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

Anyagal is kindly prereading for me.

Friends & Competitors

"Oh, God, I'm never eating again."

"Please," I say, collapsing onto the nearest sofa. I laugh when Angela claps her abdomen and moans at the ceiling. "It's your birthday. You're allowed to have dessert."

"Bella, I ate half of a whole-ass cake. Half." She lets out another groan of misery. "Do you have any idea how many miles Irina's going to make me run tomorrow?"

I do, in fact, because Ira's a pint-sized tyrant, even worse than Katya, but there's no way I'm going to be the one to spoil the fun.

"You'll be fine." Kicking my heels up on the armrest, I burrow deeper into the fluffy cushions. The old floral fabric's worn and comfortable, smelling faintly of Angela's mom's perfume. For me, that scent is familiarity and warmth, and after yet another round of phone tag with my mom–wherever she is–it's better than any sedative. "Just, I don't know… don't tell her?"

"Are you kidding me?" Scoffing, Angela dramatically faints across the matching armchair. "That woman's a freaking psychic. Plus…" She pauses and yells over the back of the chair. "Goody-goody Eric always tattles!"

From the other room, I hear a vaguely amused snort over the background noise of some dumb video game. "I do not!"

Angela rolls her eyes. "You do, too!"

"Do not!" Eric yells again.

A sweet round face pops around the corner. Tonight, ringed by pale gray bruises, her normally sparkling eyes look flat and tired. Her cheeks are still sunken and sallow, too, and at six weeks out of chemo, there's little more than a fine layer of peach fuzz peeking out from her scalp. But when she shoots me a mischievous grin, Angela's mom is still one of the most beautiful people I've ever known.

"He definitely does," she whispers, winking like a little devil.

"What the–I heard that, Mrs. W!"

"Pfft!" Still grinning, Mrs. Weber disappears back into the other room and chucks something that hits the carpet with a muted thud. "Don't you start with me, young man, or you'll be sorry!"

"God, you're so mean!" Eric whines, laughing. There's another muted thud. " Ow! Ang, help me!"

A pang of longing, touched by envy, hits me square in the chest, but when Angela angles back to me, studiously ignoring Eric's pleas, I just shrug. "Okay, point taken. Ira's going to make you hurt tomorrow."

Angela flings a pillow at my head, missing by a mile. "You are not reassuring."

We chat for a few more minutes, lazily sprawling in a carb-induced coma. Somewhere in there, Angela spins around in the chair and flips upside down, propping her feet on the top of the backrest.

"That's a really pretty bruise," I tell her, pointing at the splotchy, fist-sized, plum-black oval on the back of her thigh.

"Ugh." Ang makes an ugly face and swipes a thumb across the stain, gently pressing the edge until it turns pale yellow. "We tried one of our new lifts on the ice yesterday–emphasis on tried. I landed on his heel." Snickering, she reaches into her hoodie pocket and tosses over her phone. "He felt like crap all afternoon."

Hitting play, I watch Eric grab Angela's thigh, twist her around, and flip her up onto his shoulder. It's a fast, powerful maneuver, and they're booking it across the ice. As they come out of the corner, he juggles her around his neck, repositioning her on his left, and then he levers her body out to the side, upside down, and begins a rapid spin. But Ang's vertical is too slow and off-center. His grip slips down her forearm. It's enough of a mistake that by his second rotation, inertia wins, and they lose balance. Falling out of the spin, Eric goes one way, and Angela the other, hitting the ice with a hard, audible smack, whacking Eric's boot on the way down.

Ouch.

Been there, done that.

Too many times to count.

"How's the rest of your free dance coming?" I ask, chucking back her phone.

"We're getting there. Well, other than that stupid lift." Lips mashing, Ang makes another ugly face. "You saw. Getting up isn't the issue, but getting out of it and transitioning to the spin is a disaster." She lets out a soft, wistful sigh. "If we can get it right, it'll look amazing.

