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

Anyagal is graciously prereading for me.

Curve & Spin

Petro's stronger than I expected.

He's quicker and more graceful, too. And after two days of training on both the ice and the mats, I realize that Katya wasn't wrong.

He's a good skater, and if we move forward, we'll be a formidable team. Maybe not this season, but next, there's a very good chance we can win.

The thought of competing again–of actually winning–arcs through my veins like a livewire. Yet… at the same time, a confusing snarl of emotions tightens my chest.

"Are you okay?" Petro asks, dropping down onto the bench beside me. Pale hazel eyes, ringed with faint gray shadows, travel to the ice pack taped around my elbow as he hands over a bottle of water.

"Yeah, it's fine." Happily taking his offering, I guzzle half the bottle and gesture to his right hip. "Are you, though? You took most of that last fall."

Petro swipes a hand through damp, shaggy brown hair, then scratches the back of his neck. An almost sheepish grin steals across his features. "I guess I'll live, especially since I was the one who flubbed it."

His penchant for self-deprecation is cute–endearing–and it's impossible not to smile back.

"How's your jetlag?" I ask as I watch Katya's little red athletic shoes stomp over to the trio of other coaches parked in the center of the ice.

Arms flying, Alice gaily skips to the left, moving to a melody only she can hear, but as soon as she spies Katya's scowl, she folds in half and lets out a peal of bright, high-pitched laughter. Glaring over the rims of her readers, Katya waves her off. She grumbles something, too–irritably, of course–but whatever she says just makes Alice laugh harder. Petro's coach, a slight, early fifty-something with soft round eyes and ruddy cheeks, politely clasps his hands behind his back and stifles a chuckle. Even stony-faced Jasper cracks a smile.

"It's not a problem." Petro's shoulders rise and fall in a loose, lazy shrug.

The motion draws my focus back, and for the second I study him, I can't help but draw comparisons. Petro's younger and lankier than Edward, with a baby-smooth chin instead of a firm jawline littered with stubble. He prefers navy over black, and there's not a line of ink anywhere to be found. Nonetheless, as he leans back on his elbows, that easy nonchalance feels oddly familiar, and I swallow as my heart squeezes again.

"It's my fault I'm tired," he adds. His thumb flicks across his forefinger, and his gaze falls to his skates. Some of that cheerfulness fades away. "Sorry about that."

"Don't be sorry." A different kind of pang has me bumping his shoulder. "You're fine… better than fine. Trust me. Up late?"

His lips curve, but his smile is small and wry. "More like, up early."

Considering we started before dawn, early is an understatement, but I'm pretty sure I know why.

"Ouch." I wince for show, then give the phone by his knee a pointed glance. "How's Charlotte doing?"

Petro's chest instantly deflates. Not a lot, but it's enough, and his fingers drum a tight staccato against his thigh. "She's… Char's okay, I guess."

I know how okay feels, and I wouldn't wish that on anyone. "What does she think?"

Petro glances over, wary. "About?"

"I don't know. You," I say, motioning between us, "and me. This."

A soft, resigned sigh answers me. "She's… very supportive. She says she wants me to skate and do whatever is necessary to continue competing. But it's really hard on her."

"Hard on you, too."

Especially since it's obvious that he's in love with her.

Hazel eyes widen, and for a moment, he doesn't answer. His chin dips in a slow, reluctant nod. "I've only ever skated with her. I wasn't expecting to have to…" Petro abruptly straightens. "I don't mean to say… it's not that I… ugh, you know what I mean."

His careful politeness is as endearing as his self-deprecation.

And I do know what he means, but before I can open my mouth to say the same, Katya throws her arm in the air and bellows a familiar command. "Belka, Petya! Davai, davai!"

"Blyaaa!" I whine, loud enough to mess with her. Pressing the back of my hand to my forehead, I collapse and pout with Jess-like theatrics.

Predictably, Katya jabs a pissy finger at the rink and lets out a barrage of incomprehensible angry Russian. Beside me, Petro snorts–at me or Katya, I don't know–and when I peek over, his shoulders shake with silent laughter.

