“You’re full of shit,” he claimed. “You know who you are and what you are. I’m not about to fucking tell you and blow up your ego even bigger than it already is, cut me some slack,” he almost barked out. “I want to do this shoot with you, not by myself. With you. As a team. It’ll be great for both of us coming into the season.”
“I know who I am and have a big ego, sure. Okay. Look, just go get it over with, and I’ll go after you. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I don’t feel like arguing right now.”
The second the two hands landed on my shoulders, I jumped, unexpectedly. And when his mouth lowered to where his lips hovered just over mine, I definitely didn’t move either. We were close seven hours a day, six days a week. There were no physical boundaries between each other because there couldn’t be.
But this…
This I didn’t know what to do with. I couldn’t think of the last time anyone had been this close to me.
“I’m being fucking serious,” he whispered with all the strength and determination in the world.
I couldn’t help but peek up at him, that’s how strong and demanding his tone was.
He was looking down at me with that fucking face, looking more serious than I’d ever seen before, even right before competing. “I’d never make fun of you.”
I frowned.
He shook my wrist, gently, covering the spot where my bracelet usually was. I’d taken it off and left it in my locker. “I wouldn’t when you’re naked,” he said to me. “And who would make fun of you without clothes on? I bet none of those men out there have ever seen legs and an ass that launch a person in the air like yours do.”
I wasn’t going to pick at that comment with a stick. Instead, I blinked at him. “Why are you looking at my ass?”
The corners of his pink-pink mouth tilted up the tiniest bit. “Because it’s there, in my face all day.”
I guess he had a point. It wasn’t like I didn’t look at his ass from time to time. Because it was there. “Then, don’t. Friends don’t look at each other’s butts.”
The way he rolled his eyes did something uncomfortable to my stomach. “Jasmine, this body—these thighs you think I’m going to make fun of you over, and this ass you think the same thing of—are going to win us first place from now on. I wouldn’t make fun of it. I wouldn’t make fun of you. We’ll do it like we always do. When we step out on the ice, it’s work. It’s us focusing, not fucking around.”
I held my breath, watching his features as I did it. “I don’t believe you.”
“That I won’t make fun of you?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause and then, “Do you want to see me naked first?”
I burst out laughing. Instantly. Without meaning to. It was the last thing I would have wanted to do. “No!”
And from the smirk he gave me, he knew it too. “You sure? I have a mole on my thigh that looks like Florida. Maybe you’ll find something to make fun of me over, but I don’t think so.”
I was still laughing, even though I didn’t want to—I really didn’t want to—as I glanced up at him and shook my head. “God, you’re a cocky asshole.”
His smile was small. “It’s the truth. You can look as hard as you want, and if you find something, go for it, but I work out all the time. I have about… seven percent body fat year round. Looking at myself in the mirror isn’t a hardship.”
I laughed even harder, but how could I not when he was being like this? This guy I didn’t know.
“You can make fun of me, but I would rather you didn’t, honestly. I don’t like when people say I’m skinny, because I’m not,” he said almost gently, and it was my turn to blink.
Who the hell would think this man was skinny? There wasn’t a single “skinny” thing about him. I’d seen him work out once, years ago. He’d been bench-pressing twice what I figured his body weight would be. Swimmers and runners had nothing on a body like Ivan’s. Absolutely nothing.
Not that I’d ever admit that shit.
The hand on my bare wrist gave it a shake. “Come on, Meatball. You and me. We’ll make everybody jealous with our work-of-art asses.”
Was this what friendship was like? What it was supposed to be? Him teasing me? Me talking shit back but doing it with a smile on my face? If it was…
If it was, I could do it. I thought. Maybe.
“I hate you,” I sighed, peeking at him again because I sucked.
Then he laid it on me real thick, those blue-blue eyes aimed right into my brown ones. “Do it for Paul then. So he can see it and regret he never got to do a naked photo shoot with you for TSN.” My wrist got another wiggle. “Or any photo shoot.”
And there he had me, proving he knew me better than I expected.
Because goddamn motherfucking Paul. Ugh. Ugh.
I didn’t want people jacking off to me. But if this was a chance to rub something epic into that asshole’s face… it would be worth it. Totally fucking worth it.
“There’s my Meatball,” he said in almost a whisper, his fingers loosening from around my wrist until they were slipping through mine, holding our hands together like we had done it a thousand times. Because we had. “We’re doing this, right? Together? I won’t make fun of you, but you can make fun of me a bit?”
I didn’t know who the hell was standing in front of me right then. This nice, funny, gentle guy. But I squeezed his hand in mine anyway and nodded. “Yeah, we’re doing this together,” I grumbled, knowing it was the right thing. Knowing maybe I’d regret some parts of it, but not all of it. At least not if he didn’t make a puberty joke.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, sounding almost cheery as he gave my hand a tug.
And then we were on the ice, in our robes, with makeup on and ready—at least me for sure—and Coach Lee and the photographer immediately stopped talking the second they spotted us skating toward them. She raised her thin, black eyebrows and asked hesitantly, “Did you change your mind?”
I nodded.
“I only want to do this if you’re comfortable,” the photographer said quickly. “We all have nothing but respect for you and your body, Jasmine. We can work on some angles if you keep your underwear on—”
I shook my head. “It’s fine.” I wasn’t about to say I hadn’t wanted to get naked because of Ivan. Much less because of strange assholes that had nothing better to do. Pathetic pieces of shit.
“You sure?” the photographer asked, not sounding at all like she would be put out if I said I wasn’t.
But I was. And I said that. “Yeah, I am.”
She shrugged. “Okay. Let’s start then, if you’re both ready.”
Ivan squeezed my hand—he hadn’t let it go—and said just loudly enough for me to hear, “I underestimated how cold it was, so you can’t make fun of… certain body parts if they’re trying to crawl back inside of me to protect themselves….”
I only barely held back a smirk as this feeling of being right covered my entire upper body. “I won’t make fun of Peter, if you don’t make fun of Mary and Maggie. Those two bitches aren’t hiding because it’s cold. They’ve been hiding,” I said, evenly.
He nodded, but his mouth tipped up a millimeter of an inch. “You know I’m expecting you to have three nipples now, right?”
I rolled my eyes. “And I’m expecting your winky to be an inch long. We’re even.”
Ivan made a face, his fingers tightening over mine. “Maybe an inch too long.” I groaned, but he kept going. “Let’s get this over with, yes?”
Neither one of us said anything as we let go of our hands and skated to where the two backdrops had been set up in the center of the rink, the lighting umbrellas on and ready to go. Coach Lee approached us, looking skeptical. “Ready?”
Ivan nodded, and I said, “Ready.” Because I was.
It would look good. It would make a point to people I shouldn’t have wanted to make a point to, but needed to. It would be worth the other shit.
With a deep breath that I wasn’t used to, I let it out and watched as the photographer went behind her camera, nodding at us in encouragement as her assistants got into position. “Whatever you want to do first, we can start there. Any lifts or stationary positions would be great though.”