Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
I could see it. Rafe’s confidence grew with each stride and complicated twist. Amazing. So fucking amazing and so—
“Who are you?”
I gave a quick sidelong look at the pudgy, white-haired man with a Russian accent who’d sidled next to me, his attention fixed on Rafe. He was one of Rafe’s coaches…I knew that much. “I’m Gus, Rafe’s…roommate.”
“The hockey player. The captain of the team. I’ve heard of you.”
“Ah.”
“You have a reputation for liking a good time.” A statement of fact delivered with a slice of judgment. “You like figure skating too.”
It wasn’t a question, but I answered and hoped he’d move on. “Yeah. Rafe’s pretty damn good.”
“He is extraordinary,” the older man agreed in a monotone. “He could be a household name one day…if he continues to work.”
The music swelled in a crescendo. A triple twist, a leap, a sitting spin and slowly…he stilled. And I will fix you.
I grinned, forgetting the older man as I whooped and cheered for my…friend, my lover, my…person. Rafe bowed and laughed, resting his hands on his knees. I saw the moment he noticed his coach. His smile dimmed and he glanced away.
I should have been pissed at the little guy’s timing, but it hadn’t spoiled the show for me. Rafe was, as he’d put it…extraordinary.
The Russian remained stoic. He didn’t applaud, and his expression didn’t crack. He just stared and pivoted to face me.
“You see, yes? It’s good.”
“Try great,” I corrected, my gaze wandering to Rafe on the ice.
“Greatness will come, but not in Smithton. It’s too small, too…typical. I hope you know that and will not get in his way. You are not a good distraction.” His lips twitched in a condescending tilt before he turned on his heel and walked away.
I instinctively opened my mouth to protest and tell the meddling asshole where to shove it. Who the fuck was he to judge me? He didn’t know shit.
But he knew Rafe had a big dream and that someone like me would only slow him down.
“So…what’d you think?”
I pasted a goofy grin into place and swept Rafe into my arms as soon as he stepped onto the mat.
“I think you’re magic.” I whispered into his ear and kissed his cheek. “Fucking magic.”
Two days later, Rafe found out that he was on the roster for the US Collegiate Figure Skating Championships.
He sat on his unmade bed with his hand over his mouth, staring at his phone in shock.
“Did you win a year’s supply of raw milk or M&M’s? I can’t tell if it’s good or bad, ’cause your face is doing this…” I pulled a silly expression that didn’t remotely resemble Rafe, but was good for a laugh. “And this…”
Rafe chuckled and held up his cell. “I made it.”
“Fuck yes, you did!” I body-slammed him onto the mattress and kissed him as he wriggled and howled with laughter. “I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m serious. You came back from the brink and made it happen. You. You did this. I fucking—”
“You fucking…what?” he prodded, wrapping his arms and legs around my waist like an octopus.
“I fucking think you’re pretty fucking great.”
And this from a future English teacher. It wasn’t my finest, but Rafe smiled, and that was enough.
CHAPTER 22
GUS
Graduating from Smithton had taken me six long years. And in the end, it felt like being on a roller coaster—fast-paced with wicked twists and turns. The rush of adrenaline that came with good news and celebratory accomplishments was offset by potentially angsty situations, like having my folks in town for two days, the near constant temptation of alcohol, and the very real fear of the unknown.
Life as I knew it was ending, something new was on the horizon, but it was opaque. I would have given my left nut for a hit of anything that might take the edge off and slow the pace to a more manageable speed.
Truthfully, it wasn’t so bad. My mom voiced her displeasure at a decision she was sure I’d regret by the holidays if not sooner.
“You’re teaching teenagers, darlin’. They’re monsters. You’ve set yourself up for a constant headache and a prescription for lorazepam. Bless your heart, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Mom twittered, patting my cheek and opening her arms.
Dad pulled me aside after the ceremony and congratulated me, stuffing a thick envelope I was sure was filled with a stack of hundred dollar bills in my hand. “We’re proud of you, Gus. Your mom might give you a hard time, but she wants the best for you. And your brothers are damn impressed that you had the balls to fight for what you want. Get out there and make it count, son.”
I convinced Rafe to join the dinner my parents hosted at the fanciest restaurant in Smithton, a steak joint with red leather booths, fine linen tablecloths, and framed photos of British hunting scenes on the walls. The Langleys took the place over and instructed the chef to set a menu that a gaggle of hungry hockey players might enjoy.