Shining Through

by Elizabeth Harmon

  “I’m complicated.”

  “I’m up to the challenge. Let’s start with Brett Stafford.”

  She smiled a tight smile. “That’s hard to talk about.”

  “Brett is gay.”

  He’d guessed the truth, she confirmed he was right. “His dad’s a minister, and Brett’s afraid of his family’s reaction. His dad might even lose his job if the truth got out. And now, Brett’s met someone who has his own reasons to keep his sexuality a secret.”

  “So you must keep the secrets of two people, including one you didn’t ask for.”

  “Brett’s a private person, just like me. I totally understand not wanting the world to know your business.”

  “But it’s hard because you have to consider how everything you do affects someone else.”

  She looked down at her hands. “Story of my life.”

  “It’s like ice dance. Every movement affects your partner, and the same thing in reverse. Could that be what you loved about it?”

  She smiled. “I’d never thought of it that way, but maybe you’re right. I skate alone, but it doesn’t mean I want to live that way.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “THEN DON’T. JUST BECAUSE YOU were hurt in the past, doesn’t mean the future can’t be happy.

  “I don’t know if I believe that. Do you?” Her golden hair fell in waves over one eye, and she stared into her martini, red lips pouting like a 1940’s movie star.

  “I do. Not easy, but possible. What we do every day on the ice isn’t easy, yet we do it, and succeed.”

  He took a sip from his drink, but it was empty. He’d drained it while talking about his sad excuse for a father. But she reminded him what was important.

  “This is our last night together until you come to Russia in November for St. Petersburg Cup. The night is beautiful. The moon is out. We should go enjoy it.”

  Over the harbour, the full moon bathed everything in a soft, golden glow. They paused at a lookout point, and Tabitha rested her elbows on the railing. She gazed out at the dark water, and he gazed at her.

  His jaw had about dropped when he’d picked her up at the hotel tonight. That sexy little skirt showed off her gorgeous, strong skater’s legs, and the red spike heels had walked straight out of a wet dream. The wind lifted her hair. Most often, it was a flawless golden curtain, but he preferred it this way. “I like your hair when it’s full of waves and curls. Did you do something different to it?”

  “It’s how my hair looks naturally. Except it isn’t blond.”

  The thought of seeing more of the real Tabitha intrigued him. “What color is it?”

  “Kind of in-between, too dark to be blond, too light to be brown. One of my aunts called it dishwater blond, and it made me cry. Who wants hair the color of dishwater?”

  He smiled. “I’d like to see you with your curly dishwater hair.”

  “Not this season, you won’t.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head, but didn’t seem annoyed. More like she was humoring him, in an affectionate way.

  “I’ll wait.”

  His gaze dropped to her tempting body. Her clothes hinted at the beauty concealed. A perfect ass encased in the black skirt. Slender waist defined by a thin red belt, the round swell of small breasts he ached to cup in his hands. He stood behind her, and wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her close. She dropped her head back against his shoulder. His lips brushed against her soft hair.

  She tilted her head to look at him, and the light caught her face. Fresh, innocent, but with a red siren’s mouth, and so beautiful she took his breath away. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

  Those tempting lips curved into a smile, and she stood taller, angling her head so their mouths were lined up just right. He dipped his head to claim her mouth, smelled her crisp perfume and tasted the sweetness of her chocolate martini. Still holding her against him, he brought his hand up to cup one small perfect breast. As he stroked his thumb across the soft swell, her nipple hardened beneath the thin fabric of her shirt and bra. In response to his touch, she rubbed her ass against his cock. Erect and throbbing, he gripped her tighter.

  Her breathing came in soft little gasps as he kissed the elegant column of her neck. She clutched his arm, and her nails dug into his skin. And over the soft brush of cool sea wind, he heard her gasp out a single word. “Paris.”

  He paused, his jangled thoughts scrambled to understand. His next competition, Le Trophée de France, was three weeks from now, in Paris. He hadn’t expected her to fly in for the weekend. “You’re coming to see me? How? When?”

