Juxtaposition: Glass & Grit. (MXM)

Author’s Note:

Thank you so much for reading Juxtaposition: Glass & Grit and for giving this story your time.

The story has been picked up by Galatea and is currently expected to be published there in August. Because it is moving through the publishing process, the chapters have been removed from this platform, with only the opening chapters remaining available here.

I’m incredibly grateful to everyone who has read, commented, reviewed, or supported the story so far. Thank you for being part of its beginning. I hope you’ll continue the journey with me when Juxtaposition: Glass & Grit arrives on Galatea.

With love,

AG

“It’s mind blowing how he did the quad axel followed by a Lutz jump, we certainly are mesmerized right now, aren’t we, Marcel?”

“I have seen him training, Joe. He’s otherworldly.”

Ashton.

My mornings are never peaceful. Breakfast, like dinner, is supposed to be sacred. That’s the word Annie uses—sacred. As if sacred things weren’t constantly violated here.

I was trying to enjoy my eggs—sunny side up, not by choice—when the door creaked open and my eldest sister walked in like she owned the whole damn world. And maybe she did. She owned me, at least on paper.

Annie dumped a heavy stack of magazines onto the table. Didn’t say a word at first. Just nudged my plate to the side with all the grace of a sniper—precision, efficiency, and zero regard for boundaries. On top of the pile sat a sealed file. Or what was supposed to be sealed. The flap was already torn open.

“What’s that?” I asked, reaching for my glass of guava juice. Cold, tangy. The only peace I get in the morning.

“These,” she said, arms folded like a judgmental monument, “are all the issues of sports magazines you’ve been mentioned in. Past year.”

I blinked at her. She was the only person I knew who could weaponize the word mentioned.

“Actually, scratch that. Past five months,” she added, which somehow sounded worse.

I stared. She stared back.

“Of course you can expect in what light you’ve been brought up in those articles,” she said, chin lifted.

“I have an idea.” I took a sip. Let it sit on my tongue. “So, what’s the file?”

“It’s a proposal.”

“Did Maeve officially lose her mind?” I asked, deadpan.

Annie didn’t flinch. “It’s not that kind of proposal, Ash. And I would very much like you to take this seriously.”

“I’m trying,” I said, gesturing vaguely at the chaotic spread in front of me. “But you’re feeding me breadcrumbs and I don’t have the energy to chase them.”

She leaned forward slightly. “It’s from Brian Kenny.”

I paused mid-sip. “Brian Kenny?”

“The famous director. The Climb, Vanguard, The Fall of Atlas. Ring any bells?”

“I’m not interested in acting.”

Annie didn’t smile. “It’s not acting. It’s real. It’s raw. He wants to follow you. And a boxer.”

I blinked. “What, like a romantic comedy?”

“No. Like Glass and Grit. That’s the working title.”

I looked at the torn file again. My name was scribbled in marker across the front. A bad omen, if you asked me.

“Why would I agree to this?”

Annie didn’t answer right away. She just looked at me. That manager stare she does when she’s about to rip you apart with facts and feelings.

Then, calmly, like she was handing over a verdict, she said, “Because people think you’re rubbish.”

I scoffed. “Well, they aren’t wrong, Annie, are they?”

“Trash earns no money. No sponsors. No parties. And certainly no girls. I have a family I’m taking care of, and I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t tank the business that’s keeping food on all our plates.”

I shot her a glance. “You were the one who insisted on being my manager. I never asked you to jump in. Matter of fact, I never asked any of you to jump in.”

“This,” she said, pulling out a chair and sinking into it, “is a story for another day.”

Her voice softened just a little as she leaned toward me, like she was about to offer something tender—only to jab me right in the pride again.

“Listen, Ash. This is your chance to show people you deserve to be among the greats—not just as a skater, but as a human being. The documentary’s going to be huge. Brian’s coming back from hiatus. The industry’s starving for something bold, dramatic, honest. Even if you’re sharing the screen with someone else, it’s still your shot to remind people that you’re not just a glittered blade on ice. You’re a person. You bleed. You fall. Maybe you even feel things sometimes.”

I stared at the guava juice. It didn’t taste so fresh anymore.

I ran my tongue along the inside of my cheek, then flicked a glance at the clock.

“I’ve got training in an hour,” I muttered, rising so fast the chair legs scraped the floor. “Put this on hold.”

“Ash—”

I didn’t stay to hear the rest. I was already moving, through the hallway, past the framed family photos that always seemed to be watching me with quiet, suffocating judgment.

My room was still a mess from last night. I stepped over an abandoned hoodie, grabbed my half-zipped duffel from the corner, and didn’t bother checking what was inside. If I’d forgotten anything, screw it. I’d buy new ones. Burn the rest.

Annie’s voice followed me down the hallway, but I didn’t look back. I shoved the front door open and let it slam behind me.

The morning sun hit like a slap. I climbed into my car, turned the key, and the engine snarled to life. Tires peeled as I pulled out of the driveway, scraping the curb just enough to leave a mark.

Good.

People think I’m rubbish.

That was her line. Delivered so precisely, so calmly—like a woman reading out my autopsy report.

