Ice Games (3 page)

Emma obviously knew. She leaned over to me. “Julia Mckillip. She’s a racecar driver. One of the few female ones.”

O-kay. That was an interesting choice. “And she ice skates? Huh.”

The next car held an older man with a plaid shirt, a cowboy hat, and a beard. I could almost hear Emma’s sigh of disappointment. “Louie Earl. Country singer. I bet he’s mine.”

I bet he was, too.

The next car held a younger girl, no more than sixteen or so. I recognized her, too. Victoria Kiss, a teen star with a few kid’s movies under her belt and an equal number of accompanying kid’s CDs. Not surprising, either. I wasn’t really seeing A-listers. I was seeing washed up, washing up, or looking to move up on the rather tough ladder in Hollywood.

I considered Michael Michaels. If Louie Earl was Emma’s partner, either the rocker was mine or the next guy. I didn’t have anything against Michael Michaels (other than his dumb name), so he wouldn’t be so bad.

“Last one,” Emma murmured, and I turned back to the end car, watching as the door opened.

I didn’t have to fake my gasp of surprise. Neither did anyone else. We were all genuinely shocked at the man that came out of the sedan.

Ty Randall, a.k.a. “Ty the MMA Biter.”

Oh, Jesus. That was an…interesting choice.

Michael Michaels had been lean and skinny. This guy was neither. Tall, but he seemed more muscles than anything else. His shoulders were broad, but he wasn’t bulky, and he moved like, well, a warrior. He had a big, thick neck, big thick legs, and a shaved head that held a five o’clock shadow. His face was impassive, not clearly defined, and one of his brows had a scar through it. His nose had clearly been broken more than once.

Ty Fucking Randall.

I didn’t watch Mixed Martial Arts, but I sure knew who he was. Everyone did. He’d made headlines about a month or two ago when he’d been headlining a fight in Vegas, and he’d bitten his opponent. Bitten. As in, chomp chomp. As in, tore a hunk out of his nose. People had been scandalized, and he’d been put on hiatus. No one wanted to fight him. It wasn’t exactly that you were expected to fight clean in MMA, but you didn’t tear your opponent’s face apart. I mean, Jesus. He’d made public apologies through his reps, but the incident was still too new and fresh on everyone’s minds for this to be anything besides a shock.

And I was filled with a cold ripple of dread, thinking of all the beer in the fridge. Something told me that Michael Michaels wasn’t going to be my partner. Oh no. Oh, nonono.

I didn’t want to be with Ty the Biter.

It was clear he didn’t want to be here. He leaned against the sedan and crossed his legs, and then crossed his arms over his brawny chest. He looked bored. Pissed.

He wouldn’t want to win. I had a feeling he was just here for some good PR. He sorely needed it. But my guess was that he’d also be just fine with last place. Not me. I needed to win.

If he were my partner, I was screwed. Goodbye, second chance at a career. Hello, skate monitor at the mall once more. Or skating as Hildy the Pink Dinosaur in the local production of
Dino Friends on Ice
. Again.

A woman with a big poof of feathered blonde hair came out from the other side of the cameras. “All right. It’s time for the team assignments! Are you ready?”

It seemed to be a rhetorical question since no one was answering. I waited, tense as hell, for the assignments.

“Tatiana will be paired with Michael Michaels.”

The two moved forward and joined hands. Tatiana did a cute little twirl and beamed at the cameras. Michael Michaels just looked kind of bored. Okay then.

“Victoria Kiss will be paired with Toby.”

She grinned and moved forward, putting both of her hands into Toby’s, and then leaned forward to kiss him, her foot popping up. Cute.

“Julia McKillip will be paired with Jon Jon.”

Julia wasn’t a showy type. She moved forward and shook his hand, and then they stood next to each other awkwardly.

“Annamarie Evans will be paired with Serge.”

Annamarie didn’t walk—she glided forward, and Serge pulled her into his arms and dipped her. Hams, every last one of them.

