Spiral (Off the Ice, #2) (99)

“But I would be happy with you and with teaching at the studio,” she urges. “There’s nothing I want more than to show you exactly how much by staying.”

“If I could handcuff you to myself, I would. But you’re a star, Sage Beaumont, and you’re too precious to be kept a secret.” A stray tear slips down her cheek, but I wipe it away. “The studio will be here when you get back, but right now, you know what your heart wants.”

“Wow, you really want to get rid of me, huh?” Sage jokes.

“Go be a star, Sage.” I hold her face in my palms. “I’ll still be here when you get back.”



TEACHING MY GIRLFRIEND how to cook is harder than I anticipated. Sage is talented in a lot of things, but she needs to stay far away from the kitchen.

After Sage prepped her shoes for tomorrow, she let me practice a few lifts with her because she was worried she may be too heavy for her partner, Adam. Fucking ridiculous. I offered to remind Adam there are consequences for dropping my girlfriend, but she refused. Our practice session quickly turned into a Dirty Dancing reenactment. We nailed it on the first try.

Now, we’re on our second attempt to cook tonight’s chicken dinner because the test piece I gave her burned. She says she’s too impatient to cook.

When I hear a sizzle, I look at the pan to see a cloud of smoke. “Too hot!” Rushing over, I take a tea towel and pull the pan away from the heat. “When it smokes like that, it means the oil is burning,” I explain.

“Isn’t it supposed to be hot?” Sage pouts, holding the tongs in her hand. “I’m not good at this, Elias. The last time I cooked, I reheated a frozen lasagna, and it lit on fire,” she admits.

I flick off the stove heat and stop her from burning the chicken again.

“It’s a work in progress, and I like teaching you. But you don’t have to learn how to cook, baby. I can cook for us.” That would be for the benefit of everyone in this building. Or the firefighters’ biggest nightmare won’t just be her candles.

“No, I want to learn. I’ll cook the next time your friends come over.”

I give her a tight nod. There are worse things than food poisoning.

Then the front door bursts open, and Aiden barrels into the kitchen. “Living room, now.”

His hair is disheveled like he just ran up the stairs rather than taking the elevator. I glance at Sage before we follow him to the living room, where he turns on Sportsnet.

That’s when I see my face. Well, my biological father’s face.

“What is he doing?” Sage asks.

Elias Johnson stumbles onto the screen. His eyes are glazed over with intoxication, his white button-up is stained and wrinkled, and his hair is long and greasy. He’s drunk out of his mind, and it’s obvious from the way he sways at the podium.

I should have expected this—I did expect this. However, seeing him on television makes my fist tighten. He’s using this platform to smear my name, and I find it ridiculous that this outlet would even allow it.

This just solidifies that the media only sees us as monkeys that are expected to perform. Aiden stands by the TV, his jaw clenched in anger. I move to sit on the couch, and Sage sits next to me, pressing her hand into my palm. I hold it tight.

“I can’t fucking believe he’s actually doing it.”

My phone rings somewhere in the apartment, but I don’t go to answer it.

Aiden’s phone rings next. “It’s Mason,” he informs before placing it on speaker.

Mason’s voice is level with a hint of suppressed panic. “Eli, I am so sorry, I wasn’t aware of any of this. It’s unacceptable. We’re trying to cut the broadcast, but—”

“Mason, let him talk. If not now, he’ll find another way.”

“Eli—”

“It’s long overdue.”

“My son isn’t who you think he is,” Elias Johnson starts. The word son from his mouth makes my blood bubble with rage. “Those rich folks you all know as the Westbrooks. The ones he’s calling his parents. Yeah, they hid his scandal—” He stops talking abruptly, leaning forward on the shaking podium with a grunt.

The reporters throw out questions behind the camera as he pulls himself together. There’s a sheen of sweat covering his pale face, and his hands are shaking as he readjusts the mics.

“It started at world juniors. They hid Elias’s habits and he paid me off,” he continues, his speech disjointed and erratic. “I’ve seen it all with my own eyes, and as his father, I worry. My son is using dr—”

I wait for the lies to spill from his mouth and poison the airwaves with his drunken accusations. None of this makes me fearful, but knowing my parents will have to relive it and feel guilty angers me. But then, just as quickly as he started to speak, he clutches his chest and falls forward. His legs must give way beneath him because he tips off the stage and crashes into the reporters in front of him.

“Did he just ...” Sage wonders aloud.

Aiden scoffs. “I think he passed out.”

For a moment, there’s stunned silence on the screen, then chaos erupts as the reporters scramble to help him up. But I can’t help but feel a sense of grim satisfaction as I watch his pathetic display.

The broadcast suddenly cuts to a commercial break, and Aiden turns off the TV. I expect anger, sadness, resentment—but nothing comes. I’m not sure if he had a heart attack or the alcohol made him tip over, but I don’t think I care to know.