"But I don't know," she goes on, shrugging as she randomly twists a strand of hair around her finger and holds it up to the light. "If we can't figure it out by next week, we'll probably have to scrap it and do something else, which will suck."

Frustration and disappointment soften her tone, and I hate it so much.

I hesitate, debating, not wanting to overstep the sometimes precarious boundary between friends and competitors.

But two seasons ago, Jake and I did a similar move, and Angela's absolutely right. It'll look amazing in their program, especially with their long lines and romantic grace. The trick is the exit and figuring out how to leverage momentum, and I know exactly what they need to do.

"You want some help?" I finally ask. "I won't yell at you like Ira."

Angela looks over, wide-eyed and instantly eager. "Seriously?"

"Duh." I roll my eyes.

"Then, yes!" she says, grinning with her whole face. "You're the best!"

I just laugh, shaking my head at faith I don't deserve.

A few minutes later, after Mrs. W pops by again, checking if we want even more cake, Angela spins back around, tucking her knees to her chest, and quietly asks me, "So, how about you?"

I fiddle with my drawstring. "What about me?"

"How's it going with Alice?"

"It's fine," I say, scrubbing my face and exhaling at the seemingly ever-present weight in the pit of my stomach. "About all I can do at this point is exhibitions."

"Like, there's no one?"

"Katya's still trying to line up a couple of new tryouts." Staring up at the ceiling, I follow the slow, steady rotation of the ceiling fan. "Realistically, though, even if she somehow magically conjures up a partner, I don't see how I'll be able to compete in the upcoming season. There's just not enough time." My stomach falls, and I want to vomit. "It's… whatever."

Ang curses under her breath. "Bella, I'm really sorry."

I glance over, doing my best to smile and failing miserably. "It is what it is."

"But it still sucks." Her brows abruptly slam down, and her lips mash into a hard, flat line. "You know what?"

"Hm?"

"Fuck Jacob Black." She spits out his name. "Fuck him, fuck his dumb bubble butt, and fuck his stupid-perfect gelled hair! I hope he has blisters forever!"

I freeze, momentarily shocked to silence by the fury riding her voice and shaking her narrow shoulders.

The clock on the wall chimes, and in the other room, Eric makes a loud, choked wheezing sound.

A giggle spills out before I can stop it, and as soon as she sees me, Ang's lips twitch. She claps a palm over her mouth, suddenly sheepish, and then I laugh harder than I have in weeks, months even. Tears streak down my face, some blend of sadness, anger, frustration, and fatigue… and utter joy that someone else finally said it.

When I'm done and wiping my cheeks with my sleeve, Ang looks over. A mischievous twinkle brightens her eyes. "What about Edward Cullen?"

"What about him?" I ask, not comfortable at all where this is going.

"Well, why not him?"

"Why not him what?"

"Don't be dense." She huffs, and another pillow sails over my head, bouncing off the picture frame behind me. "He's the only one in the state, make that region–well, other than Tyler, but he's a dick–that can match you, skill-wise." She sniffs like some haughty old-world aristocrat. "And, if you haven't noticed, he doesn't have a partner."

"One, he skated pairs, not ice dance," I say, rolling my eyes in spite of the traitor flutter in my stomach. "You, of all people, know there's a difference."

Angela huffs again. "So? It's not like he couldn't learn. Or you couldn't…"

I ignore that and flash two fingers. "And two, in case you don't remember our conversation a couple of weeks ago, he came back to compete in singles."

"Humph." Ang's nose crinkles. "Are you sure about that?"

"That's what he said and that's what he's training for every morning," I say, throwing up my hands. "I mean, I don't think he's out there attempting quads for nothing."

"Well, shit." Cheeks puffed like a chipmunk, she frowns. "I was hoping that was just a big rumor and that he really secretly moved here to convince you to skate with him."

"What?" I bark out a laugh.

