The Favorites: A Novel(72)

Heath and I made our way to the middle of the cramped dance floor, and for the next few hours all we did was move. The electronic beat throbbed through my body. Heath danced behind me, hands on my hips, kissing my neck, and I was aware of nothing except heat and shadow and sound and him.

I have no idea what time it was when we finally stumbled back into the real world. It had started raining, but we were already drenched with sweat. My dress stuck to me like a second skin, and Heath had stripped down to his undershirt, abandoning his button-down somewhere on the dance floor. I slipped off my shoes and ran barefoot through the downpour, giddy, laughing, splashing in puddles all the way back to our hotel.

Before the suite door swung shut behind us, we were already a tangle of limbs, shedding our wet clothes, steam rising from our rain-soaked bodies, tumbling onto the red velvet love seat because we wanted each other too much to make it to the bed.

Heath fell asleep afterward, reclined on the cushions like a classical statue. I tried to sleep too, but I felt like I had lightning in my veins.

I extricated myself from under his arm and retrieved my cellphone from the nightstand. The screen lit up, casting shadows over the damask wallpaper.

Two missed calls, followed by a single text, all from the same number. Sent several hours before, while we were still out dancing—the middle of the night in Paris, first thing in the morning in China. As I read the message, my stomach clenched with dread.

Call me immediately.





Chapter 49





I didn’t want to wake Heath, so I wrapped myself in a robe and took my phone onto the hotel room’s small terrace overlooking the Place du Panthéon. The square was silent and still, but smells of baking bread wafted through the cobblestone streets.

Sheila answered on the first ring.

“I see you’ve been enjoying your time in Paris,” she said.

She sounded even calmer than usual. My heart beat faster.

“Yes.” I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry. “We—”

“You made a spectacle of yourself.”

“We won.”

Unlike Bella and Garrett, who’d barely held on to bronze at the Cup of China.

“I’m not just talking about the way you skated,” she said. “What were you thinking, carrying on like that all over the city?”

By daybreak in Paris, photos of our night out were plastered all over the internet. A few days later, when our flight from Charles de Gaulle landed at LAX, we were greeted by whole newsstands full of trashy magazines trumpeting our exploits. One tabloid even published a cover story spread on our “Parisian Night of Passion,” complete with quotes allegedly from other guests at our hotel who complained about being awoken by “loud cries of pleasure” and “cracking furniture.” At first I was embarrassed that our private celebration had turned into a public show—but people loved it, just like they’d loved our sexed-up Mozart program. Our off-ice passion was part of the fantasy.

None of that had happened yet, though. There was only one way Sheila could have found out so much so quickly, from the other side of the world.

Veronika Volkova’s voice echoed in my head. You must know how the game is played.

“You want to give me feedback on my skating, fine,” I said. “But what I do in my free time is none of your business. This is my life, and—”

“If you want to be a champion, skating should be your life. And as your coach, everything you do is my business. You and Mr. Rocha are welcome to find another coach if you disagree with my methods.”

I should have anticipated this, when we decided to come back to the Academy. It was naive to think Sheila would welcome Heath and me with open arms after we’d cost the twins their Olympic birthrights. She could have cut us loose, told us to go train somewhere else—but under her control, we were a threat that could be neutralized.

If tarnishing us was what it took to let her children shine brighter, Sheila wouldn’t hesitate. As furious as I was, a small, mean part of me admired her for being so ruthless—and blamed myself for not seeing it sooner. When Sheila told us to ignore the media attention, I assumed it was sage advice born of her decades in the spotlight. But Sheila Lin had never in her life ignored the press. She’d played them to get what she wanted—the same way she’d played Heath and me to keep us from controlling our own career, our own story.

“I think we’ve learned all we can at the Lin Ice Academy.”

In my head the words were nasty, forceful; when I spoke them aloud, I sounded like a lost little girl. Sheila was silent for a long moment. The breeze picked up, sending the French flag on the roof of the Panthéon rippling. I tugged my robe tighter, tears stinging my eyes.

“As you said, Ms. Shaw.” Her voice was cold, but I could swear I heard a hint of sorrow in it. Maybe that was only wishful thinking, though. “It’s your life.”

She hung up. I snapped my phone shut, just as the terrace door scraped open. Heath stood on the threshold. He’d pulled on shorts, but he still looked half-asleep.

“I talked to Sheila,” I said.

I didn’t tell him the rest. I didn’t need to. He could see it all over my face.

He held out his hand. “Come to bed.”

I shed my robe, and we slid under the sheets together. Heath kissed my forehead.