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Blurb
After an explosive locker room confrontation with his Russian rival ends in the most intense sex of his life, American pairs skater Dev Avira is distracted to say the least. He's worked for years to have a chance at Olympic gold, and he can't let himself, or his partner, down. Playing cat and mouse with the steely and smoldering Mikhail Reznikov is the last thing he needs as he prepares for the biggest competition of his life, but they can't keep their hands off each other as the Games approach.
Dev soon learns that beneath Mikhail's arrogant and aloof exterior is Misha, a passionate man who warms Dev's heart and scorches his bed. They're both determined to win, but for Misha his freedom could be at stake if he and his partner take anything less than gold. Who will stand atop the podium? And can secret lovers from different worlds make a life together once the competition ends?
This gay sports romance from Keira Andrews features enemies to lovers, two alpha men, sequins, and of course a happy ending. Content previously published as novellas Cold War and Holding the Edge.
Excerpt
December: The Grand Prix Final
Dev reached for
his partner’s hand, and he and Bailey glided onto the ice wearing matching
bullshit smiles as a voice announced: “In second, and winners of the silver
medal, representing the United States of America—Bailey Robinson and Dev
Avira!”
Thunderous
applause filled the arena, and flashbulbs popped as they took their bows and
waved to the cheering Japanese crowd. Dev wished he could soak in their love
and choke down the acid bitterness currently lodged somewhere around his
sternum.
Smiles still
firmly in place, he and Bailey hopped onto the carpet surrounding the podium
where the gold medalists waited in all their sequined and red-feathered glory.
Leave it to the Russians to make their Firebird costumes as
literal as possible. Kisa Kostina, not a bleached-blonde hair out of place,
beamed as she bent to air-kiss Bailey’s cheeks.
Dev’s jaw
clenched as he shook Mikhail Reznikov’s hand. He hated himself for the skitter
of electricity when their eyes and palms met. Mikhail’s lips curved briefly
into an approximation of a smile. At thirty-one, with his short dark brown hair
sweeping over his forehead, his steel-blue eyes, his broad shoulders and lean,
tall body, and his truly spectacular ass, he was stupidly handsome.
Asshole.
Dev and Kisa
exchanged air-kisses before he helped Bailey step onto the second tier of the
podium. He took his place behind her and waved again to the audience while the
third-place Canadians skated out to take their bows, followed by more
air-kisses and handshakes. Although Dev and Bailey genuinely liked the Canadian
team, this ritual was so painfully fake. They were all here to win, and there
was only one satisfied team on the podium.
And satisfied
the Russians certainly were. With his regal air, Mikhail was one of the most
pompous, egotistical people Dev had ever met. He was the king of the pairs
world, and he damn well knew it. Sharp-eyed Kisa was the ice queen, and
together they were a perfect, humorless match. They kept to themselves off the
ice, always civil but never friendly.
How Dev would
love to see Mikhail Reznikov brought to his knees. He ignored the flare of
desire in his belly at the other implications of that thought and refocused his
attention on his resentment of Mikhail’s place on the podium.
The Grand Prix
Final was the last international competition before they all returned home for
their national championships in late December and into January. Olympic teams
would be determined, and then on to the Games in Annecy in February. Since he
was seven, Dev had dreamed of winning Olympic gold. He was so close he could
taste it.
The officials
presented flowers and medals, and Dev played his jovial part. Being on the
podium here meant they were among the best of the best, yet the silver medal
hung around his neck like an albatross. He knew he should be grateful for what
he had, and proud of everything he and Bailey had accomplished. And he was. But
second place wasn’t good enough.
He wanted to
win.
As the all too
familiar “Hymn of the Russian Federation” played, Dev watched the flags rise to
the arena’s rafters. Just once, he wanted the Stars and Stripes to have the
middle position. Sure, he and Bailey had won plenty of competitions. They had
narrowly missed making the last Olympic team, and that disappointment had
fueled them. They’d dominated American pairs skating ever since. Three-time
national champions. Winners of multiple Grand Prix events—including Skate
America, Skate Canada, NHK Trophy, and the Cup of China.