  “I learned tonight Brett and I were invited to an advertising photo shoot in Grenoble the day before Le Trophee starts. We’ll fly in and out of Paris.”

  He couldn’t believe his good fortune. “So we’ll be together in three weeks?”

  “Oui,” she said, smiling. “And I want you to kiss me like this on top of the Eiffel Tower.”

  ~

  The next morning, Daniil, Yelena, and the coaches waited at the hotel entrance, as departing skaters boarded shuttle vans bound for the Vancouver airport. He saw the young American skater, Mia Lang and her coach, but the person he most wanted to see had left on an earlier flight. There had been no chance to say a proper goodbye, so he’d settled for remembering last night on the pier, and how perfect she’d felt in his arms.

  The shuttle pulled away from the front, and the next car up was the black convertible he’d rented for the week. It was powerful and flashy—rather like Nikolai, whose money had paid for it. He liked the car less than he did ten days ago.

  The valet handed over the keys to Daniil and helped load their bags. Ilya and Yelena took the back seat, Anton the front. A single raindrop splashed on the windshield, so Daniil raised the top. The bench where Tabitha waited last night looked lonely in daylight.

  Though he’d see her in three weeks rather than six when she came to St. Petersburg, he felt a twinge of melancholy. A lot could happen in three weeks. He could get hurt and not be able to compete. She could change her mind about coming to France. About him.

  Tabitha was complicated. As much as he wanted them to find their happy ending, there was no guarantee. Her life still held much uncertainty, and she was struggling to find answers. It was possible the answers she found wouldn’t include him.

  If that happened, he knew what he wouldn’t do— put her or himself through the ugly vengeance-fueled drama that characterized his parents’ break-up. If Tabitha wanted out, he’d give it to her and walk away. Clean breaks were always best.

  But he shook the thought away. They’d had a beautiful evening together last night and were making plans for another. She wanted to kiss him on top of the Eiffel Tower. Why was he thinking about the end of something that was just getting started?

  They arrived well ahead of their late afternoon flight. After clearing security and finding their departure gate; Ilya and Yelena went in search of a passable meal. Daniil and Anton stayed with the luggage. Though Anton was more his good-natured self today, he looked grim as he stared at his phone. It could be the prospect of a seven hour flight. Or maybe it was still about yesterday. If the problem was Tabitha, it was best to have it out now, while Yelena and Ilya were gone. “Is everything okay?”

  His coach looked up. “Yuri Bogdanov sends his congratulations.”

  At first, Daniil didn’t understand the problem. Bogdanov was the head of Russian figure skating, and he would pay close attention to how Russia’s skaters performed. But the time Daniil had spent in Bogdanov’s training group had proven Bogdanov’s close attention wasn’t a good thing. And not once since Daniil had been training under Anton had he offered congratulations.

  Anton dropped his phone in the pocket of his blazer and looked away, watching passengers board the next departing flight, bound for San Diego, California. Was San Diego far from the city where Tabitha trained?

  “This is about Tabitha.”

  “You said yourself that this season n
eeds to be about skating. That’s your priority.”

  “And it is my priority. But if I’m happy in one part of my life, won’t that improve my skating more than if I’m not happy?”

  “But things can change. Are you prepared for that?”

  He didn’t want to think about that and resented Anton for even suggesting it. “You’re going to tell me not to see her, aren’t you?” Daniil hated defying his coach, whom he liked and respected. But if it meant not seeing Tabitha, he wouldn’t hesitate.

  “No,” Anton said. “What would be the use? I know you. And I know what I would do in your situation. What I did in your situation. I have nothing against Tabitha. I like her. But I know what this season means to you. And I know federation politics.”

  “And that’s why Bogdanov’s congratulations are a bad thing?”

  Anton gave a short nod. “It’s no secret the federation backs Domachev to compete in Grenoble. But he didn’t medal in Chicago, and you medaled here. So now you are ahead of their chosen one, both in the International Series, and in world standings. That makes Bogdanov look bad. He’ll do what he can to help Domachev rise, even if that means getting rid of the skater ahead of him.”

