater with a serious, yet baby-smooth face race across the ice while flipping a tiny redhead onto his shoulder. His lines and edges are perfect, but…

"He looks… young," I murmur as he juggles the redhead around his body to stand her up on his thighs. Where his face remains a stoic mask, a beatific smile creases her cheeks as she presents to the panel, and I can't help but smile back.

Katya grunts and swipes a hand, jangling her bangles. "Skated Juniors before now because his partner was younger… as you can see. He just turned twenty-two, so he moves to Seniors regardless now."

Petro doesn't look twenty-two.

Compared to Edward, body-wise, he looks like a gangly teen.

I internally curse myself again.

"What happened with his partner?" I ask, determined to focus on what's in front of me.

"Charlotte Fulton. She broke her ankle a month ago."

"How bad?" I ask, wincing at the sympathetic pang that races down my leg.

"Compound fracture. Surgery was required to reconstruct, maybe a second will be needed. It's uncertain if she will be able to return to skating at all." Katya frowns, then sighs. "So… here we are."

My heart sinks for her because Charlotte's situation is so much worse than mine.

"Here we are," I whisper while simultaneously trying to make sense of the tangled ball of emotion tugging at my chest. "Petro isn't a very big guy." He's actually pretty skinny. "You think he can handle the li–"

"You are small." Katya waves me off with an indignant chuff. "Even smaller these days, thanks to that gryobanyy mudak. At this point, I could lift you with ease."

I have no idea how to take that. "Um, thanks?"

She shrugs. "It's not an insult. Or a compliment. Is just fact."

Inwardly, I guess I shrug, too.

Then again, my coach has always had a bizarre sense of boundaries and what's acceptable in normal human interaction, so I suppose I'm just used to it by now.

Nodding, I take a deep breath. "So, when is he coming? Or do I have to fly over there?"

"Hopefully, in three weeks," she says, holding up her fingers. "Petro's coach said they submitted visa request already." Katya hesitates then, as if debating, and faint lines bracket her mouth, making her seem older. When she speaks again, her voice falls, carrying a quiet note I don't quite recognize. "Petro is a good skater, Bella."

"I know. I–"

She cuts me off with a slice of her hand. "No, listen to me… I want you to try very hard to make this work with him."

"Look," Katya says, shaking her head before I can respond, "I don't care that you change to singles dance if that is what you want. You will do well, and I will continue to coach you regardless." Her lips mash, and when my eyes slide from her face to the table, they catch on the tiny, moon-shaped indentions in her palms, left from the bite of her cherry-red nails.

"Thank you," I say, barely above a whisper.

She tsks. "But we both know it isn't what your heart wants, and we both know you have the ability to compete at the highest possible levels… and win. You have proven this." She hesitates again, this time longer, and her perfectly straight shoulders bend, ever so slightly. "As much as it pains me, I know things are difficult after Jacob hurt you, but Petro can do this with you if you will give him a chance."

It's the closest she's come to actually acknowledging the hole that Jake left behind–the unexpected implosion of not only my career but the infuriating hit to my confidence and life in general. A thick lump builds at the base of my throat, threatening to cut off my air. "I will, I promise."

And I mean it, too.

"Good." We look at each other for a minute more before she finally grimaces. "And in meantime, in case this doesn't work and Petro turns out to be an incompetent idiot, you will work your ass off and absolutely destroy this ridiculously complicated program Alice made for you."

Something warm and effervescent bubbles through my veins. As I stand, a grin slowly creeps across my face, and just because I know how much she loves/hates it, I snap my heels and tap my forehead in a sharp military salute. "Yes, Gospozha Katya!"

"Blyaaa!" she groans, leveling me a flat, unamused glare over the tops of her readers. "Ubiraysya otsyuda!" When I just keep grinning, Katya huffs. A reluctant smile teases her crimson lips as she waves me off with her typical curt dismissal. "Get out of here. You owe me 5 miles today. We don't want you getting flabby after all."

Another flood of warmth fills my ribcage, and a peal of laughter comes out before I can stop it. "I love you, too."

It's somewhere after ten by the time I make it out of the gym and climb into my car. Instead of cranking it, for a long moment, I just sit there in the cold, staring up through the sunroof at the thousands of twinkling stars above.

Bone-tired and begging for sleep, my body melts against the seat, but as the minutes wear on, my brain won't have any part of it. It just keeps spinning, cycling through the conversation in Katya's office, training, my mom's latest round of messages, Ang's program, my own program, and my seemingly endless list of things to do that never quite gets done.

And, okay, I'd be lying if I said that Edward Cullen wasn't floating around somewhere in there as well.

The windshield starts to fog about the time numbness begins creeping into my toes. I tell myself that I should go home. I should soak in a hot shower. I should crawl between the covers and get whatever sleep I can.

But that's not me and before I know it, I'm slamming the door and heading across the empty parking lot, back toward the glowing dome of the complex to do the only thing I know how to do.

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