That had me flicking my gaze at him, surprised by his comment.
“It used to be a conference room and a storage closet, but I had it renovated a few years ago, when some fans snuck into the facility and went into the changing room while I was showering.”
What?
“They took pictures of me. Georgiana”—the general manager—“had to call the police,” he told me, his gaze steady on me even after he shrugged. “It had only been a matter of time anyway. Some nights back then, I was too tired to go home, so I’d stay here,” he explained, catching me even more off guard. “I don’t do that anymore.”
I wondered why.
Then I remembered it wasn’t any of my business. Friends, or whatever the hell we were, or not.
Ivan didn’t say another word as he came toward me, the mug still in his hand, the spoon in his other. I didn’t say anything either. I just watched him, trying to figure out what he was doing.
When he stopped directly in front of me, so close that for anyone else who wasn’t used to the lack of personal space, would have been too close, I still said nothing.
He didn’t sigh or make a face when he held out the cup toward me and kept it there just an inch or two away from my chest. The fact that I didn’t ask him if he poisoned it popped into my head as quickly as it popped back out. I wasn’t in the mood to be a pain in the ass. I really wasn’t. Not anymore.
And that’s how I knew there was something wrong with me.
I peeked inside of the mug, taking in the milky brown liquid inside… and then sniffed it. And I glanced back at him.
Ivan raised his eyebrow and moved it half an inch closer to me. “It’s the packet stuff,” he explained in a damn near murmur like he didn’t want to say the words or something. “I don’t have any marshmallows, if you like that kind of thing.”
He…
He….
Oh, hell.
“And I made it with almond-coconut milk. You don’t need the extra dairy,” he kept going, still holding that damned mug half an inch from my chest as I stood there.
He’d made me hot chocolate.
Ivan had made me fucking hot chocolate. Without marshmallows according to him, but he wouldn’t have known that I only treated myself to hot cocoa with marshmallows on very rare occasions.
How he knew—why he even had the mix—I couldn’t handle. I just couldn’t process it. It was like that moment when he and Lee had asked me to first partner up with him, like I was on drugs and didn’t realize it.
Ivan Lukov, the greatest frenemy in my life after my siblings, had made me hot cocoa.
And suddenly, for some fucking reason that I would never, ever understand, even years from then, I officially felt like the biggest piece of shit on the planet. That was the last straw. It was in the record books.
My eyes began to sting almost instantly, and my throat suddenly felt drier than ever before.
He had come here because Coach Lee had called him.
Ivan had given me a Hershey’s kiss.
He had dragged me to his room.
And then he’d made me hot cocoa.
My hand went up on its own, my mouth still staying shut, as I wrapped my fingers around the warm ceramic and took it away from him, glancing back and forth between the mug and that face that was so beautiful, so annoyingly perfect, it made my unclassicness difficult to appreciate for once. When he dropped his hand away, I brought the cup up to my mouth and took a sip, even as my eyes burned worse than before. It wasn’t as sweet with the non-dairy milk he’d used, but it still tasted great.
And he was still standing there, watching me.
And I felt… I felt shame. I felt ashamed of myself for this small kindness he’d just paid me that he didn’t have to. A small kindness I wasn’t sure I’d do if we were in opposite situations, and that just made me feel worse, worse, worse. My throat grew tighter than before, and it was honestly like I’d swallowed a giant grapefruit.
“What happened?” he asked again, patience punctuating every letter out of his mouth.
I glanced away and then glanced back at him as I pressed my lips together and fought the softball-sized turd pressing down on my vocal chords. You’re a piece of shit, Jasmine, some part of my brain whispered, and my eyes stung even more badly.
I didn’t want to tell him. I didn’t. I didn’t want to say anything.
But…
You’re an asshole, that voice reminded me. A self-centered asshole.
I turned away from him, taking a sip, the hot liquid soothing the tightness along my vocal chords, and then I said, sounding so fucking hoarse I almost stopped talking but didn’t, “Do you ever feel guilty for making this,” he knew what “this” was—it was everything, “a priority?”
Ivan made a noise that sounded like a thoughtful one, and I was almost tempted to turn around and see his facial expression before he replied, “Sometimes.”
Sometimes. Sometimes was better than never.
You don’t care about anyone or anything but figure skating, my ex-partner had said to me one day weeks before he’d jumped shipped and abandoned me. I had ripped him a new one when he’d texted me the night before to say he thought he was coming down with a cold, one week before nationals. You’re so cold.
But I wasn’t cold. All I wanted was to win, and I’d always told myself there was nothing I wouldn’t do for it. I didn’t expect or want to be mediocre. When I wasn’t feeling well, I sucked it up and still showed up. Was that so wrong?
Was it so wrong to love something you’d dedicated your life to that you wanted the best? No one ever became good at something without repeatedly working at it. Like Galina had told me once when she’d been really mad at me as a teenager, natural talent only takes you so far, yozik. And like with so many other things, she hadn’t been wrong.
I had just made some stupid fucking decisions. Really stupid decisions that painted everything black.
“Do you?” Ivan asked when I didn’t say anything else after his response.
Shit.
I took another sip of the warm drink and savored the taste, a lie at my chest, ready for us…. And I hated it. So I told him the truth, even though it felt like sandpaper. “I didn’t. Not for a long time, but now….” Yes. Yes.
There was a pause. Then, “Because you started doing other things when you took the season off?”
Took the season off. That was the prettiest way of saying it.
“That’s what started it,” I admitted, keeping my gaze on the mug even as my eyes began to sting again. “Maybe that’s why I see everything now better than I ever did before. I see how much I missed out on.”
“Like what?” he asked gently, and I couldn’t help but snicker.
“Everything. High school shit. Prom. Boyfriends.” Love. “The only reason why I went to my sister’s college graduation is because my mom made me go, you know. I was supposed to have practice that day, and I hadn’t wanted to miss it. I’d thrown a fit.” Acted like an asshole, but I was sure he could reach that conclusion all by himself. “I forget how obsessive I am.”
I could hear the soft breath he let out. “You’re not the only one. We’re all obsessive in this sport,” Ivan replied softly. “I’ve given up my whole life.”
I shrugged my shoulders and swallowed hard, still not facing him. He was right. If I thought about it, I would realize, but it didn’t make it any easier to swallow the truth.
I was obsessive. I had ignored my family for the last ten plus years. Nothing and no one else had mattered as much as figure skating had… at least on the outside. I had taken them for granted until I thought I had lost this sport. Nothing else had mattered as much as the chance to win something. To be someone. To make them proud. To make everything worth it.