"What?" I ask, pouring on the charm even as I flash him a conspiratorial smile.

"I said nothing. Absolutely nothing," he says, throwing up his hands in mock defense. For a split second, I think I almost catch a subtle inflection lurking in his otherwise light, perfectly articulated British accent. Playing, I narrow my eyes in a faux offense, and he just shrugs. "What can I say, it just sounds really funny hearing you curse."

A few minutes later, he's the one cursing. Grinning down at the sprawled-out man on the ice, I offer him a hand and pull him up. As I dust the ice shavings off his back, I lean in and whisper-sing, "I heard that."

"Yeah, yeah." Petro rolls his eyes. When I slug his shoulder with sibling-like affection, a matching smile curves his lips, and he attempts to thump me back. He misses by a mile.

"Little bit better!" Katya barks. Shiny crimson nails rap impatiently against her tablet. "But still looks like shit! Yeshche raz! Until you get it right!"

Sucking a deep, resigned breath of cool rink air, I take position center ice. A beat later, Petro slides in behind me.

Two days of non-stop proximity and training breeds a certain amount of familiarity. His palms frame my hips with ease. On cue, I lean into him, and when I feel the subtle rise and fall of his chest against my back, my muscles relax. My breathing automatically falls in sync with his.

Unlike my tryout with Marek, I don't have to direct Petro.

He's an ice dancer just like me, and when I reach behind me to grasp the side of his neck in a romantic embrace, he's already there. Petro's eyes squeeze shut, and his forehead dips to rest against the top of my shoulder. The muscles along his forearms brace and tense, and long fingertips dig into my hips, like he's pushing me away even as he pulls me closer. As Katya begins the count, I steal a glance at the mirror on the distant wall.

We're the picture of tragic, dramatic love, exactly what Alice's program has us pretending to be.

This time, as we push off in unison and shift into the long serpentine introductory glide, we execute the sequence with near perfection. Hip to hip, hand in hand, we start with a series of easy turns, then another glide and the clockwork loop. Our spins are flawless, our assisted cantilever superb.

"Ready?" I ask him as I reposition for the curve lift Jasper just added.

Petro gives me a short, succinct nod. "One, two, up!"

I somersault forward as Petro swaps his grip, releasing my hips to grab my thigh and bicep. Momentum has me flying, but he doesn't let go. He juggles me up to his left shoulder. On the next beat, I plant one blade on the top of his thigh, and he wraps an arm around one knee to keep me vertical. He squats, and as he goes into the long curving arc, I stand up. Balancing on one blade, I tuck in my other leg and arch my spine, forcing my body forward, perpendicular to his plane of travel. The angle–a solid thirty degrees–is extreme, and my abs scream in protest. I hold the pose, however, and spread my arms wide, presenting to our audience of coaches until a rare, beaming grin lights up Katya's face.

"Yes!" she yells, slapping Alice on the shoulder as she follows us around. "Beautiful! This is what I want from you!"

Excitement bubbles, even as that tangle of conflicting emotions comes roaring back. I swallow past the abrupt knot in my throat, and as I peer down at my maybe-partner, I see a mirror of the same hope, determination, sadness, and uncertainty.

By the time we're done, the clock on the wall reads nearly seven, and it's after eight when I step out of the locker room sauna. Dragging from lingering soreness and fatigue, I grab a shower and yank on a ratty old hoodie and a pair of sweatpants for the drive home. My phone pings right as I'm packing up.

Edward: How's it going?

My pulse stutters, and for whatever reason, I hesitate. For a moment, my thumbs just hover over the screen. I finally type a response, only to stare at it and then delete it before tapping out something far more generic and safe.

Me: You were right. Petro's a nice guy. Good skater too.

Edward doesn't reply immediately. Stomach sinking, I stare a hole in my screen until three pulsing dots appear. It takes him forever, like maybe he's doing the same routine of type and delete.