The only two left unclaimed were Louie Earl and Ty Randall. I looked at the two, and then had a new appreciation for Louie Earl’s stouter figure and his bushy beard. I could work with that. I knew I could. Being on a heartwarming team wouldn’t be so bad, and if the public loved us, we could do well even if we didn’t win. I could still be called back.

“Ty Randall will be paired with Zara Pritchard.”

And just like that, all my hopes and dreams shattered. Shit. Shit shit shit.

He strolled forward to me, all cocky walk. I moved forward and offered him my hand, wishing I could summon up some enthusiasm for our pairing.

I had none to offer.

CHAPTER THREE

So I met my partner today. She’s the mouthiest chick I’ve ever met in my life. Won’t shut up for five minutes. Seriously. Stick up her ass, too. Determined to win this thing. Like it’s a real contest or something? Come on. We’re going to prance around the ice in skates like a bunch of goofballs.
— Ty Randall, Private Conversation with his Manager

~~ * ~~

“Hi, I’m Zara,” I told him, trying to ignore the camera two inches from my face. “Nice to meet you.”

He grabbed my hand and shook it, lips twisting into a slight smirk. “Ty.”

“I know who you are. So, you excited to be on the show?”

“Am I excited to be on the show?” he mimicked, mocking my high pitched, slightly-nervous tone. “Do I look like I’m fucking excited?”

I dropped his hand like I’d been scalded. “Then why are you here?”

“I’m here because I have to be. No more, no less.” He glanced around, his gaze lingering on the slinky Annamarie. “Parts of it might be interesting.” He glanced over at me and seemed less enthused. “I’m not wearing fucking sequins or feathers, though, so get that shit right out of your head.”

“Oh darn, I guess this means I’m not going to have a lot of opportunity to use my Bedazzler,” I said sarcastically. “Gee, and here I was so looking forward to that.”

“Ha ha.” He didn’t sound amused. If anything, he sounded more irritated. “Look, missy—”

“Zara—”

“Zara,” he echoed. “I’m just trying to lay down the law so you know what to expect out of the next few weeks. I’m here because it’s required of me. It’s not because I want to dress up in a goddamn tutu and flounce around on the ice. You understand me? So don’t expect too much.”

My jaw set, and I wanted to kick him in the nuts for his lousy attitude. “All right then. Well, let me tell you what I’m thinking, since we’re laying the law down and all. I want to win. I’m determined to win, even if I have to work
around
having you as a partner. Shit happens, but I’m good enough that I can make even a clown like you look light-footed. But let’s get one thing straight. I intend to win, so don’t you get in my way, understand?”

He stared at me. After a long moment, he added, “You going to fucking yap at me for the next two months?”

“Probably. And if you don’t make an effort? I’m going to make your life miserable. Understand?”

Ty looked amused. “That’s cute. You do realize you’re ninety pounds soaking wet?”

I was a hundred and two pounds, and what did it matter? “What does my size have to do with anything?”

“If you think you’re going to intimidate me, honey, it’s not working.”

“Don’t you ‘honey’ me,” I said, outraged.

A camera zoomed in next to my face, and I froze. I hadn’t even met my partner for five minutes and we were already fighting. Well, crap. This didn’t bode well for job longevity. The scathing putdown I’d been about to lay on him died in my throat. Instead, I gave him a tight smile. “We practice at 6:00 AM. Be there.”

I turned on my heel and began to walk away.

“I’ll consider it,” he called after my back.

“Six in the morning!” I yelled back.

~~ * ~~

“I can’t believe it,” my friend Naomi gasped in my ear. “You’re paired up with Ty the Biter? Have you seen the internet articles on him?”

I rolled over on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, my cellphone hot against my ear. We’d been on the phone for an hour, and even complaining to my best friend hadn’t made me feel better about things. “I haven’t. Just that he’s a fighter and he bit some dude on the nose. Give me the skinny.”

“Okay.” She paused for a moment, then said, “So, apparently he dates a lot of C and D list starlets. His name’s attached to a bunch of famous chicks. That’s why he’s such a big deal.”

Like I cared about that. “And?”

“And he has a type. Big. Blonde. Surgically enhanced.”