But they’d
never beaten Kostina and Reznikov. Every time they faced the Russians, they
came up short. They were the reigning world silver medalists, and even though
they’d worked endlessly on their artistry and connection and edges and
transitions—it was never enough.
It wasn’t as if
the Russians weren’t good. Dev could admit they were amazing, particularly on
the technical side. They were three-time world champions, and when they were
on, they were unbeatable. But tonight Kisa had fallen on their throw Salchow
and they’d lost unison on their side-by-side combination spins. Yet they still
won by eight points. Eight! Sure, Bailey had put a hand down
on their side-by-side triple toes, but it was a minor error. It felt like the
judges had decided Kostina/Reznikov were the winners before any of the pairs
even stepped on the ice.
The crowd
cheered as the anthem ended, and all the skaters squeezed onto the top of the
podium for photographs. At five-ten, Dev wasn’t the biggest of the male pairs
skaters, but tiny Bailey only reached his shoulder. Mikhail stood a good three
inches taller beside him, because of course he had to be better in absolutely
everything. Dev grinned for the photographers and held up his silver medal as
he fantasized about elbowing Mikhail off the back of the podium.
The torture
continued as the teams posed for more photographs on the ice with their flags.
Then it was time to circle the rink for a victory lap. Dev and Bailey stopped to
hug a few fans, including Amaya and Reiko, two young women who attended almost
every competition around the world. Dev had no idea how they afforded it, but
he was always grateful to see them in the stands.
Reiko handed
him a stuffed elephant. The elephant was the state animal of Kerala, the
Southern Indian state where his parents had grown up before immigrating to the
US, where Dev was born. He’d mentioned once in an interview that his good-luck
charm was a tiny elephant pendant carved from jade that he wore during every
competition on a silver chain, hidden beneath his costumes.
Ever since,
fans had given him elephants in every imaginable form, from dolls to statues to
goofy hats. He loved every single one, and his mother collected them in what
she called the Elephant Room back home in Belmont in the Boston suburbs.
He kissed
Reiko’s cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart. Hope we’ll see you in Annecy?”
She bounced.
“Oh yes! We would not miss this. And we love new costumes!”
“Glad to hear
it!” Dev grinned.
After NHK
they’d scrapped their initial costumes, which didn’t quite capture the darkly
romantic tone of their Jane Eyre long program—officially
called the free skate—set to the score from the 2011 film. Now Dev wore navy
trousers and a button-down silk shirt with a simple white cravat, while
Bailey’s navy dress with delicate white embroidery at her wrists and around her
neck perfectly set off her auburn hair, which she wore twisted into a braid
wrapped around a knot. Dev had grown his thick black hair a little on top,
where it curled in what he liked to think was a rakish fashion.
Reiko’s smile
gave way to a frown. “The results not correct. You and Bailey are true winners
today. Everyone thinks this.”
Amaya nodded
vigorously.
“Thanks, guys.
We love you!” Bailey gave them another hug before they skated on.
After yet more
photos, they finally escaped backstage. Their coach, Louise Webber, walked them
to the dressing rooms. Louise had been a pairs skater herself in her youth,
although she’d never gone past the national level. Now in her forties, she was
still in amazing shape, which she attributed to her “Asian genes.” There wasn’t
a streak of gray in her short black hair, and while she often said Bailey and
Dev would give her wrinkles when they didn’t follow instructions to her
satisfaction, none were in evidence.
Dev just wanted
to get back to the hotel, but there was still the mandatory press conference to
contend with. “Is this over yet?”
“You did your
job out there. The rest of it is out of your hands. I’m proud of you.” Louise
gave them both a squeeze. “Don’t let it get to you.”