As if I needed a whole-ass documentary to convince the world otherwise.

If I really wanted to play a redemption arc, I could just sit on some cheap morning talk show, sip lukewarm coffee, and pretend to cry. I could look into the camera with glassy eyes and murmur, “I’ve grown.” People would eat that shit up. They love a comeback. Especially from someone they’ve already decided to hate.

But I’ve never been a good liar. Not off the ice.

And here’s the kicker... she’s right.

I am trash.

Not in the dramatic, self-pitying way. Just... matter-of-fact. Like mold on bread. Like yesterday’s bruised fruit.

It’s not the skating that gets me in the headlines. It never is.

Let’s recap, shall we?

-That time I threw a drink in a judge’s face during a post-competition gala. He’d made a joke about my weight. I made one about his teeth.

-Screamed at my coach during an international event. The mic was on. The cameras were rolling. It made a great soundbite.

-Rumored to have slept with a married sponsor’s daughter. I didn’t. But I also didn’t deny it. I was drunk, and she liked the attention.

-And, of course, that charming viral clip of me vomiting backstage during a press interview. Everyone assumed drugs. No one questioned starvation.

I’ve become less of a skater and more of a walking scandal reel in sequins.

None of it—not a single word—has to do with what I actually do on the ice. Not my footwork, not my scores, not the championships. Just gossip. Noise. Glitter and ash.

So no, I don’t see the point in pretending anymore. The role of the villain’s already been cast. And at least villains don’t have to beg for applause.

The rink was quiet when I arrived. Just the way I liked it—cold, clinical, and white enough to bleach everything out of me.

I pushed through the side doors of the training facility, my breath already misting in the air as I entered. No cameras, no interviews, no family voices overlapping like bad radio signals. Just the sharp slice of blades across the ice, the echo of movement, the world trimmed down to lines and balance.

I dumped my bag by the benches, tugged on my boots, and laced them with muscle memory. Tight. Always tight. Like if I pulled hard enough, I could silence the rest of the world.

Once I was on the ice, I stopped thinking. My body took over.

Turn, push, carve, jump. Land. Try again.

Faster this time. No room for mistakes.

Skating was the only place I knew how to exist without apology. I didn’t have to talk. I didn’t have to explain. Every pivot, every spin, every aching push of muscle was mine. Not my family’s. Not the agency’s. Mine.

I fell once during a jump, the jolt rushing up my spine like punishment. I didn’t even wince. Just got up, ran the program again, sharper this time, harder. That’s the deal with perfection, you have to bleed for it before it will even consider looking at you.

I was toweling off near the barrier when I heard the familiar scrape of skates behind me. And then the voice.

“Well. That was dramatic.”

I didn’t turn right away. I knew who it was.

Maeve.

She always announced herself like she was important. Even in the silence.

I finally glanced over my shoulder. She stood at the edge of the ice, strawberry-brown curls tumbling from under a too-clean knit beanie, bangs sitting stiff across her forehead. Her eyes—soft brown and dull as thawed snow—watched me like I was some mildly interesting news headline. Just important enough to click on. Not enough to remember.

“You’re late,” I said flatly.

“I wasn’t scheduled,” she replied, skating toward me. Her blades hissed softly on the ice, like a threat she didn’t quite commit to.

Maeve was signed to the same agency. We’d been partners once. Sometimes, we still were—depending on the choreography, the media campaign, or whether the board wanted to sell the illusion of a fairy-tale duo for whatever sponsorship needed a picture-perfect couple.

She wasn’t a bad skater. Technically sound. Graceful enough. But something about her performances always felt hollow to me. Like she was skating to win favor.

The only time she sparked—really sparked—was when we were in bed. That was when the glassy surface cracked. When I saw something behind her eyes that resembled life. Hunger. Maybe even purpose.

I didn’t respect her for much. But I respected that version of her. The one with her nails digging into my back. The one who stopped playing nice.

Unfortunately, that version didn’t show up to the rink.

Later.

The windows were sweating.

Fog veiled the glass, casting everything in a muted blur—street lamps, empty parking spaces, even our own reflections. Inside, the air was thick, humid, and soured with heat and perfume.

Maeve was straddling me in the driver’s seat, knees planted on the leather like she owned it. Her hands gripped the sides of my neck as if bracing for something explosive. My seat creaked with every shift of her hips, and the sharp scent of her rose-scented lotion clashed against the sting of cold sweat and rubber.

Her curls were wild now—frizzed and damp around her face, clinging to her cheeks in messy spirals. Her bangs stuck slightly to her forehead. Her lipstick had worn off in the corners, smudged and uneven. She looked a little feral like this. Not elegant. Not composed. Just real.

That’s what she wanted me to see. That version of her. The one no judge ever got to score. The one that never cracked mid-spin or stumbled under pressure.

Her breath hitched as she rocked harder, chasing friction like it owed her something. Her mouth was parted, her eyes barely open, but not quite closed either. She wasn’t looking at me—just through me. Like I was something she’d borrowed and didn’t want to get attached to.

And I let her.

