Chapter One
Monroe
I am simply not drunk enough for the conversation this guy—Justin? Jacob?—is single-handedly having at me.
My eyes glaze over as I zone out. The story he’s telling is probably supposed to be funny. It isn’t. I laugh anyway.
I take another sip of the jungle juice some girl handed me twenty minutes ago, leaning against the kitchen counter in a house I’ve never been in before. The drink burns in all the wrong ways, but I barely flinch. Fake it till you make it, right? Or, in my case, fake it till you forget it.
The music is too loud in here and the New Year’s Eve atmosphere is in full swing. The ball is ready to drop on the TV in another room and the bass beats through every wall.
My auburn hair is tied up in a tight ponytail on the crown of my head. My white tank top rides up on mymidriff and jeans sit low on my hips, letting a sliver of skin show. Whatever his J-name is stares at me hungrily, raking his eyes up and down my body, and my fingers tighten around the red Solo cup in my hand.
I’ve been to dozens of these parties in the last year, attempting to consume enough alcohol and pills to make my disastrous exit from the U.S. Nationals—and loss of my spot on the Olympic figure skating team—nothing more than a hazy memory.
My gaze flickers across the room at sweaty bodies moving in time to the thump of the music.
A group of girls are standing near the makeshift dance floor, giggling to each other. They’re familiar. Really fucking familiar.U.S. Nationals teamfamiliar.
Shit.
I know every single one of them. At least, I used to know them. I narrow my eyes in a more-than-tipsy-but-not-quite-drunk way, blatantly staring. The tall blonde notices and whispers to a tiny brunette on her left, and they all look away, pretending they have no idea who I am. Like they didn’t secretly rejoice when I was pulled out of the running. I gave them a shot at the Olympics that they wouldn’t have had otherwise.
The blonde, Natalie Dorier, and her pairs partner—who used to bemypairs partner—actually made it.
Won bronze for good ol’ Team USA.
It should have been Aaron and me. An eviscerated ankle tends to ruin dreams like that, though. Can’t land a quad axel when your bones aren’t connected to anything.
I force a smirk and wiggle my fingers in their direction with drunk confidence. They can pretend I don’t exist, and that’s fine. The second I hit that ice they were figuring out how they could move past me in therankings. No texts to see how I was. No visits to the hospital. Nothing.
Not even Aaron.
That’sthe part I still can’t swallow.
I had always known that Natalie was lurking. It was never a question that the second she had an opening, she’d take it. I’d seen it happen to plenty of other girls. Someone gets injured and the next girl in line moves up. It just never occurred to me that girl would be standing in my spot when the Olympic roster was announced.
That’s the thing about ambition—it doesn’t give a fuck about friendships. And listen.I get it.I understood that friendships born on the ice weren’t built to last. Ice melts, after all.
But Aaron wasn’t just my partner. We had seven years of pairs skating and friendship—and it was gone as soon as the Olympics were yanked from my grasp.
He picked up Natalie, and it wasbye-bye, Monroe.
No texts. No calls. No visits.
My body was being held together with metal screws and stitches, and he and Natalie were skating tomychoreography. I’d thrown a takeout container at the TV when they skated during the Olympics. It was very Elle-Woods-in-her-breakup-era of me, though Aaron and I were never a romantic couple. Aside from personality quirks that never would have worked together like that, Aaron and I both preferred to date men. He had an on-again-off-again boyfriend who came in and out of the picture every few months.
They’d had to take out the quad axel. There was only one skater who could pull that trick, and her name wasn’t Natalie. Bumped their difficulty level right down into the rest of the crowd.
I feel my fingers curl tightly around the plastic cup in my hand, because if I don’t hold onto something, I might break something. I might shove through the crowd, plant myself in front of Natalie and her pretty little bronze medal, and ask her how it feels to be standing on top of my grave andstillnot be good enough to beat my scores.
But I don’t.Fuck them.I tilt my cup back, draining the rest of my drink in one go.
“What’s your deal, anyway?” Justin-Jacob asks, leaning too close to me. I turn to him, realizing he’s still talking to me. I’d been so lost in my own head I forgot he was there. He smells like alcohol, and there’s a little bit of beer foam on his upper lip.
I grin, my lips curling, hoping I look dangerous instead of drunk. “Depends,” I reply. “Which deal?” The therapist I haven’t spoken to in months would say there are many.
He laughs, but it sounds more nervous than charmed. Oh, well. I’m not going home with him tonight.