“I’m not. It’s
fine. I’m fine,” Dev insisted.
Bailey snorted.
“Uh-huh.” She patted his hip before disappearing into the women’s dressing
room. “See you in a few.”
Of the six
teams that qualified to compete at the Grand Prix Final, the three who didn’t
make it to the podium were long gone. In the men’s dressing room, the Canadian,
Roger Jackman, was already zipping up his hoodie and stuffing his feet into his
sneakers.
“Hey, man. I
gotta call my wife back home. The baby’s due any minute now and I want to catch
her tonight before it’s too late. Or early. I’m so fucked-up with this time
change. Don’t rush getting changed, okay? I need a few extra minutes. See you
in the press room.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Dev held out his fist. “Great skate tonight.”
Roger bumped
him back. “You too.” He shrugged. “What are you gonna do, right?”
As Mikhail
strode in, Roger hurried out, tapping his cell phone. Dev sat on a bench and
unlaced his skates. From the corner of his eye, he watched Mikhail peel off his
black bodysuit festooned with shimmers of burnt orange and red. Several
feathers floated to the tile floor. Underneath he wore a black tank top and
boxer briefs that clung to his narrow hips and muscular thighs.
Swallowing
hard, Dev quickly stripped off his costume and transferred it to a garment bag.
Wearing dark boxer briefs as well, he reached for his track pants, but found
his attention drawn back to Mikhail. The arena’s locker room had been gussied
up with several wardrobe racks and a bank of makeup tables with mirrors and
chairs. Still in his underwear, Mikhail went to one of the mirrors and leaned
close.
The ego on this guy. It wasn’t bad enough that Mikhail had to
always win—did he have to parade around the dressing room half-naked? Still,
Dev had to swallow hard as traitorous desire seared in him. Mikhail steadily
met his gaze in the mirror, and Dev jerked his head away, cheeks hot. Stupid! The
last thing he needed was to get caught lusting after this asshole.
“Don’t worry,
your guyliner isn’t smudged,” he snarked before glancing over.
In the mirror,
Mikhail’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing and pulled a lash from his eye.
For some reason
this refusal to engage lit a fuse to the anger simmering in Dev’s gut. “You
know, you could lighten up once in a while. We get it, you’re an artiste.
So tortured and…Russian. With your flailing arms and your nines for Performance
and Execution even though you just go through the motions. You always get
nines, and I bet you did tonight, despite Kisa cleaning the ice with her ass on
that throw. You guys even fall artistically according to the
judges.”
Mikhail
straightened and faced Dev. His gaze raked down Dev’s body and back up.
Nostrils flaring, he asked, “You have a problem?” His accent was fairly thick,
but his earlier years training in Connecticut gave him a strong command of
English. “Talk to the judges. We don’t control them.”
Dev barked out
a laugh and took a step closer. “We both know your federation has the judges in
its pocket. Skating has always been about politics, and no matter what scoring
system they bring in—it always will be.” He shook his head. “Why am I even
getting into this?” he muttered, more to himself than Mikhail. He headed toward
the bathroom. “Forget it.”
Mikhail stood
unmoving, and maybe Dev meant to get a little too close and knock his shoulder.
But he definitely didn’t intend to end up slammed into a locker with Mikhail
gripping his arms, his eyes blazing and face twisted. Dev’s skin burned where
Mikhail touched him.
“You think it’s
so easy for us? You know nothing. Nothing!”
Dev shoved
against Mikhail’s chest, but he didn’t budge. Fingers curling in Mikhail’s tank
top, Dev struggled to focus when he wanted so much to rip the cotton away and feel
Mikhail’s pale skin. “Cry me a river! You win everything just by showing up.
You could drag Kisa around by her hair for four and a half minutes and you’d be
golden.”
“Poshel na
hui,” Mikhail spat.
Dev had been
around Russians long enough to translate. He gritted his teeth. “Fuck you too.”
