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

Anyagal is graciously prereading for me.

Questions & Answers

I don't answer him.

Instead, we continue to watch the same pair of intermediates circle the rink. It's obvious that they're tired. Their shoulders are starting to sag, and as they execute a series of complicated turns and loops, their footwork gets progressively sloppier. As they start their approach for another throw, I brace internally for another fall, but the girl bails at the last moment, tossing her hands in the air in worn frustration. Scrubbing his face, her dark-haired partner takes a solo lap. He returns, only to fold her in his arms. The blonde stiffens, right on the verge of pushing him away, but then he whispers something in her ear, and she rolls her eyes. When he playfully tugs on her ponytail, she lets out a peal of high-pitched giggles.

Hand in hand, they skate over to the boards and call it a day, and just like that, all is right in the world.

Nostalgia, along with a familiar pang of envy, hits me square in the chest.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

I jerk away from the retreating teens and blink away the fog. "Sorry… what? No, never mind, it's fine."

Still sprawled out and leaning against the bench behind us, Edward studies me. What he sees, I have no idea, but he doesn't say a word. A long second passes, and his brows climb–in disbelief, or in expectation, or maybe it's a little bit of both.

"Really," I tell him, waving an abruptly anxious hand at the arena. "It's not like it's some big secret or anything."

Edward still doesn't speak, but his brows arch even higher, disappearing beneath messy, dark coppery-bronze hair that my fingers itch to touch.

"It's just…" My nose crinkles as uninvited warmth begins to climb my neck. "It's embarrassing and… cliché."

A quiet laugh tumbles out, but then Edward's fingertips walk up to my nape to resume their kneading. "Somehow I doubt that."

I huff in put-on irritation, but then his thumb digs into a deeper knot, and I just suppress a moan. When I roll my neck, silently begging for more, Edward flashes me a toothy grin and obliges. His thumb slides down my nape to my spine, tucking into the spot between my shoulders that always aches. Psychic fingertips curl beneath the fan of my shoulder blade, and when they burrow into muscle and tendon, ecstasy cut with a sliver of pain shoots through my entire body. I cough in surprise, then something between a laugh and a groan spills out before I can stop it.

"Damn it, you are not playing fair," I say, even as I lean into his touch.

"I'm not playing at all."

My eyes shoot to his, and for a moment, we simply stare at each other. Mere inches apart, the air between us feels heavy–weighted and full of unspoken things.

"Jake and I were together for a long time," I finally say.

"How long?"

"We started competing as juniors." A small, wistful smile curves my lips. "I was around fourteen or so, right about the time I realized that my body type and skating style were better suited to dance than singles or pairs."

A tiny furrow bisects Edward's forehead. "He's your age, right?"

"A couple of years older," I say, shaking my head. "He's closer to you."

And as far as I'm concerned, that's where the similarities end.

For me, they might as well be night and day.

Edward hums a vague acknowledgment, so I go on. "We were really close, especially when we moved up to seniors and after my mom left Colorado." I grimace at the parade of memories that comes along with that little admission. "Although, looking back, even then, sometimes he drove me crazy. I guess it's true what they say. Hindsight's always 20/20."

"How do you mean?"

Across the rink, I watch a trio of tiny skaters slowly ease their way out of the gate and onto the ice. The oldest, with her pink gloves and matching pom-pom winter hat, can't be more than six. "Jake was cocky, like a lot of people at our level… and sometimes, he had a nasty temper."

The fingers stroking down my back freeze, and I immediately know where Edward's head goes. His jaw clenches, reminiscent of the other night when I told him about Ty. Something warm and tender expands inside my chest, and the hard knot sitting in the pit of my stomach starts to unwind.

"No, nothing like that," I say, bumping him until he relaxes. "He could just be a real dick sometimes. Used to throw these pissy little tantrums when he didn't get his way, like when we were picking our programs. Nothing was ever his fault–and I mean, nothing. And he hated it when I spent time with Ang and didn't invite him."