“Got it. Boulders. This doesn’t help me much, though, Naomi. I don’t want to date the troll. I want to know what to expect when we’re skating.”

“I’m looking, I’m looking,” she muttered. “Oooh. Let’s see. He played college hockey.”

I brightened. “That’s a good sign—”

“Got kicked out for missing too many practices.”

Damn it. “So what you’re telling me is that I’ve got a slacker with temper issues that can skate, but because I don’t have a pair of cannons strapped to my chest, I’m shit out of luck?”

“Kinda what it sounds like. Sorry, girl.”

I sighed. “That’s okay. I’ll just make the best of things. I mean, if I work my tail off, the show can’t blame me, right?”

“I have no idea. Sorry. I’ve never been on TV. I’m a pre-med student, remember?”

I remembered. And groaned. “Why couldn’t I have gotten a decent partner? All the guys got good ones. It’s so unfair.”

“Just do your best,” Naomi said cheerfully. “That’s all you can do.”

A loud “
What the fuck
?” came from the other room.

Naomi paused. “What was that?”

“You heard that?” I cocked my free ear, listening to the other room. Bottles clinked with rapidity, and and then I heard what sounded like a lot of bottles shaking. “That would be my roommate, Prince Charming. Apparently they’ve decided that things will be more exciting if we’re sharing a house together.”

Naomi gasped, the sound tinny on the other end of the line. “You have to share a house with him? Are you freaking out?”

“Nope. Too many cameras around for him to try any shenanigans. He’s here for PR. He’ll be on his best behavior.” I thought for a moment, and then added, “Theoretically.”

I heard stomping, and then someone banged on my door, a crude version of a knock. “Hey. Hey! Mouthy girl. Open up.”

I frowned at my closed door. The entire thing had vibrated when he’d knocked. It was just cheap wood, but still. I didn’t want him destroying my room. I had to live here for the next two months, after all. “I’d better let you go, Naomi. Talk to you later.”

“Good luck.” She sounded worried. “You’re going to need it. Break a leg.”

“You don’t tell a skater that,” I yelped at her, but it ended up being the dial tone. Damn it! I could practically feel the juju going south on me. I went immediately to my desk and touched each of my lucky talismans in a row, trying to reverse the negativity.

Skaters were superstitious. I was more superstitious than most, but I also didn’t like to take a chance on something like bad energy. I needed all my luck around me for the next two months.

Ty banged on my door again, and I set my phone down and went to answer it. I’d kept the door shut all afternoon, needing to unwind from the horrible meeting. One of the cameramen told me that we could be filmed anywhere in the house except for in our bedrooms, so I’d more or less hidden there. Like a coward. But I didn’t have to be ‘on’ until tomorrow morning, so I’d save my mental fortitude for then. I had a feeling I’d need every ounce of patience possible.

I opened my door and a crack and gave Ty a cross look. “There a problem?” Sure enough, there was a camera hovering over his shoulder.

He looked pissed. His eyes were narrowed and he held a bottle of beer in his hand. Likely a warm beer. “Yeah, there’s a problem. What did you do?”

“Do?” I blinked my eyes innocently.

“My beer’s hot. The entire fridge is fucked. What did you do?”

I ignored the question he asked me and posed one of my own. “You’re an athlete, right? You shouldn’t drink beer if you want to remain in top form.”

“I’m an athlete on hiatus stuck on a dumbass dancing show,” he told me, his eyes narrowed. “What did you do to my fridge?”

“Ice skating, not dancing,” I hissed at him. “And it’s still a sport.”

“Yeah. Okay.” He was clearly humoring me. He jiggled the beer in front of my face. “All I want to know is if you’re responsible for this.”

I eyed it, and then his angry Neanderthal face. Did I think his nose had been broken only twice? I’d probably sorely underestimated. And right now? I couldn’t blame those people that broke his nose. Heck, I’d be volunteering for a swipe right now myself. “If you’re going to be an athlete,” I told him, “act like one.”

His mouth tightened with fury. “So it was you—”

I slammed my door shut in his face.