"That bad boy look he's rocking totally works, by the way," she whispers, surreptitiously peeking over the cushions, then wagging her brows. "With that sweet, innocent thing you've got going on, you guys would look incredible together, like an angel and a demon, but, you know, hot. You two would win everything, go on to the Olympics…" She faux swoons, falling across the armrest. "And, of course, fall madly, deeply in love… and then, get married and have beautiful, ridiculously talented skating babies."

"What kind of shitty romance books have you been reading?" I say, snorting as I grab the pillow she threw at me earlier and whack her in the face.

"What?"

Tipping back against the cushion, I close my eyes, tuck my hands into my hoodie, and shake my head. "I'm not talking about this."

"So, I guess that means I shouldn't tell you I saw him the other day after free skate."

I crack one eye open, having no clue where she's going with this. "Okay?"

"He was talking on the phone with someone named Carlisle. It sounded like he wants Edward to move back to Europe." She nods sagely, clearly relishing this bit of intel. "I heard him mention Tanya, which I'm assuming is the same Tanya Edward used to skate with."

I don't know why, but my stomach knots.

Before I can ask, or even begin to contemplate my reaction, she yanks her sweatshirt over her knees and goes on, "Edward wasn't yelling or anything, but, wow, he sounded pissed. He looked it, too. Replied something about finally doing what he wanted to do, and then he just hung up on the guy and threw his phone on the bench."

Suddenly tired, I stare out the bay window, taking in the faint, lingering sunset glow haloing the mountains. Just above, the sky morphs into ink, dappled with tiny, sparkling dots of light. "Ang, I don't know what you want me to do with that."

"I don't know." Her shoulders rise and fall. "I'm just telling you."

"Yeah, right," I say, snorting, and right on cue, my watch pings. "Ugh, I probably need to get home."

"Just crash here." Angela tsks at me like I'm an idiot. "You can sleep in the guest room like you used to. Plus, Mom said she wanted to do a big pancake breakfast in the morning…" Groaning, she pops her head against the cushion. "Like I need more carbs."

Grinning, I motion to the next room, where Eric's video game is still blaring, and slowly drag myself off the couch. "Nah, your mom's dealing with enough people under her roof."

"You know she loves having a full house." Angela reluctantly follows me up. "And Eric's going back to his parents' tonight anyway. He's trying to spend time with his grandma before she flies back home."

"How's that going?"

"I don't think she likes me," Angela says, barely above a whisper. She sneaks a look back to the living room.

"What? Why?" I ask, truly baffled. When her face falls, my heart falls with it. I give her ponytail a playful tug. "Come on, everyone likes you."

"Um, let's see… To start with, I don't speak Japanese."

I startle at that, hearing in my head Eric's perfectly neutral West Coast accent, and my forehead crumples. "Wait, does Eric?"

"Shhh!" Laughing, Angela smushes her hand over my mouth and leans in close. "Sort of? Apparently, not that great, but he's her favorite grandson, so it doesn't matter." Slumping, she lets me go. "Honestly, I think she really just wants him to settle down with a nice girl from home like his brother did… And, of course, give up skating, you know, so he can get a real job."

I wrap my arms around her waist and squeeze. "She'll come around. No one can resist you."

"Thanks, B." With a tired sigh, she squeezes me back and then scowls at my sneakers. "Please, just stay. It's late."

I look around the room one last time, tempted by the closest thing to a home that I've known in years, and shake my head. "It's fine. I have to be up stupid early anyway."

"You know you're always welcome."

"I know." I shoot her a final smile as I step out into the cool night air. "I'll talk to you tomorrow. We're going to beat that dumb lift, and you're going to have the best program out there."

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Notes:

Next week is Labor Day week in the US. Just as a head's up, I likely won't be posting, but I'll see you all on the 10th. Thank you so much for reading and for all your wonderful comments. I hope you're enjoying reading half as much as I am writing it.