This was written as a birthday gift for 84Gemma in 2011. I was shown this manip today (on profile) and was motivated to post this. The only thing that comes close to my love for Kristen is my love for the ice dancing team Virtue/Moir (the couple in the original photo).

The most wonderful beta mabarberella helped me out and even encouraged this so blame her lol. No I don't own any characters. No I don't know when I will update. Yes I know I am slow. Thanks to ohpenelope5446 for sending me the manip.

I am labeling this hurt/comfort/angst as I think it might be appropriate (eeek I've never written angst and don't find many thing angsty but it has been pointed out to me that my angst meter is off). Welp here we go.


This is the hardest session of my life, and I only have myself to blame. Coach Cranston quickly loses patience with me because I'm not able to keep my focus. Today, he's not Alistair, my good friend, mentor, and second father. He isn't the man who nurtured and trained me so that I might achieve my dreams of an Olympic gold medal.

No, today, he is the slave master that makes me do what feels like a billion quad Salchow attempts. Just when I think my legs can't even do one more crossover, he decides that my signature jump, my triple axel, was under rotating last week and I now need to do that a billion and one times.

It doesn't matter. He can tell me to do headstands on the ice and I won't question it; hell, lately I probably wouldn't even notice that it was out of the ordinary. All of my focus is centered on one person. One girl, to be specific. One strong, passionate, determined, generous, wonderful ice princess; my best friend, and secret crush, Isabella Swanovski.

I remember the day Isabella first walked into my training arena. It was the summer before the Vancouver Olympics, and I had subjected myself to a training regime that was unheard of. I knew that I had the same God-given talent as those men on top of the Worlds podium the year before, and if I trained harder and more relentlessly than they did, I would conquer and win.

Consequently, I trained all the time. There is a saying that you should skate like you are in first place, but train like you are in second. Well, that wasn't a hard concept for me to embrace. The previous World Championships in Los Angeles had been horrible, and I placed a dismal tenth.

This was particularly embarrassing because that World Championships determined how many spots each country got in the next Olympic Games. The Games that were being held, literally, in my backyard. The Pacific Coliseum in Vancouver, Canada, is across the street from my childhood home. Due to my dismal performance, we would only send two men-and there would be a fight.

My grandma Carmen would always say that one day I would fill that arena with cheers and pride from my country, with thousands of fellow Canadians cheering me on. So the entire training season before the world descended on my home town to cheer on the greatest athletes the planet had to offer, I ate, drank, breathed and lived only figure skating.

Looking back on it now, I'm surprised I was able to maintain that pace, because the day Isabella walked into the rink, skating was demoted to my second love.

At first she was just this fantasy girl. A very much off-limits, sixteen-year-old, fantasy girl. Still, being the horny nineteen-year-old that I was, I did fantasize about her.

She walked in wearing her red and white Soviet track suit, but you could tell she was Russian even without the display of traditional white and red graphics all over everything she carried with her. Her hair was perfectly styled and she paid little attention to anyone around her.

Isabella's coach preceded her entrance, wearing a floor length fur coat. An air of aristocracy surrounded both of them. Isabella was confident, but you could see through her wide eyes that fear and skepticism was present.

I skated to the boards with a few of the other guys that were on the ice, all having just finished our session. You would think we had never seen another girl enter the rink, which is laughable since our sport is dominated by women.

Finally, one of us was able to direct blood flow back upwards and form a coherent thought. "That's Isabella Swanovski. She just flew in from Toronto to try out with Liam," Ben stated. Ben knew everything that was going on-not just in the club, but in the skating world as a whole.

"Huh?" was the ingenious response I gave.

"Who was she skating with in Toronto?" came from some guy standing behind me. I'll admit that I have no idea who it was, as my entire being was focused on Isabella. She stood respectfully behind her coach who was in deep discussion with Liam's coach.

Liam. Ugh. I'll get to him later.

Isabella had taken off her warm up jacket, and the top of her body suit was now visible. It was black with thin straps. The part that covered her stomach and defined abs was all black netting.

I may have a slight fetish for netting.

Ben brought me out of my trance-like state of staring. "Several guys. She skated with Alec McCall the longest, but also Amun Sandhu and even Garrett Kraatz."

"I thought Garrett retired after the Salt Lake games?" I questioned Ben.

"He came out of retirement to skate with her. Apparently, though, he couldn't keep up with her demands. She has your discipline, Cullen. Skating every day, all day; stretching while she's eating breakfast; she's probably even trained herself to do mental run-throughs while dreaming." Ben can also be a smart ass.

"Anyway, she moved here from a year ago and has never had a partner longer than she's had a pair of skates." See, smart ass.