"So, a controlling, insecure dick."

I laugh at his dry assessment. "Katya used to call him all sorts of names under her breath."

"Like?" When he angles toward me, Edward's eyes glitter.

"Her go-to was zasranets," I say, mimicking my coach's exaggerated eye rolls and exasperated mutterings. "Jake never bothered to figure out what it meant, which she, of course, found hilarious."

Edward snorts. "Okay, then he was a dumb, controlling, insecure dick."

"You mean, asshole," I correct, grinning right along with him before slowly sighing. "Anyway. You know how it is. Despite his dickish–or rather, assholish–ways, we were together constantly. Went to school together. Trained together. Ate together. Had the same friends. We eventually moved in together, and for a while, things were good." I reluctantly tip my chin up to the rafters and the fringed national championship banner swaying in the breeze from the nearby vent. "Especially when we started winning."

"But…" Edward's thigh presses against mine, and like usual, he's somehow space heater-warm despite the cool rink air.

"But things changed." My smile turns wry and maybe a little brittle. "You've seen how we skate. As we got older, our programs got older–more adult, more romantic and intimate–and the lines between performance and reality started to blur until one day, we were just… together."

"Not surprising." Edward nods. "But that doesn't explain why you're making that face."

Like his touch, his voice is somehow both firm and gentle, and it hits a nerve I didn't realize existed. I busy my hands by smoothing out my skirt. "What face is that?"

"You look," he starts, then hesitates as his gaze travels my features. "I don't know, maybe guilty."

A shiver races down my spine, pebbling my skin.

He's not wrong, and I'm not sure if I've ever felt so seen in my entire life. It's unnerving and exhilarating, all at the same time.

"You're right. I do feel guilty," I tell him, realizing that I want him to know me. "I wanted things to work out between us–badly–but I don't think that I ever really felt what he wanted me to feel."

"And what was that?" Edward asks, softer.

Glancing away, I study the overlapping Olympic rings hanging on the distant wall. My watch vibrates my wrist, signaling the start of my stretch class. Today, I ignore it. "I didn't know anything else. Jake was such an important part of my life. We had a very successful skating partnership, people loved the idea of us, and I did love him, but I don't think I was ever in love with him."

"Ouch." Edward winces.

"Tell me about it," I say, exhaling a humorless laugh. "After a while, I just couldn't fake it anymore. He kept pushing me for more–more time, more affection, more everything–but it felt like I was performing for him, too. So, I told him."

"I take that didn't go well."

Out on the ice, the six-year-old with the pink pom hat yells at her friend as she lets go of the wall and awkwardly glides toward the end. The two left behind giggle, bright and cheerful as they attempt to follow. Mid-way, the smallest one slips. Her skates fly out from under her, and she falls onto the ice in a tangled heap of limbs and wild, raven curls. Outside, her mom, wide-eyed and worried, races along the boards. Before she can swing open the gate, the girl springs back to her feet, throws her fists in the air like a champion, and slide-runs after her older friend. The mom collapses onto the bench with a tired sigh, and I can feel every bit of her fatigue.

"He said that I didn't know what I was saying and that he could be patient for me, whatever that meant." Peeking over at Edward, I roll my eyes. "But eventually, he realized that I wasn't going to change my mind and come crawling back." Deserved or not, lingering guilt and regret claw at my brain and make my fists ball into tight little hammers. "We couldn't figure out how to navigate back to being just partners. Or maybe we didn't want to, I don't know."

Edward finds that spot between my shoulders again, and I swear, I nearly collapse. "How long did you last?"

"We continued skating together for a few months. It wasn't easy, and living together was… unpleasant." I frown. "Then, one weekend, he said he was going to visit his dad and he came back on Monday with a contract."

Edward twists in his seat. "A what?"

"He said that, and I quote, 'I needed him a lot more than he needed me.'"