Edward: That's great. Really.

My chest aches and aches, and it's stupid. I want to kick myself–for letting my heart hope, for being selfish, for being incapable of fully embracing the very real, very talented Ukrainian boy who needs a partner as much as I do. Again, for a too-long moment, my thumbs go motionless as logic wars with emotion.

I settle on another innocuous response.

Me: Tomorrow's our last practice. Things are looking good.

A few seconds later, my phone pings again. When I see it's just a dumb thumbs up, my fingers clench around my case. I stop short of throwing the thing, and instead just let it fall to the top of my bag. As soon as it hits, another text comes in, followed by a second hot on its heels.

I look down, and every cell in my body stills.

Katya: Come to my office.

Katya: Now.

As I stand there frozen and alone in the middle of the locker room, dread eeks through my body, extinguishing my spike of irrational anger. The energy bar I crammed in before my shower sits like a brick in the pit of my stomach, and when I eventually move, my fingers shake as I try and fail to zip my bag.

Numbly, I jerk the door open. It bangs against the stop, echoing down the empty hall. I barely notice. I barely notice anything because all I can think is, "Not again. Not another failure."

My brain practically screams it the whole trek through the maze of darkened hallways and up the metal stairs to Katya's private office.

I don't bother knocking, not this late, and my mouth starts running before I even cross the threshold.

"Let me guess," I say, breathless, barely above a whisper, "Petro's pulling out. He doesn't want to leave the UK."

It was written all over his face this afternoon. And I get it, too.

I gulp back air colored with hints of Katya's musky perfume. "What about… what if I–"

Katya glances up from her tablet and cuts me off with a sharp, no-nonsense glare. Pulling off her glasses, she studies me for a second, then points at the squeaky vinyl-backed chair across from her desk. Her jaw braces as though she's grinding her teeth. "Sit down."

I cross the room on wooden feet. "What's going on?"

"Sadis'!" Ice blue eyes stab like a knife. "Sit!"

I jump at the volume, and my blood runs cold.

I've seen Katya annoyed–almost daily. I've seen her put out. I've seen her irritated, cranky, and angry. But her anger is rarely aimed at me, and my butt hits the seat before I can even stop to question why.

Satisfied, she grabs the remote off the corner of her desk, punches one of the buttons, and then wildly gestures at the screen hanging on the wall. "Now, explain."

"Explain what?" It comes out as a squeak. I glance back and forth between her and the screen. My gut knows, however, and when the rink blinks to life, followed by a pair of familiar black-clad silhouettes gliding across the ice, my shoulders slump and fall back against the cushion.

"Don't play these dumb games with me," she says, right as Edward takes my hand.

Vaguely, I recognize I'm watching footage from one of the security cameras. It's the one in the northwest corner, positioned high enough that you can see the entire arena. From a distance like this, our faces are blurry and small, but it's clear enough.

We look like two ballet dancers on a snow-white stage, turning, spinning, weaving back and forth in perfect, beautiful, joyful harmony. My old routines with Jake seem amateurish and plain in comparison, and my eyes follow our wandering path, utterly mesmerized. "Where did yo–"

"Ira send me." Katya fumes. "She asked me why I didn't tell her Bella has new partner."

"We're not…" As Edward lifts me and juggles me across his shoulders, salt stings my eyes. "I–"

"I said explain me!" she snaps, louder, angrier, flicking her wrist in aggravated dismissal. "And we will skip parts about obvious safety concerns of conducting lifts when nobody is around in case you break your stupid face! Dura chertova!" Her palm pops the desk, and she waves at the screen once more. "Tell me what the hell is this!"

So, I tell her.

I tell her everything.

Pulling my knees tight to my chest, I pour my pathetic heart out.

I tell her how we met in the gym. How Ty nearly took me out on the ice and how Edward whisked me away just in time. I tell her about Ty cornering me in the hallway late one night and how Edward took me home and stayed. I tell her about our nighttime skating sessions. About teaching him how to waltz. About helping him choreograph his program and him helping me get ready for my tryout with Petro.

