She stopped, taking in the scene on her phone screen: my flushed cheeks and messy hair, Heath’s bare chest, the different decor behind us. The Civil Wars in the background, crooning mournfully aboutthe one that got away.
“Where are you two?”
“Ellis gave us his hotel suite for the night,” I explained.
“EllisDean?”
We gave her a rundown of our eventful evening. The tampering with our skates had been mentioned on the broadcast, accompanied by backstage footage of me flipping my shit at the Russian team—though Kirk had shied away from outright accusing them of sabotage on air. But this was the first Bella was hearing about the hotel room break-ins, my ruined dress, or the dismissive response from Sochi law enforcement. Guess Ellis was too busy enjoying that nightcap to get a new Kiss & Cry post written.
“What are you going to wear tomorrow?” Bella asked.
“My short dance dress again, I guess.” The bright colors clashed with the character of our free program, but it was my only option unless I wanted to compete in the Olympic final in my warm-up gear.
Bella never once questionedwhetherwe would take the ice for the free dance. We were Shaw and Rocha. Swollen feet and bad backs and bloody dresses weren’t anywhere near enough to scare us away.
“How are you feeling?” Heath asked. I opened my mouth to answer him—then realized he was addressing Bella.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Garrett’s taking good care of me.”
Garrett popped into view behind her, holding a mixing bowl. He waved to us with the pancake batter–covered spatula.
Bella shot her brother a look. “Maybetoogood.”
“You’re welcome.” Garrett kissed the top of her head and looked down at the phone. “Good luck tomorrow, guys! Show those Russians who the real champs are.”
“Try and get some rest,” Bella said. “And until we know for sure who’s behind all this: don’t trust anyone.”
Heath and I nodded. The screen went dark. We were alone again in the bed, sitting even closer since we’d had to squeeze together to both fit in the video frame.
I shifted away from him, clearing my throat. “She’s right. We should get some rest.”
We took turns in the bathroom, changing into proper pajamas and brushing our teeth.
“You want another one before bed?” Heath asked, shaking the orange painkiller bottle. “I swear these don’t do a damn thing for me anymore. I took three, and I can’t feel a thing.”
“I’m good.” The pills hadn’t made much difference in my pain level either, and my makeshift ice pack was melting. I dabbed some more disinfectant on, then climbed into bed.
Heath switched off the lights and joined me; this time he kept a respectful distance. I spent a few minutes arranging pillows to elevate my foot before flopping back beside him.
“Aren’t we a pair?” I said.
“A couple of geriatric has-beens, hanging on by a thread.”
“Hey now, we would’ve been fine if it weren’t for the fucking Volkovas.”
Heath went quiet for a moment. “You’re sure it’s them?”
“Of course it’s them.” I turned to face him. “Who else would it be?”
“I don’t know. Veronika’s terrifying, but she usually takes her wrath out on her own skaters. And Yelena…”
I tried not to bristle at the softness in his voice when he said her name.
“She’s not what you think,” he said. “When I was in Moscow, she was the only person who was kind to me.”
“Because she wanted you to be her partner.”
“Even before that, when she was still with Nikita. She helped me learn the language. She stayed late to give me tips on my skating technique.”