"So she has citizenship?" Angie, who skates the pairs discipline with Ben, piped in.

"She will shortly. Apparently her grandfather or something was Canadian so they are letting her bypass a bunch of steps. The Russian federation wasn't thrilled that she practically defected, but since she hasn't skated for them internationally in almost 2 years, they can't really do anything but sit and sulk." Ben had given us all he was going to, grabbed Angie's hand and they started skating into their warm-up.

Unfortunately, Liam has skated over and taken Ben's spot at the boards. "Wow. I guess even if the skating partnership doesn't work out, at least I will get a decent fuck out of this tryout."

"She will never sleep with you," I spat. I should have said that in my head, because to him, I had just issued a challenge.

It has been two and half years since that day, and less than one year since I was in the car accident that resulted in surgery on my left hip. Even after long bouts of physical therapy, massage therapy and athletic therapy, the injury still prevents me from landing that fucking quad.

I was right though, Isabella still hasn't slept with Liam, and she never intends to. I know this because she's my best friend and tells me everything. Okay, not everything, but more than anyone else. It still isn't much, but it's something.

She's there when I'm having a bad training day, and I'm there when she's having a bad Liam day-which is practically every day.

Isabella moved into the house I share with Ben, Angie, Tia, Charlie and Embry. Liam lives next door with an assortment of floozies-they rotate in and out, taking turns acting as his Isabella substitute.

I've seen him drop her a few times, and I know he's doing it on purpose. She refuses to believe that he would be that malicious, but I've seen it. You can see the slight glimmer in his eye that shows he knows what he is doing.

Remarkably, she has never been seriously physically injured. Sure, she's had some bruising, cuts and scrapes, but nothing that out of the ordinary for a dance team that is training at their level. Emotionally and psychologically, however, he has done a world of damage.

Gone is that confident girl that walked in here at sixteen like she was God's gift to not only the Vancouver Eclipse Figure Skating Club, but the discipline of ice dance in its entirety.

That girl has been replaced with one who is walking on egg shells. She's still strong, beautiful and eternally determined to be on top of the podium in her homeland, Sochi, Russia, in two years. But now there is a slight fear that is laced through every movement and every step is accompanied by a hint of tentativeness.

I am so worried about her that all of my attention during my practice sessions is focused on her; hopefully I'll be close enough to catch her if something goes majorly wrong.

Just as I look over at the end of my routine, I see Liam drop Isabella in the middle of theirs. I know he dropped her on purpose. They've done that lift over a thousand times and it's not the first time he's dropped her.

I quickly skate over to where she is in the fetal position on the ice at Liam's feet. I shove Liam and shout, "You fucking asshole!"

A weak voice speaks up at me offering her typical excuses. "Don't Edward. It happens, it's a level five lift and we just don't have the timing on the rotation yet."

"Isabella," I start to form my argument but am quickly shut down by their Coach who lays into her.

"Alright Isabella, you need to get your head out of the stars. If you can't focus on your center, how will Liam ever be able to rotate the lift safely? You could seriously injure him. You aren't taking this seriously. I'm confused; I guess I didn't realize you were still the girl who was okay just making a top five finish like last year's Worlds. When you were brought here, we were told you were out for blood, for gold." With that, Coach Kerrigan turns and skates off the ice, indicating she is finished with the practice.

Liam quickly leaves the ice as well, without even asking Isabella if she is okay.

Gently I lift her to her feet. "I really am fine Edward," she protests.

"Whatever you say, Bells," I say, using the nickname that only I call her to let her know that I'm not going to argue with her about this. Right now, anyway.

"I'll meet you out by the car in twenty minutes. We can grab lunch together and talk about stupid things, like how Coach Kerrigan manages to find someone willing to cut her hair into a mullet?" I at least get a small grin out of her, giving me hope that by the end of the day I might be able to coax out a full-fledged, sparkling Isabella smile.

We part ways and I head towards the guy's dressing room. I know that everyone else has either left the rink or is still on the practice ice. All except one.

"Liam! Where are you, you little fucker?" I can hear some rustling at the back lockers. I spot him.
I rush behind him, grabbing onto him and turning him around to face me before slamming him into the lockers. I fist the collar of his shirt in one hand, shoving my other forearm against his throat, just barely leaving him enough room to breathe.

"She may not know what you are doing, but I'm not that naive. You do that again, Liam Kerrigan, and I promise you, I will fuck you up so bad you'll never skate again." I release him and he slumps to the floor, gasping for breath. I grab my shit out of my locker, not even bothering to shower, and make my way out to my awaiting ice princess.