How I've felt so lost and alone since Jake left.

How guilty I feel for wasting her time.

And then I tell her how easy it is with him, how everything feels so right when we skate, yet it's all wrong because Edward doesn't want that from me.

And how afraid I am of falling in love with him all the same.

When I'm finally done, I slump deeper in my chair. My face tips toward the ceiling. As I count the dated dove gray tiles, silent tears leak down my cheeks.

"I'm sorry," I say, softer, swiping away the wetness that won't stop flowing. Fatigue settles deep into my bones, and I exhale a tired breath. "I know I'm being stupid and melodramatic. I should have told you."

Katya just harrumphs. Some of the anger bleeds from her expression, and then, for a long minute, she stares at me from across the desk before finally sighing and waving a haphazard hand. "You are an artist. Is normal."

A humorless laugh spills out. I start to reply, but she makes another irritated noise and adds, "And you don't need to concern yourself with Tyler Crowley. That matter is being taken care of."

I bolt up. "Wha–"

"Now that you told me," Katya says, leaning back in her chair, "as your coach, normally, I would have obligations to report, even if you chose not." Bright crimson lips mash into a hard, unforgiving line. "However, a report has already been submitted for a separate incident involving another skater."

"Who?" I whisper as Lauren's angry laughter echoes in my ears.

Katya shakes her head. "You know that I'm not allowed to share this. If it becomes necessary, you may be interviewed, but I suspect not. I also suspect that Tyler Crowley will be suspended regardless. Maybe banned. Ira thinks so at least."

A mountain–one I hadn't realized I was carrying–lifts off my chest. "What about Edward? Will he get in trouble for… addressing the issue?"

"I would not worry." One shoulder rolls in a dismissive half-shrug, but her eyes gleam. "Worst case, maybe he gets warning."

"Okay, good." Relief has me scrubbing my face. My cheeks feel bruised and tender, and every time my heart beats, my head throbs along with it. Sucking in a deep breath, I start to push out of my chair.

Katya's palm slices the air. "We're not finished here."

Inwardly, I groan. "What do you mean?"

She tsks in disappointment, then jabs at the remote to start the video again. "We need to talk about this."

"What's there to talk about?" I ask.

"What is there to talk about?" Sarcasm drips from her voice, and one sculpted brow climbs high. "Well, to start, his edges are a little sloppy."

I laugh–hard.

Katya flashes me a rare–rare–knowing grin.

"It's a shame he was not trained in ice dance. But seriously, for pairs skater, he's very good," she says. She sounds almost incredulous. "Better than that mudak Jacob, that's for sure. Maybe better than Petro even…" Katya's gaze turns sharp, calculating. "But more importantly, look at you. Look at the chemistry between you." She motions to the screen. "This? Belka, this so-called messing around is podium potential."

I shake my pounding head. "I told you, Edward isn't interested."

Katya scoffs. "Who says?"

"He said!"

"When was this?"

I roll my eyes. "He said it to Ang and me both. He doesn't miss it," I tell her, pleading. "He's here to skate singles. I don't know what else to say."

"Fu." Katya scoffs again. "This is some bullshit, but…" Her nails click against the desk. "Maybe he changes his mind. Maybe not. Maybe he's idiot."

I laugh again, this time out of frustration and sheer exhaustion. I know that look, and I trust my coach about as far as I can throw her. But I'm tapped out for tonight.

"I doubt that very seriously." Slowly, I stand. "I'm really, really tired, Katya. And I told Petro we'd meet at 5:30."

"Fine. For now."

Katya gives me another long, assessing look and follows me up. As she skirts her desk, her nose crinkles. Before I know what's happening, a pair of thin, deceptively strong arms lock around me, and fuzzy mohair from her sweater tickles my cheek.

Eyes abruptly stinging, I squeeze her back. "I'm sorry."

She grunts, then gruffly whispers, "It's all right… but don't ever say to me again that you are wasting my time."

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