Their harsh
breathing filled the air, fingers digging into each other’s skin, bodies so
close and—
They were
kissing, mouths open and teeth clashing, tongues battling as they rutted
together. The metal of the locker was cold against Dev’s back, but everything
else was fire—desire pumping through his veins, and the unstoppable urge to get
closer, closer, closer. He moaned raggedly as his brain tried to connect with
his body.
What am I doing? Stop!
His body
ignored him, and he spread his legs as Mikhail jammed his thigh between them.
They were both already hard in their underwear, and Mikhail groaned as Dev
grabbed his ass and ground their hips together. Dev hated him so much, but he
couldn’t stop touching. His hands roamed over the hard angles of Mikhail’s
body, and he panted into wet, messy kisses. Mikhail clutched Dev’s hips and
thrust their cocks together.
Anyone could walk in. Stop! I hate him! Wrong, wrong, wrong!
The scattered
snippets of thought only made his pulse roar louder, and his balls tightened
already, his body desperate for the release. They jerked together, and Dev
could only give in to the madness that had taken over.
When Dev’s
orgasm ripped through him, his shout was muffled by Mikhail’s palm slapping over
his mouth. Mikhail hunched over as he rubbed against Dev in a frenzy, his quiet
little gasps warm and wet against Dev’s neck. He came silently, shuddering with
the pulses of his release. Dev’s body hummed with aftershocks, and he closed
his eyes, breathing hard through his nose since Mikhail’s hand still covered
his mouth.
Then the heat
vanished, and Dev opened his eyes. Mikhail backed up across the dressing room,
shaking his head slowly, eyes wide. Dev was frozen in place against the locker,
his briefs sticky, and his arms hanging at his sides. They stared at each other
as the seconds ticked by.
“Gentlemen?” a
man’s voice called, accompanied by a sharp knock on the door. “We’re ready for
you in the media room.”
They leaped
into action, yanking on clean underwear, street clothes, and shoes in a blur of
movement, not meeting each other’s eyes. Dev made it out first, and he smiled
and made his apologies to the officials, following them to the press room.
Sweaty and sticky and in desperate need of a shower, he tugged on his fleece
and felt exposed even though it wasn’t as if there were wet spots on his track
pants.
In the press
room, the other skaters sat behind a long table on a raised dais. Kisa waited
in the middle with the Canadians on her left and Bailey her right, everyone
seated in their medal positions. On the rows of chairs in front of the table,
the media, coaches, and various event and federation officials waited. Dev
avoided looking any of them in the eye as he took his seat.
He couldn’t
avoid his partner, and he smiled in what he hoped was a low-key, completely
normal way. His mouth felt raw. Jesus, do I have beard burn? Bailey’s
brows knitted together, and she reached up and straightened his hair. Shit. His
hair.
Everyone knows! It’s flashing all over me in neon letters. Neon and all
caps!
Breathing
deeply, he struggled to unscrew the cap from the bottle of water placed on the
table in front of him. It took two tries, but he got it, and gulped. His heart
pounded so loudly he was sure everyone could hear it.
“Everything
okay?” Bailey murmured.
He nodded.
Under the
table, she squeezed his thigh. “We’re almost there. Just think—tomorrow we
leave Kyoto and get to sleep in our own beds again. At least for a few weeks.”
With a rush of
affection, he took her hand. If there was one thing he could count on, it was
having Bailey beside him. He exhaled and concentrated on her familiar warmth.
Mikhail entered
the room, head high and shoulders back, his hair artfully swooped over his
forehead. He managed to make warm-up pants and his red Russian team jacket look
like Armani. Expression calm, he took his seat next to Kisa. While Dev wanted
to crawl out of his skin with a mess of emotions from shock and anger to a
shameful craving for more, Mikhail Reznikov appeared utterly
unaffected.
Dev had never
hated him more.
Author Bio
ìThe good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means.î
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