My hand moved up her thigh without urgency. Just motion. My palm brushed across the edge of her tights, pushed under her skirt—cold fingertips meeting overheated skin. She shivered. Or maybe that was me.

She whispered my name. A scratch more than a plea. My jaw clenched.

It was always like this—tight space, too much sweat, too little feeling. The condensation on the windshield dripped like the car itself was bleeding at the seams. Her nails dug into my shoulder, not for affection but to keep balance. Her body knew exactly what to do. So did mine.

But my head?

My head was somewhere else. Maybe still on the ice.

Maybe back in the kitchen, replaying Annie’s voice, People think you’re rubbish.

Maeve moaned softly and buried her face into the crook of my neck, her curls brushing my jawline, and for one second—just one—her voice cracked. Like she wanted something from me that she couldn’t name.

It passed.

When it was over, she stayed seated on me, catching her breath. Her hands were still on my chest, but they felt foreign. Like props.

I looked past her—at the ceiling of my own car, the misted windows, the small plastic flower charm swinging from the rearview mirror. Everything was too quiet now.

I didn’t feel satisfied. Or soothed. Or claimed. Just… emptied out.

Maeve was still on my lap, her breath finally steadying, her hands now trailing down my chest like she was trying to linger.

“This felt good,” she murmured, voice low and lazy, like honey melting too fast. “You feel good.”

I didn’t answer.

I was staring past her again, past the fogged windows, the dashboard lights, the world that existed somewhere just beyond this stale, overheated space.

She shifted slightly, then reached up and turned my face toward her with two fingers under my chin.

Her touch was slow. Intentional.

But all I could think about was how her nails now were digging into my cheekbone—too sharp, too practiced, like she thought pressure could pull affection out of me.

I let her move my head. I let her search my expression for something she’d never find.

“Was it good for you?” she asked, trying to sound coy.

I blinked. Let the silence draw out just long enough.

“It was fine,” I said flatly. “Can you move now?”

Her jaw twitched, but she didn’t argue. She slid off me without a word and reached into her designer handbag, pulling out a small packet of wipes. She tore it open, cleaned herself quickly, precisely, like this was just another routine to get through.

“Want one?” she asked, voice neutral now.

I reached for the tissue box on the dash without answering. Pulled a few sheets out, wiped myself up, and tossed them outside.

The silence that settled between us was heavy.

I adjusted the seat, pulled my pants back into place, then turned the engine key without looking at her.

“Where am I dropping you?”

She clipped her seatbelt with a little click, fixed her bangs in the vanity mirror, then finally said, “My apartment.”

No thanks, no please, no trace of the warmth she’d tried to fake minutes ago.

Just that. My apartment.

She didn’t say goodbye when she got out of the car. Just slammed the door a little harder than she needed to and walked into her building without looking back.

I didn’t wait to see the lights in her apartment come on. I pulled off the curb and drove aimlessly for a while, letting the city blur past in streaks of orange and blue, until the roads quieted and I finally turned into the lot near my place.

By the time I stepped into my house, the silence hit like a brick wall.

I toed off my shoes, let my bag drop by the door, and headed to the kitchen, where the only thing waiting for me was an empty sink and a carton of eggs I’d never get around to cooking.

I didn’t sit. Just leaned against the counter and let the exhaustion settle under my skin like a cold

Maeve and I were never official.

Never said I love you, never talked about exclusivity —unless you counted the one sided nagging— we never even defined what the hell we were. And we never will.

We met when we were eighteen—fresh into the international scene, still pretending we didn’t have demons yet. We traveled a lot for competitions, spent more time in hotels and airports than actual homes. I guess that makes you close by default. Late-night room service. Stolen bottles from mini-bars. Watching each other practice until our legs gave out.

She was the only familiar thing in a blur of changing cities and judges’ faces. I guess I got attached. Not to her, really—but to the routine.

Then she started dating someone.

I didn’t care at first. Or I told myself I didn’t. We cut ties not long after. Two years of silence. Total radio static.

Then one night—same day she broke it off with him—she called me. Said she was nearby. Said she wanted to “hang out.”

It turned into sex within an hour. No buildup. No drama.

Just her, curling into my lap like we never stopped speaking, kissing me like her mouth remembered mine better than her heart did.

I knew it was a rebound. Of course I did.

But she wouldn’t admit it. She clung to this story—this ridiculous, fragile script—where she’d always had feelings for me, where she just hadn’t realized it until now.

Bullshit.

It wasn’t me she wanted. It was the last place she felt safe. The last person who wouldn’t judge her for crawling back in pieces. And I let her.

I liked the sex. I won’t lie about that. She was different in bed—hungry, bold, real. But the more I got to know her outside of it, the more I realized just how insufferable she was. Arrogant. Performative. Obsessed with how the world saw her, but empty when no one was watching.

I tried to end it. More than once. But every time I did, she’d promise it was just sex. That she didn’t want anything more. That she understood.

She never did. Now we’re both twenty-six. And I’ve stopped trying to explain.

I don’t hate her. I just… hope she finds someone else. Soon.

Because whatever this is—whatever it’s been for years—it’s not love. It’s not even comfort anymore.

It’s just inertia.