Page 3 of Interference
When I pull off of him, I lie down next to him.
“We didn’t use a condom,” he whispers.
I nod. “I know. We are covered.”
I don’t tell him I haven’t had a period in two months or that due to my extreme workout schedule, it is unlikely my body ovulates at this point. The doctors all said that it could resolve itself when I quit figure skating, but until then I don’t worry about it.
It was reckless to sleep with Brett without a condom, but I didn’t even think about it in that moment. All I could think aboutwas how sad and vulnerable he looked. How I wanted to share something with him so he didn’t lose his shine.
As I roll out of bed to go clean up, all I can think about is the man I left in my bed and how addicted to him I’ve become.
Brett Woods is a problem.
one
THREE MONTHS LATER
Breathing hard, I move from a sit spin into an upright spin. Only as the music stops do I stop moving. Gasping, I wait for my heart rate to slow and the nausea to pass.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I’ve been doing spins like this for years and never had trouble.
A wave of nausea comes so fiercely I know there’s no choking it back. I rush to the edge of the ice and to the trash can that waits next to the benches. After expelling everything in my stomach, I sit down.
Irina, my trainer, claps as she comes to me. “Well, that was something.”
I force myself to look up and turn toward her. “Tell me.”
“Your double axel was weak, you barely made it off the ice and into the air. When you landed, you wobbled like a newborn on skates. Not to mention it wasn’t actually a double, but more like a one-and-a-half axel,” she tells me bluntly.
I wince. “Did I do anything right?”
“You skated lovely around the rink.”
I huff out a breath, shaking my head.
Great, that’s what every skater who’s shooting for the Olympics wants to hear.
Irina steps forward, pulling my attention back to her. “I’ve known you for a long time, yes?”
“Years.”
“Then tell me what’s going on. I’ve noticed you seem different. We need to figure out what’s going on and correct it quickly.”
“I honestly don’t know what’s going on.”
“Bullshit.”
My eyebrows raise.
“You aren’t one to throw up because of spins. Tell me right now, are you struggling with eating? You know I won’t work with someone who refuses to take care of themselves,” she says harshly.
I should feel insulted that she thinks I’m forcing myself to vomit, but I’m not. Eating disorders with figure skaters run rampant. Something I’ve never had an issue with, though, thanks to discipline and good genetics.
“You know I hate vomiting.”
“Then why?” she asks as she takes a seat next to me.
