The Favorites: A Novel(53)

I hated them. I wanted to be them. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.

Every expression, every edge, exactly like Lin and Lockwood seventeen years earlier.

Until the end of the program.

They flung themselves down on the ice, just as Sheila and Kirk had, snow sparkling in the pleats of Bella’s golden skirt as she and Heath clutched each other, feigning death throes in time with the final crescendo of the music.

I knew what was supposed to happen next. He would die first, and then she would succumb, still wrapped in his arms.

But Heath didn’t slump over. He didn’t go still. He cradled Bella’s face in his hands, smoothing her hair back.

Then he pressed his lips to hers.





Garrett Lin: There was nothing going on between my sister and Heath Rocha.

Francesca Gaskell: We all knew there was something between those two.

A clip from the conclusion of Bella Lin and Heath Rocha’s Antony and Cleopatra performance. As he kisses her, the camera zooms in on their faces.

Ellis Dean: Why do I think Heath kissed her? Oh, come on. You know why.

Heath and Bella take their bows. Her cheeks are flushed. They keep looking at each other rather than out at the audience.

Garrett Lin: We were all so focused on the Olympics. Even if Bella had a crush, or…she wouldn’t have risked it. No way. That was all for show.

Now the video focuses on Katarina Shaw, standing in the front row. She’s the only one not applauding. As Bella takes her final solo bow, Katarina and Heath’s eyes meet. Heath is still smiling. Katarina’s expression is murderous.

Inez Acton: I won’t even pretend to know what was going on between Heath and Bella back then. But it was messy and manipulative. Real fuckboy shit.

Ellis Dean: There’s a reason so many skating partners end up banging. It’s like movie stars on set—all that time working together, touching each other, pretending to be in love. You’re bound to catch some feelings, whether it’s love or hate.

Veronika Volkova: It is a special talent some men have: they stare into your eyes, and you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. These men must never be trusted. Because if they can make you feel that way, they can make any woman feel that way.

Ellis Dean: It was a game—not only for Heath, for all of them. They knew exactly what they were doing to one another. And they weren’t gonna stop until somebody won.





Chapter 34





Heath kissed her to hurt me. To twist the knife. That was the only explanation.

Not everything is about you, Kat, Bella’s voice echoed in my head.

They wanted to force me to fall apart. I couldn’t let them.

Heath and Bella exited the rink. Garrett and I were next. The emcee announced our names. The audience applauded. They were waiting.

Something brushed my hand. I assumed it was Garrett, trying to lead me out onto the ice.

I blinked. Garrett was already past the boards, taking off his blade guards. Heath stood beside me. Heath was the one who’d touched me. He looked at me like a cat observing his squirming, wounded prey.

A few feet away, Ellis Dean eyed us over his plate of hors d’oeuvres, popping a miniature puff pastry into his mouth as if it were popcorn.

I shouldered past Heath and joined Garrett without a backward glance. Showtime.

Opening position: facing in opposite directions, the only point of contact Garrett’s hand reaching back to rest on my hip. Cue the music: the groovy, looping bassline of Sade’s “Turn My Back on You.” Garrett spun me around with a quick flick of the wrist that sent my filmy white skirt fluttering like a spiderweb in a storm, and we were off.

I told myself not to think about Heath. I told myself to be in the moment, to be in my body. Feel the fabric slipping over my thighs, the cool breeze off the ocean, the heat of Garrett’s shoulder under my palm. The contrast between the smooth velvet and the scrape of rhinestones.

But I couldn’t get it out of my mind. The kiss. The brush of Heath’s knuckles over mine. The smug, triumphant look on his face.

Despite my distraction, I kept up with Garrett. The first part of the program—with its hip hop–inflected muscle isolations, dynamic footwork, and flirtatious interplay—was easy for both of us, even with the constraints of the compact rink.

Our problems always came in the latter half, when we shifted into the yearning classical guitar and soft piano of “Haunt Me.” No matter how many times we practiced, it felt counterintuitive—all that kinetic energy building, only for us to slam on the brakes for a smooth, restrained midline step sequence to match the slower music.

We came to the transition point. A pause at the center of the rink, a breath with Garrett’s arms around me and my head on his shoulder. Usually I closed my eyes for that moment, centering myself. But that night, I kept them open.

And there was Heath, standing in the front row of the crowd. Our eyes met. My hands clawed, digging into the back of Garrett’s head. He gave a little gasp and flinched.

Heath smiled.

All the months we’d been working on the program, drilling it over and over and over again, I’d had it all wrong. Shoring up all that energy wasn’t counterintuitive. It was the whole damn point. “Turn My Back on You” was a seduction—a push-pull of warring lusts, seeming to give in to Garrett one moment, forcing him to follow me like a lovesick puppy the next.