  That skater was Daniil. “But if I continue to out-skate Domachev, I should be fine, right?”

  “In perfect world, yes. But Bogdanov’s reputation is tied up with Domachev making the team and he’ll be looking for any reason to keep you off. Don’t give him one.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE FRENCH ALPS WERE A stunning backdrop for the photo shoot involving the Winter Games’ biggest corporate sponsors. America’s top hopefuls modeled the official team attire, created by one of the nation’s top fashion designers. The streamlined navy blue training pants and jackets had a weird, 1970’s sci-fi style. “We look like the crew of the Starship Enterprise,” Brett had muttered.

  The select group of athletes—skiers, speed skaters, bobsledders and snowboarders—posed outside the lodge where they would stay during the actual games. With team trials for most of their sports still weeks away, this was the closest to Grenoble some of the athletes would come. Would Tabitha be one of them?

  The prospect was too awful to contemplate.

  After the group photos, the athletes headed off to other sites around the Village and downtown Grenoble. Tabitha expected she would go with Brett and a newlywed ice-dance couple, but the photographer held her back, along with Mia Lang. “I’d like to get shots of you two, first being serious, then just clowning around together.”

  Clowning around? As if American figure skating’s two fiercest rivals ever clowned around, much less together. It was bad enough to think they’d be rooming together in St. Petersburg. Mia’s eye roll suggested she didn’t like the photographer’s suggestion either.

  The photographer posed them back to back, arms crossed, in front of the giant linked rings that sat in the Village center. As his assistants fiddled with the lighting, Mia asked. “So Tabitha, have you worked out the problems you were having with the axel?”

  Tabitha did her best to ignore Mia’s presumptuous question. “The axel’s fine,” she said.

  “That’s awesome,” Mia said, feigning cheer. “It seemed to give you lots of trouble in Chicago.”

  “No trouble,” Tabitha said, with a shrug. “The season’s first competition is never my best. I’m working all the bugs out of the programs.”

  “I thought you’d won Star Spangled Skate the last two years in a row.”

  Which Tabitha had.

  Flash. Flash. After the serious poses, the style team touched up their hair and make-up. A wardrobe guy pinned the collar on Tabitha’s navy blue team jacket, which insisted on sticking up. Mia tilted her head back as the make-up artist applied fresh color to her cheeks.

  “Your confidence is so inspiring,” Mia said. “I mean, if I’d placed any lower than silver in the Maple Leaf, I’d be freaking out right now! The St. Petersburg Cup is like, what? Four weeks away?”

  “Three,” Tabitha said. As if Mia didn’t know how many weeks remained until they faced off in Russia. Heck, she probably knew how many hours.

  The St. Petersburg Cup was the last International Series competition before the finals in Barcelona the first week in December. Then in January, came the all-important national competitions that would decide who skated in Grenoble. “And I’m feeling great about my programs. Peter’s pleased at how they’ve come together.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Mia. “Because a bad skate going into Nationals could really mess with your mind. And a bad skate at Nationals could mean not making the Winter Games team at all!”

  Thanks for pointing that out.

  “Okay, now for the fun part,” The photographer handed Mia the official cell phone of the US team. “I want these next shots to be relaxed and natural. Imagine it’s the Opening Ceremony, and you’re thrilled to be here, capturing the moment in a selfie.” He bent forward and sucked in his bearded cheeks. “See what I’m going for?”

  To make them look like duck-face idiots? Inside, the Ice Queen sniffed with disdain. “Clowning around,” Tabitha clarified.

  She and Mia clowned quickly, bonded in their mutual wish to get this over with. That the cell phone company wanted to feature them in their ads was a reason to be optimistic. It meant they predicted that Tabitha and Mia would be two of the three American ladies to skate in the Games.

  Another assistant came to collect Tabitha for the drive into downtown Grenoble where she’d meet up with Brett and the ice dancers.