"That's some bullshit," Edward says, hard and fast. His hand falls away from my shoulders, clasping his other as he props his elbows on his knees and glares daggers at the rafters. "You're the better skater by a long shot."

I still, momentarily taken aback by the angry tone, more so by the fact that Edward's watched Jacob skate enough to conclude what few ever wanted to admit or talk about. Something catches in my throat. "Yeah, well, he didn't think so, and he said if I wanted to keep skating, I was going to have to pay. For… everything. Figuratively and literally. All our rink time, coaching, choreography, travel, the apartment, food, you name it."

"The fuck?"

"Come on," I say, snorting when he flips off my banner. "It's not that uncommon. There have been a lot of women in dance and pairs who've footed most or even all the bill." My cheeks puff out like a chipmunk, and I peer around to see who might be listening. Our side of the rink is a ghost town. "I mean, I'm pretty sure Jess's family is handling most of her and Mike's expenses. It's just… demographics–supply and demand."

"Fucking bullshit," Edward mutters under his breath, then swipes an aggravated hand through unruly hair. "What'd you say? I'm assuming you told him where he could go."

"I told him no." Picking at a stray thread, I wind it around my knuckle until my finger blanches white and tingles. "I don't have that kind of income anyway."

Edward looks over, and I can tell he wants to ask, but he won't.

"My grandma Swan loved watching me skate," I say. "Even though my dad was pretty much MIA, we were close, and after we moved, she used to make my mom send her videos." Bittersweet melancholy floods my chest. "She died a few years ago and left me some money. It wasn't a whole lot, but that, along with a few endorsements I've managed to secure and the hours I sometimes pick up for Katya, it's enough that I can skate and not have to work an extra job. But that's about it. I couldn't have afforded what he was asking for even if I'd wanted to. He knew that, too."

Edward scrubs his face, scratching at his stubble. "Jesus, he really is a dick."

"Yes. Yes, he really is." A true laugh–unexpected and light–spills out. "But that was it. We had one last fight after he dropped me during a lift and somehow blamed me for it, and then he left. I came home from Pilates, and all his stuff was simply gone."

Along with my season and maybe my career.

"You haven't talked to him since?"

"No," I say as another round of heat creeps up my neck and cheeks. "He pretty much ghosted me. Blocked my number, blocked my socials." Sucking in a shallow breath, I shake my head. "Not like I can really blame him." Edward opens his mouth in protest, something I could kiss him for, but I duck my head and just shoot him a small smile. "So, see?"

That furrow reappears. "See?"

"Embarrassing… and cliché. It'd be the perfect plot for some cheesy romance novel."

I don't get the laugh I was aiming for. Instead, Edward's mouth mashes into a thin line, and his eyes bore into mine, intense and shining. "You really don't see yourself clearly at all, do you?"

My throat bobs, along with my stomach. "I see you."

Edward's lips curve, and for a while, we just sit together in comfortable silence, watching the handful of lingering skaters loop the rink. When my fingers start to freeze and I go to tuck them beneath my thighs, Edward huffs. With a tiny exasperated smile, he grabs my hands and sandwiches them between his larger, far warmer ones.

"Better?" he asks when my body sags in instant relief.

"Much, thanks." I hesitate, debating, and clear my throat. "What about you and Tanya?"

Edward glances over, then blankly stares across the ice. "What about us?"

"You told me why you stopped skating pairs. But did you two… were you ever involved?" I hate the way my voice sounds. "Ugh, never mind. You don't have to answer that."

"Involved?" He throws me a playful smirk and chuckles when my elbow jabs into his ribs. A beat later, he sobers, and his voice drops to a quiet murmur. "No, although it wasn't for lack of interest or opportunity."

My traitor heart sinks, even though it has no right to.

