Chapter 30

Chapter 30

I was determined to ignore Heath and Bella. I couldn’t afford to waste my energy on them—not if I was going to become an Olympic gold medalist.

But they didn’t make it easy. Every time I turned around, there they were: wound around each other on the ice or sitting shoulder to shoulder in the stands. If Heath saw me looking, he’d lean closer, find excuses to touch her—and Bella didn’t exactly discourage him.

It pained me to admit it, but they were good together. Heath had improved so much, he made every style from the polka to the mambo look easy. The combination of Bella’s petite stature and the muscle Heath had put on during his mysterious absence meant they could perform lifts and tricks out of reach for most other ice dance teams.

Plenty of rumors flew about where Heath had been training—after all, there were only so many elite ice dance instructors out there, and even fewer who could compete with the likes of Sheila Lin. A couple of coaches tried to take credit for his transformation, but Heath refused to confirm or deny. All anyone knew was that he’d somehow gone from serviceable to world-class in a few short years.

Meanwhile, Garrett and I were struggling. For our free dance that season, we skated to a medley of R nothing so overtly sexy, though. We could execute the technical requirements, but the whole thing felt awkward and forced— especially with the only man I’d ever loved watching from the other side of the ice.

I couldn’t avoid seeing Heath at the Academy. But I’d started taking some of my off-ice training elsewhere. I wasn’t running away, I reasoned. I just needed some fresh air. A change of scenery, a new challenge.

Yeah, even back then I knew I was full of shit.

My favorite workout spot was in a canyon near the Lins’ house: hundreds of concrete steps winding up a steep hillside. In mild weather, it would have been a challenging workout. In the scorching heat of Los Angeles summer, it was pure torture—more than enough pain to keep my mind off the true source of my suffering.

By the fall, I was escaping to the canyon three days a week, sometimes more if I could fit it in between all our ice sessions and dance lessons and promotional commitments. It was quiet there: nothing but the calls of birds, the pounding of my shoes against the concrete, and my breaths turning from steady to panting the closer I got to the top.

Until one early October afternoon, when my solitude was shattered by the sound of footfalls coming up fast behind me.

I encountered casual hikers on occasion, but most of them started at the top of the hill and took the stairs down. It was rare to see someone else run the stairs—rarer still that they could do it fast enough to catch me.

The footsteps sped up, closing the distance, until the other runner passed on my right side, almost slamming me into the rusted railing.

I was about to shout a protest. Then I saw who it was.

Heath. In running shorts that made his sculpted thighs impossible to ignore.

I stopped, huffing out a sigh of frustration. “What, you’re following me now?”

Heath paused to glance down from several stairs above. His hair had grown back long enough to show a hint of wave, and the sunlight made it gleam.

“Looks like you’re following me,” he said.

He started off again, taking the next few steps two at a time to increase his lead. Not even breathing hard, the bastard.

I never let him win when we raced along the lakeshore as kids, and I wasn’t about to start. So I poured on the gas, chasing after him.

The higher we climbed, the less shade there was. Sweat poured down my back, and my leg muscles burned like I was in the final measures of a free dance, but I was gaining on Heath.

The staircase narrowed into a switchback, a burnt-out tree trunk stretching across the path, and I saw my opportunity to overtake him. I bounded forward, brushing past so close our hips skimmed together, and then I was ahead, only a few steps remaining before the summit, Heath’s breath on the nape of my neck—

Until the toe of my sneaker caught a crack at the edge of the top step, and I sprawled into the sunbaked dirt, pain searing down my shins.

Before I could get my bearings, Heath had grabbed me by the shoulders and hauled me back onto my feet. The first time he’d touched me since that night in Nagano—though he let go just as quickly, jumping back as if he’d been singed. I hated myself for the way I bent toward him, like a flower yearning for the light.

He watched, arms crossed, as I limped over to sit on a graffiti-covered rock. Scrapes painted both of my legs red from knee to ankle, bits of gravel embedded in the burning skin. I started trying to brush them off, but my hands were raw and grimy too.

Heath sighed. “Stop that. You’re making it worse.”

He unclipped a small bottle from his belt and knelt in front of me. So close I could feel the heat radiating off him. The scar under his eye looked fainter. Like I could reach out with my fingertips and brush it away.

I gripped the rock, nails scraping the rough surface. On a clear day, the overlook revealed a stunning vista from the Santa Monica Mountains to the Pacific, but that afternoon, a layer of smog smudged the view into a watercolor blur. As Heath rinsed my wounds with sun-warmed water, fingertips grazing my calf in a way that could have been accidental, I forced myself to keep focusing on the gray haze. Anything was better than looking at him.

No wonder I’d been having so much trouble connecting with Garrett on the ice: Heath’s return reminded me what real desire felt like.

Heath stood and pulled the hem of his shirt up to wipe the sweat off his brow. I braced myself, determined not to stare at his abs or his tapered waist or—

His scars. Heath’s entire back was covered in scars, much more prominent than the one marring his cheek. I sucked in a breath.

“What happened to you?”

Heath tugged the shirt back into place. “Nothing.”

The scars were all different shapes and sizes, scattered seemingly at random, no pattern or symmetry I could identify. The damage was long healed, but I could all too easily imagine the marks fresh, throbbing and tender like my scraped-up legs.

I wanted to envelop him in my arms and ensure nothing could hurt him ever again. I wanted to find whoever had done this and make them bleed.

But when I reached for him, he jerked away.

“Heath,” I said, cringing at the softness that snuck into my voice.

“Oh, now you care.”

“Of course I—”

“You want to know what happened to me?” he spat. “ You did. You left me, and—”

“I didn’t leave you!” Was that what he’d been telling himself all these years, when I was the one who’d chased him through the streets, screaming his name? “ You left me. ”

“Please. I heard everything you said to Ellis that night.”

“I was only talking. I hadn’t made any decisions yet.”

“You said I was holding you back. I wasn’t good enough. You’d never win, skating with me. And we both know that’s all you care about.”

“Well, you decided for both of us, didn’t you? So I guess we’ll never know now.”

“I guess not.” He turned toward the staircase. All the care he’d shown a few moments before had burned away, leaving nothing but cold disdain in its place. “Enjoy the rest of your run, Katarina. Try not to break anything on the way back.”

He started down the steps—faster now, too fast for me to catch up even if I’d wanted to.

I stood on the hilltop fuming, the salt of my sweat making my shins burn again. The injuries were nothing serious, but they could have been. I could have snapped a bone, compacted my wrists when I braced my fall.

All those years of training, and I almost threw it away chasing Heath up a hill like we were still a couple of half-feral children.

It was my year. My Olympic season. No one was going to ruin it forme.

Not even Heath Rocha.