  They drove to the bottom of the hill. From here, Tabitha had a view of the Grenoble torch rising above the town. Daniil wanted them to take a picture in front of it as they had in Vancouver. She hoped they would have the chance, but there were no guarantees.

  As the young assistant chatted about the Grenoble bar scene, Tabitha’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She’d spoken to Samara today and Fiona too. She doubted it was Peter. “Excuse me,” she said to the driver. “It’s probably Brett.”

  “Oh no problem! You guys are flying to Paris for the weekend after this is over, right? That sounds so romantic!”

  It was, but not in the way the girl thought.

  She took the phone out and tapped open her screen. A black-and-white photo of Daniil popped up. He’d sent a selfie, too, but instead of a duck-face, he wore a vintage fedora and an unbuttoned white shirt that showed off his chest. Besides tattoos, he had a nice dusting of dark hair. Tabitha liked that. Yesterday, he’d sent a picture from the Eiffel Tower’s observation deck. The caption read “soon this will be us.”

  She couldn’t wait.

  At the quaint hotel downtown, Brett, the ice dancers and the photographers were all in the cozy little café off the lobby. Since Valentine’s Day fell in the middle of the Games, the official jewelry sponsor was running a campaign that featured athlete couples. An actress portraying a reporter was interviewing the ice dancers.

  Tabitha came in and stood beside Brett, slipping her arm around him in a cozy, intimate gesture. He stiffened, then dipped his head and spoke in a stage whisper. “She just started to interview Mike and Jenny. We still have time to pretend we like each other.”

  It had been like this since they’d arrived home from Vancouver, and Tabitha had told Brett that Daniil knew his secret.

  She understood. Though Daniil seemed accepting and open-minded, the country as a whole wasn’t. Not only was Sergei living there, he was a rising star in a tough, macho sport. Though she’d never mentioned Sergei by name and, she trusted Daniil to be discreet, Brett didn’t know him the way she did.

  Though Brett had agreed to go with her to Paris, it was only out of obligation for covering for him in Vancouver. A nagging fear that had been lurking in the corners of her thoughts slithered from the shadows. Had she betrayed a confidence and compromised her best friend, all for a relationship that had no future?

  She offered a conciliatory smile as they watched the ice dancers’ interview.


  “Does what happens in skating ever spill over into life off the ice?” the actress-reporter asked.

  “Mike knows if he messes up during practice, I won’t be in a good mood at home,” Jenny said. “And if I’m not in a good mood…”

  “Nobody’s in a good mood,” Mike added, laughing. “But like my dad always said, happy wife, happy life. And this woman makes me really happy.”

  The couple capped the interview with a lengthy kiss that made Brett shift away. If the jewelry people hoped for the same from her and Brett, they would be disappointed. She slipped her hand into her pocket to touch the phone.

  Then the director, a guy in dark-framed glasses and a bushy beard, summoned them. “We’d like you by the fireplace on the love seat.”

  Tabitha scooted into the crook of Brett’s arm. Ordinarily, she didn’t mind being close to him, but this felt forced and uncomfortable. At the same time, they had a role to play.

  The director smiled. “Closer, please. Nothing to be nervous about. We just want our athlete couples to share how they make love work in the midst of a busy training schedule.”

  Brett smirked. “We’re figuring that out every single day.”

  The comment struck a cynical note that seemed out of place in an upbeat fluff piece. Sensing the tension, the director shifted his gaze to the cameraman who was filming test shots, and made a slashing motion over his throat. Thank goodness.

  “What Brett means is that it’s hard to think about much else besides training and competitions. Fortunately, we train at the same rink, so we’re still able to spend time together.”

  “In Paris, we hear,” Jenny chimed in from the sidelines.

  “We’re meeting friends,” Brett said.

  She squeezed Brett’s hand. Time to play nice. As the camera filmed them, the reporter turned to Brett. “After being together all day, do you run out of things to talk about?”

  “Never!” Brett’s tone was light and playful, but Tabitha sensed his uneasiness. “She’s my best friend, and I can tell her anything.” He paused and gave her a penetrating look. “She knows all my secrets.”