Chapter 4

Another day,another morning on the ice. Another awkward hour spent pretending. It was getting old.

It was stupid. We'd been so close. As I watched him from the bench—my practice bag beside me—an old memory bubbled up. The first time Shaun had eaten at our house when we'd been kids. Maybe eight? He'd been so shy. Mom had to prompt him to remove his shoes at the door. Shaun was beet-red as Sobo explained that no one in our culture wore shoes inside. He'd taken the slippers my father had offered him, still glowing bright cherry, and removed his scuffed sneakers. His big toe stuck out of his left sock. I ran off to get him a pair of my socks to put on, and he had thanked me so many times that I had to give him a noogie to get him to stop. Then, there was the meal itself, where he'd had his first experience with chopsticks. Jun, my older brother, had ended up going to get him silverware to use. He couldn't get a noodle to his mouth, and we didn't want him to go hungry. He would have too because he would have sat there until he mastered those chopsticks. That was Shaun.

"Yo," he called across the ice, his expression hard to read as he returned to guiding the puck around the cones.

"Yeah, yo," I sighed as I toed off my sneakers, and put on my skates, lacing them, and taking the time to think about what to say next.

I stood there for a few seconds, arms crossed, watching Shaun working that lost puppy look to perfection, when I realized I was done with this. This weird state we were now in was not cool. Not at all.

"Hey, Shaun, you like Dua Lipa's music?" I called. His gaze lifted from the puck, his brows beetling as he stared at me as if I'd asked him if he liked pickled plums. I did, but that was neither here nor there.

"Uhm, sure. She's hot."

I rolled my eyes and skated over at a slow pace as he watched me coming closer. "I didn't ask if you would smash her, you thirsty dog. I asked if you liked her music. Do you? Like her music? You used to be into K-Pop back in the day."

He ran a hand through his sweaty hair, his expression shifting impossibly fast. "I… well you kind of played nothing but BTS, so I kind of picked it up."

"Hashtag Jimin forever." I smiled, then threw up two fingers crossing two fingers to make a hashtag. I knew I was acting like a tool, but we hadn't shared this many words since I'd arrived at Chesterford last fall. "So, do you like her music?"

"Sure," he replied, resting his stick on his wide shoulders, his hands gripping each end. It was such a hockey player stance that I had to chuckle. "What?"

"Oh, nothing." I waved my giggles off. "Would you mind if I played some of her music while I skate? I'm working on a routine that I want to perfect, then show to Ilya for a possible upcoming competition."

He frowned at the mention of my trainer who'd left the rink to answer a call. Then he cast a glance over his shoulder at the place his dad usually stood. There was no sign of him either, and for once the two of us were actually alone.

"What was that look for?"

"I… nothing."

"Look, if I said something?—"

"I need to practice and so do you."

I spun from him, pulled out my phone to cue up my music, and tucked it into the band on my arm. Headphones and earbuds were not allowed on most ice rinks, so this set-up worked for me. Shaun stood at center ice like a dork. I ignored him, putting my mind to the task of perfecting my triple lutz, triple loop. It was an awkward transition in the program for me for some reason, and while I could usually nail it, the past few days I'd been under-rotating and getting shit from Ilya. So, I cued up the music Ilya had chosen for me, boring AF classical stuff, and moved into my warmup routine. I was too upset to focus on Dua. Throughout the warmup, there stood Shaun, watching, making me nervous with his big blue eyeballs glued to my ass.

After two failed attempts to land my jumps, I spit out a few choice curses in Japanese that my grandmother was known to say and skated over to the moose at center ice.

"What?!" I shouted over the harpsichord or whatever it was blaring out of my cell.

"I don't understand. You met Trent Hanson!" he yelled.

I stared up at him in confusion before reaching up to pause my music. "And?"

"And I thought you might switch trainers after meeting with Trent."

"Why would I do that? I meet lots of trainers and choreographers, and don't jump ship to sign on with them."

His nose crinkled in frustration.

"You should get away from Ilya. He's not good for you. His methods are primitive, he's a bully, and his effect on your mental health is?—"

A queasiness blossomed in my belly. He was serious. How dare he hit me with that bullshit? He did not just say all that to me.

"Are you shitting me with this right now?" I snapped. He stood his ground even though I was about to jab him in his stupidly wide chest. "I mean pot kettle, Stanton! Do you even see what your father does to you on a daily basis?!"

"What? Of course… my dad isn't a problem."

"Oh really? Man, you are so dense. Did you take a puck to the skull recently? Your father is the fucking king of bullies. The king!" I jabbed him even though I knew he wouldn't feel it with the padding under his sweater.

"My father is driven to see me succeed. He's not telling me that I'm fat all the time. Kenji, I know you have trouble with?—"

"No! No, you do not get to talk to me about anything like that! You gave up all rights to talk about personal stuff with me when you threw me away like a rotten banana peel."

"I didn't…" He ran a big hand down his face. "Look, I don't want to fight with you, but I'm worried. You should look into signing with Trent."

"Okay, well, first thing, Trent isn't a trainer for skaters at my level that I'm aware of, but even if he was, I've done well with Ilya." He gaped at me. "Yeah, so there is that, and then, there is this. Stop talking about shit that you know nothing about!"

"It's just that?—"

"No! I'm placing well in all my competitions, thanks very much. Also, who I train with is really none of your business. Is it?" I poked him in the chest with a thin finger, yet again.

"No, I guess not. But Trent wouldn't be making you?—"

And he skidded to a halt, his words ending as if he had skated off a cliff.

"What? Trent wouldn't make me do what?" I demanded.

"Nothing. Nothing. Ilya is fucking god come down to bless you with his mad skills."

I blinked. What the hell was his deal? "Ilya is one of the best. He left Russia to?—"

"Does he weigh you every day?" Shaun blurted. "Why does he do that? It's wrong?"

"I…" I choked up. "You don't get to make calls about my body!" I snarled low just in case anyone was listening.

"But Ilya does?"

I hated this so much. I'd thought, perhaps, he had forgotten. But no, of course not. Shaun Stanton had a slapshot that could rival Tennant Rowe's and a memory like a steel fucking trap. He had cut me out of his life. He'd stopped being my friend, but he still seemed to think he could get away with telling me what he thought.

"You have no clue," I whispered, then spun away, anger making me see red.

"Shaun!" his dad called him, all irritable and red in the face. But Shaun ignored him.

"I know what I know, Kenji," he said. "I saw?—"

I spun, ice chewing under my skates, to glower at him. "You saw nothing. I have things under control. Everything is under control. So why don't you just mind your own fucking business and stop preaching at me like you care."

I stormed off the ice, right to the locker room, not caring if Ilya came back from his call and I was missing. Instead, I threw myself around like a dervish, cursing and crying until I shut myself in the bathroom and collapsed to the floor in a heap of trembling legs that wouldn't support me in a simple spin, let alone a quadruple lutz.