"More so on her side than mine," he adds, almost as if reading my mind. He squeezes my hands, and I can't help but notice the sore, bruised knuckles on his right. "Every time she made an attempt, it just felt…I don't know, wrong, like I'd have been taking advantage." He lets out a slow lungful of air. "Plus, honestly, I was overwhelmed by everything else. I just needed to have some part of my life that didn't involve her."

Before I can reply, my wrist buzzes again. Scowling, I leave the warmth of Edward's hands, reach into my bag to pluck out my phone, and immediately spit out a quiet curse.

Katya: Where are you? I looked for you

I tap and scroll to the next message.

Katya: Fine, be that way. Don't answer me

Katya: Petro's coach called me. Visas were approved. He will be here next week

"Shit," I mutter as my heart thumps a disjointed rhythm. "Shit, shit, shit."

"What's going on?"

Sucking in a deep breath, I will my heart rate to slow. When Edward watches me with obvious concern, I don't know why, but tiny pinpricks assault my eyes.

"I have a tryout coming up." The admission comes out in a blurted rush, and something resembling shame surges through my veins, even though there's no logical reason for it.

Edward goes quiet. "With who?"

"Petro Tkachenko. He's been skating for the UK." I lick my lips. "His partner had a potentially career-ending injury, so he's free."

"I see." Edward dry-washes his hands, idly rubbing the scrolled letters on the backs of his thumbs. For a moment, his gaze trains on the aluminum bench in front of us. A muscle in his cheek jumps. "He's a good guy. Good skater, too."

"You know him?"

"Yeah, although not well." He nods woodenly, as if replying to himself. "He's younger, but I ran into him a few times at Challenger events in Europe." That muscle ticks again as he looks over, and the bright emerald green of his irises seems darker–flatter. "He doesn't have your power or speed, and he's not as dynamic in terms of performance, but he's a solid choice."

"That's what Katya tells me," I say, barely above a whisper.

"I'm happy for you," Edward says, just as softly.

I'm not.

I should be happy. I should be freaking ecstatic, yet as Edward's thigh presses more firmly against mine, and as my body remembers the feel of his as we glided down the ice in an almost-lovers' embrace, my chest aches and aches.

A question sits on the tip of my tongue, but I chicken out at the last second and ask another one instead. "Can I ask you for a favor?"

"Sure, anything."

"I know we've been practicing some of your new… dance moves for your free skate." I give him a pointed look, waiting until he smiles. My teeth clamp down on the inside of my cheek. "It's been months since I've worked on lifts. Can we–"

Edward answers before I even finish. "We'll start tomorrow night. You'll be ready, don't worry."

.

.

.

Notes:

It's (unfortunately) not that uncommon for women skaters (or their families) to handle a higher percentage of expenses for ice dance and pairs. The idea of a contract isn't that farfetched either. In fact, much like Bella and Jacob, recently, there was a Russian ice dance pair who became romantically involved. When their romance fizzled, rumor was that the guy tried to coerce the girl into a contract, where she had to pay for essentially everything to keep skating together. She dumped him, is now skating with another guy, and they're amazing to watch (look them up: Vasilisa Kaganovskaya and Maxim Nekrasov; their Moonlight Sonata free skate is beautiful)

Above Bella mentions realizing her body and skating style was more suited to ice dance. Ice dancers' bodies are often a little leaner/thinner and less compact than pairs skaters. They also often have longer legs relative to their torsos. That body type is more suited to ice dance visuals - long, clean lines.

Also, someone asked in a review about skills and prestige in ice dance vs pairs. While pairs skating is more acrobatic (jumps and throws), ice dancers are often considered to be the better technical skaters (in general). Their edges are deeper, their lines, turns, spins, etc are crisper, and they have more complicated steps and one-footed maneuvers. And they have to be absolutely perfectly in sync with both their partner and the music, more so than what you see in singles or pairs, where they can make up artistic deficits with acrobatic elements. They're equivalent disciplines, just with different focuses and skills needed.