From Lukov with Love

by Mariana Zapata

For a moment, I thought about apologizing for changing my mind, but fuck that. I didn’t want to show Ivan of all people my naked body. I’d bet nobody else here would want to either. It was my choice. My decision. My body. I wasn’t about to say I was sorry for being an inconvenience, because I wasn’t.

Because there were a lot of them. I wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t my mom or Tali or Ruby.

“The only reason I give you so much shit is because you were a pain in the ass, and then you were the only one who dished it back to me. You know you’re beautiful.”

“I’m sure you’re perfect under there.”

“I’m sure there’s nothing under your robe that wouldn’t give every man here a hard-on. Some of the women too, I bet.”

“I’m not just saying all this,” he said in a tone so quiet, so… I don’t know, tender or shit, that it made me uncomfortable. I didn’t think anyone had ever spoken to me like that before. Not even James, the nicest guy in the world. Ivan kept going. “I’m just giving you shit when I tell you that you haven’t gone through puberty. Come on,”

“You know who you are and what you are. I’m not about to fucking tell you and blow up your ego even bigger than it already is, cut me some slack,” he almost barked out. “I want to do this shoot with you, not by myself. With you. As a team. It’ll be great for both of us coming into the season.”

“I’d never make fun of you.”

“I wouldn’t when you’re naked,”

“And who would make fun of you without clothes on? I bet none of those men out there have ever seen legs and an ass that launch a person in the air like yours do.”

I wasn’t going to pick at that comment with a stick. Instead, I blinked at him. “Why are you looking at my ass?” The corners of his pink-pink mouth tilted up the tiniest...

“Jasmine, this body—these thighs you think I’m going to make fun of you over, and this ass you think the same thing of—are going to win us first place from now on. I wouldn’t make fun of it. I wouldn’t make fun of you. We’ll do it like we always do. When we step out on the ice, it’s work. It’s us focusing, not fucking around.”

Swimmers and runners had nothing on a body like Ivan’s. Absolutely nothing. Not that I’d ever admit that shit.

“Come on, Meatball. You and me. We’ll make everybody jealous with our work-of-art asses.”

“There’s my Meatball,” he said in almost a whisper, his fingers loosening from around my wrist until they were slipping through mine, holding our hands together like we had done it a thousand times. Because we had. “We’re doing this, right? Together? I won’t make fun of you, but you can make fun of me a bit?”

But I squeezed his hand in mine anyway and nodded. “Yeah, we’re doing this together,”

“That’s what I thought,” he said, sounding almost cheery as he gave my hand a tug.

I wasn’t about to say I hadn’t wanted to get naked because of Ivan. Much less because of strange assholes that had nothing better to do. Pathetic pieces of shit.

Ivan squeezed my hand—he hadn’t let it go—and said just loudly enough for me to hear, “I underestimated how cold it was, so you can’t make fun of… certain body parts if they’re trying to crawl back inside of me to protect themselves….”

Ivan made a face, his fingers tightening over mine.

Neither one of us said anything as we let go of our hands

I could do it. Of course I fucking could. I was strong, smart, and I could do anything, just like my mom had always told me.

my partner—my Ivan—as

I had nothing to prove to people who didn’t matter or mean anything to me.

If people wanted to point out a roll if I was bent over, go for it. I’d grown up around three of the most beautiful women in the world. I’d accepted a long time ago that I wasn’t one of them, and that was okay.

But Ivan’s in particular had been basically painted by a master. The caps of muscle at his shoulders were drawn by pen, the lean, rigid muscles of his forearms and biceps were strong. Then there were his firm pectorals, the flat abs with eight small square shapes at them. The detailed muscles at his hips from all his lifting, and the long, lines of muscle striations at his thighs and calves.

He was seriously a work of perfection. Honestly. Truly.

“Come on then, shy boy, before your balls start receding back into your body too,” I told him. That had him snapping his eyes open to glare at me, his face scrunched up. “Hopefully my hand doesn’t slip.” “Hopefully I don’t lose my balance and my foot goes up your ass—”

It wasn’t exactly difficult, even though every time his hands touched me, I wanted to punch him in the gut.

I was going to kill somebody. I was going to fucking kill somebody, and I was going to enjoy the hell out of it.

At least anyone that gave half a shit about another person—and I gave a massive shit about my mom.

My hands had started shaking. My hands never shook. Never. Not when I was mad over getting screwed by people I had slightly trusted. Not while I was waiting to skate. Not after I skated. Not when I lost. Not when I won. Never.

My mom didn’t want me to get worked up over her because I had better things to focus on.

Maybe I was being dramatic, but I didn’t think so. This was my mom. My mom. The woman who had taught me by example how to get up every time I was down. She was the strongest woman I knew. The strongest, the smartest, the prettiest, the toughest, the most loyal, the hardest working….

Did she not understand I’d do anything for her? That I loved her and admired her and thought she was the greatest human being in the world? That I had no idea how she had raised five kids with my dad only being in the picture until I was three? That I didn’t understand how she could have been married three times before Ben, had her heart broken each time, but somehow she hadn’t given up hope and hadn’t let any of that stuff jade her?

But my mom never let anything get her down for long. How could I not think the world of her? How could I not love her, who raised me to think I was invincible, more than anything? How could she believe she wasn’t a priority to me?

Be better. Be better. Be better. Don’t punch him in his giant balls. At least not yet.

“If you paid more attention, you’d know I fall on my right cheek. I know you fall on your left one.”

“What are you doing here?” He was bent over, rummaging through what looked like a small fridge built into the cabinets when he answered, “I came to check on you.”

Something tickled at my eyeball, and I reached up to wipe at it with the tip of my index finger. It came away wet, but it didn’t scare me or make me mad. I didn’t feel weak.

felt pathetic. I felt like shit.

There was no response, but when there was it came in the shape of two big hands landing on my shoulders, curling around them.

The hands on my shoulders squeezed, and I tried to shrug them off, but they didn’t go anywhere. If anything, they got even tighter.

Was I dying? Was this what having your heart broken felt like? Because if it was, I was sure fucking glad I’d never fallen in love before because goddamn. My God. It felt like my organs were rotting away.

“Come here,” was the soft whisper right by my ear as the hands on my shoulders tightened.

The “No” out of my mouth sounded like two rocks sliding against each other. “Let me give you a hug.” His voice sounded even closer, his body warmer.

Shame burned me inside out, and I tried to take another step forward, but the hands on me didn’t let me go anywhere. “...

I squeezed my eyes closed even more and said, before I could stop myself, “I don’t want a...

“Well, too fucking bad,” Ivan replied a moment before the hands on my shoulders started to shift, to slide, going across my upper chest, right beneath my collarbones until his forearms were crossed over me in an X, and then Ivan was pulling me back—stumbling me back—until my upper back hit his chest, flesh to flesh.

And he hugged me. He hugged me so tight to him I couldn’t breathe, and I hated myself. I hated myself for being a hypocrite. For not being nicer. For expecting the worst all the time. I hated myself for so many things, I wasn’t sure I could count them all and survive.