Page 5 of Ice Dance

FOUR

CAMDEN

Casey had texted me for a second round of beers in his hotel bar. There was no way I’d pass on another night out with him, and my own two-star hotel room with its rattling heating and fogged-up windows was doing nothing for my mood. I lived on the city outskirts, but the commute was a nightmare, and when Team Canada was in town, there were always parties. I did not want to be riding a bus back at one a.m.

I showered, dressed casually smart in the only nice shirt I’d brought with me to the city, and grabbed a cab to the team’s hotel. The bar was the kind that made you wish you’d polished your shoes before arriving, but it was also busy enough that nobody paid my arrival too much attention. Casey spotted me, and waved me over to his table where a few others from the Canadian skate team had gathered. They were a good bunch, friendly, easygoing, not as judgmental as some.

The drinks flowed, and it didn’t take Casey long to bring up my routine. He then told the others all about my sexually aggressive overtones that the crowd loved. Most everyone knew I liked to add some spice and illegal jumps. Ice dance was rigid enough, it needed a little humor and passion to keep things interesting. It was one of the areas I clashed with the judges on. Which was probably one of the many reasons why I didn’t have a coach right now, or any future prospects.

The night wore on and the topic of the Meridian came around. The Meridian Cup was supposed to be less formal than the other competitions, more crowd orientated. They even allowed jumps, which ice dance didn’t traditionally permit. It was trying to position itself as the Formula One of the ice-dancing world. It should have been my wheelhouse, and the Canadian team thought so too, but I’d have to dance alone, and while I could—like the routine I had already choreographed to sell my skills—I preferred dancing with a partner. You couldn’t beat the magic of two people perfectly choreographed on ice. Two souls entwined. Solo was fun, but dancing with a partner, when it clicked, was where the real magic happened.

Being out as bisexual also hadn’t helped my chances in front of a judging panel. You’d think who I shared a bed with would have no bearing on how well I could skate. In public, it didn’t. Behind the scenes? It went on my “too hot to handle” rap sheet, along with the tattoos and messy past.

“Did you see the shitty way he looked at you?”

I didn’t need to ask who. Casey had been beside me when we’d briefly met Hasegawa coming down from the spectator stands after my routine. I’d forgotten how tall Hasegawa was, from the last time he’d ignored me. This time had been worse. This time we’d made eye contact before he’d snubbed me in front of everyone.

“He’d probably had a rough day,” I said, taking a pull from my beer bottle. We’d left the rest of the skate team at their table and had been propping up the bar for a while.

“Yeah, but there’s sportsmanship,” Casey said. “When a skater says hi, you shake his hand, right?”

“Yeah.”

Hasegawa didn’t seem the sort to get close to anyone he didn’t have to. But what did I know about him? Next to nothing. English born. Japanese parents. He had money. Most figure skaters needed money to succeed in this sport, and he’d succeeded.

“Speak of the devil,” Casey murmured, his gaze pinned behind me, toward the door.

Hasegawa had just entered the bar. He stood still, looking around as though searching for someone. When the only times you’ve seen someone is when they’re dressed in body-hugging black velvet and Lycra skating gear, bedazzled with jewels and makeup, it can be difficult to also see them in a hotel bar wearing a polo shirt and slacks. The two versions collide, making a mental mess of both. His hair seemed darker under the bar’s subdued lighting, styled and held back out of his eyes. Dark eyes, with that Japanese honor and elegance to his face.

“You’re staring.” Casey snorted.

I dropped my gaze to the beer bottle. “Fuck off.”

Casey laughed. “You should go over there.”

Casey was clearly crazy, or drunk. “I’m not going over there,” I said. “You go over there.”

“Oh fuck.”

“What?”

Casey faced the bar, deliberately not looking. “He’s coming over.”

“No he’s not.”

“Don’t look.”

I looked. He was, in fact, coming over. I stared at the back of the bar too and the racks of bottles. Why was my heart suddenly pounding in my ears as though I was about to perform on the ice? He was just in the bar for a drink. He didn’t know me, wasn’t going to talk to me. He’d made that very clear by the rinkside stairs earlier.

“Navarro?” His English accent was soft and deep, controlled, like the rest of him. Like it had one smooth tone and he was going to hold that tone no matter what. He made my name sound regal.

I swallowed hard. “Hey, man. Camden Navarro. And you’re Ren Hasegawa.”

He offered his hand, and like a normal person, I shook it. His grip crushed mine. The contact was gone as fast as it had arrived.

“May I?” He gestured at the stool next to me.

“Yeah, sure, of course.”