Silence. I cringed, expecting to hear a roar of rage. Maybe he’d scream names at me through the door. Something. He didn’t seem like the type that could hold his temper. And they were filming, which wasn’t great.

“You and I need to have a talk,” he said through the door.

I ignored him.

“Fine then,” he said after a long, long moment, voice surprisingly calm. “You’ve got to come out of there sometime to eat.”

I sat down on my bed, cross legged, and pulled a box of organic granola bars off of my nightstand. I peeled one open and began to eat. I actually didn’t have to leave my room. My bathroom was attached to my bedroom, and I’d brought in bottles of water and snacks so I could deliberately hide away all evening. I peeled a bar open, feeling pretty pleased with myself.

“So you ignoring me?” he asked.

I said nothing. He wanted to be childish? I could be childish too. Just watch me.

“All right then. Since you don’t plan on answering, or coming out so we can talk about this shit, I’ll just use your fridge. Problem solved.”

I made a face at the door as he stomped away. It was going to be a long eight weeks.

~~ * ~~

The next morning, I woke up at five AM and showered, ready to face the day. Not only ready, but excited. This was my first day back being a professional, and I was determined to show my stuff.

I dressed in a red leotard and black tights, yanked my hair into my bun, and grabbed my lucky socks. My skates were pulled off of their hook and slung over my shoulder, I touched my talismans laid out on my desk, and then I was ready to go. Sucking in a breath, I cracked my door open, peeking out.

Nothing.

I stepped out of the bedroom and glanced around. Everything seemed quiet. Ty’s door was shut, so I didn’t know if he was awake or not. My guess was ‘not.’ I turned the corner to the kitchen…and paused.

That
asshole
.

All the food that had been in my fridge was now strewn on the counters. Organic skim milk had been left out overnight to spoil, as had my tofu. My fruits, my organic juices, and my vegetables were strewn carelessly all over the counter as if they were just garbage in the way.

Bottles of beer lined the countertops, along with discarded bottle tops and empty bags of potato chips. Good lord. The man had himself a bacchanal-for-one last night. I moved across the garbage-strewn kitchen and peeked inside my fridge. Sure enough, it was crammed full of his beer and a leftover pizza delivery box. I slammed it shut.

Furious, I grabbed fruits and vegetables from the counter, washed them, and shoved them into the Vitamix blender, thinking evil thoughts about my partner. I added ice and turned it on viciously, hoping the sound woke him up, and then poured my fruit-and-spinach smoothie into a tall bottle and took it with me out to the rink.

It was bright outside despite the early hour, and birds were chirping in the trees. All in all, not a bad day so far. I was determined to make this work, too. The thought of getting back on the ice in a professional capacity—and not in a dinosaur costume—excited me. I’d show the network who was dedicated and willing to go the extra mile on this team. It didn’t matter if Ty Randall sucked as a partner. I’d be so amazing that it wouldn’t matter. And maybe Svetlana would stay home with her baby. Maybe.

I pushed open the door to the rink and inhaled at the delicious scent of fresh ice that met my nose. Perfect, just perfect. I moved to the side of the rink and sat down on one of the benches, then began to carefully check my skates over before I began warm-ups.

Ice skates were important to a skater—they were the most important piece of equipment, actually, if one ignored the ice itself and the need for strong muscles, long hours of practice, and lots of determination. Like dancers, we babied—and personalized—our skates. Mine were white leather, beaten up to suppleness. They fit perfectly, the ankles tight enough to grip but flexible enough to allow good movement. My blades were razor sharp, as always, and I checked my laces, and then flipped over my skate and touched the talismans I had duct-taped to the bottom. My lucky penny, two fortune-cookie slips that had promised good things, a sequin from every costume I’d worn in competition, and a sticker of a pink lucky rabbit’s foot from Naomi. She’d wanted to give me a real rabbit’s foot for luck, but this was better because it would be on my feet. Satisfied everything was in place, I laced my skates up tight, downed the rest of my breakfast, removed the guards from my blades, and then approached the ice.