Ice Games (4 page)

I have an entire routine of mojo-producing things, but my favorite is to kiss the ice before I step onto it. It was something I started to do when I was a child, and it’s always brought me luck. Even after years of skating, I hadn’t changed. Kissing the ice was like asking it for permission. It showed respect, and it gave good juju.

I was a big fan of juju.

So I leaned in and kissed the ice, inhaling the crisp scent of it. God, I loved the ice. Nothing made me happier. The ritual done, I got back to my feet and set my skates on it, testing the feel. Somebody must have come by and ran a Zamboni overnight, because the ice was slick and spotless, not carved up in the slightest. I began to skate along the edges of the rink in circles, warming up my muscles while tearing up the ice just a little to make it easier to skate on.

Wouldn’t want precious Ty Randall falling and breaking his nose again, would we?

Once I was sufficiently warmed up, I began to work up a sweat, going through moves just to get my muscles going. An axel on this round, then a double axel. When I was fully warmed up, I’d do a triple. I also practiced my toe loops and a triple lutz. Then a sit spin, and moved into a standing spin, grasping my leg and pulling it high over my head to form a clean line.

The door to the gym opened, and I broke out of the spin and circled back around, hissing to a stop at the sight of an unfamiliar woman. I frowned, glancing around. “This is a private rink.”

“I’m Imelda Garcia,” she told me in a pleasant voice. “Your assigned choreographer.”

Oh. Disappointment flashed through me. She…didn’t look like what I’d pictured. I skated to the edge of the ice, and then dug my toe pick in to stop in place. “Hi. I’m Zara.”

She chuckled, looking for all the world like a schoolteacher more than a choreographer. Her hair was short and feathered with gray, and she wore a yellow cardigan and a pair of navy slacks with her loafers. She carried a big bag over one shoulder that didn’t look like athletic gear. “I know who you are. Now, where’s your partner?”

I skated away, keeping my muscles warm. “No clue. Sleeping off his beer, I suppose.”

She frowned at me. “You haven’t seen him? It’s nine in the morning.”

“Is it?” I hadn’t noticed. I’d been so caught up in enjoying my skating—my own private rink!—that I had lost track of time. I’d been picturing routines in my head, trying to think of the best moves that would be easy enough for a douchebag like Ty to do and still have us come out looking great.

“Yes. Where’s your cameraman?”

“I don’t know that either,” I told her, shrugging. Then, I curled into another sit spin, because skating was easier than answering questions. A freaking choreographer. Imelda was nice, but I resented that we had to have one. I liked to do my own routines, damn it. Wouldn’t I know what was best for me? This was like having a coach again—worse, because at least a coach would be positive and encourage you. A coach could tell you how to fix your moves.

Imelda didn’t look as if she’d ever stepped onto the ice. I gave her another wary look as I circled around, hands on my hips. She had a phone out and was calling someone. A minute later, she put it down and gave me a tight smile. “We’ll get this taken care of.”

“Okay,” I told her, and I began to speed around the ice, jumping into a triple Salchow. I was off, though, and doubled it. Damn it. I lifted my skate and rubbed the penny taped to the bottom for more good juju, then skated around to try again. Nailed it the second time.

I was still skating and being ignored by Imelda when the double doors of the ice rink opened a short time later. In walked Ty, dressed in sweats and a dirty wife-beater. His eyes were puffy slits that told me he was hung over, and his feet were bare. Lovely. At his side, another man in an ugly striped polo shirt and khakis talked into his phone, a frown on his face. He held a pair of skates out to Ty, who snatched them with a grumpy look.

Ty had the look of a kid that had been called to the principal’s office.

Damn. I couldn’t even enjoy that. It had to be embarrassing. Who was that guy? His dad? His manager? It didn’t matter. Ty being schooled in front of me like a child wouldn’t do much for his mood.

The man clicked his phone shut and turned to Ty. He pointed at the ice. “Now. You’re here, and you’re going to do this competition like we talked about. If you ever want to fight in Vegas again, you need to take this shit seriously. Show people you have a heart. Because if you don’t, you’re finished. Remember Mike Tyson? The only reason he ever got work in this town again is because he had good PR people.”

Ty rolled his eyes and his shoulders slouched, the very picture of irritated sulking. “You know I don’t want to do this, Chuck.”

“Do you trust me?”

Ty glanced over at me, as if to say, “Do you believe this shit?” He smacked his lips a few times, as if considering, and then let his shoulders drop again. “Yeah.”

“Then no more fucking beer orgies. You’re going to shut up, and pay attention, and if you value your career, you’re going to do this fucking dancing shit, understand me?”

“Ice skating,” I corrected.

“Ice dancing,” Imelda said. “You’re both right.”

“Actually, it’s really not ice dancing,” I began, and then stopped. Oh, whatever. No one was listening anyhow. I twirled on the ice slowly, watching the scene play out.

There was another long, tense pause. Then Ty moved forward and sat down on the bench, putting his skates on. Once they were laced, he looked at his manager, then at me, and stepped onto the ice.

“Okay,” his manager said. “Why don’t you show them what you can do.”

Ty glanced over at him and took a few shuffling steps onto the ice, spreading his hands. “Voila.”

“I know you can skate,” I told him. “Don’t pull this shit.” And I circled around him just to show off.

He smirked at me and turned around, skating backward now. So I did another circle and passed him, just to show my stuff. The next few minutes turned into a pissing war between us. The faster he skated, the faster I moved around him, determined to zigzag in front every chance I got.

Then, when I crossed over in front of him again, he grabbed me around the waist and twirled us both in a circle, my skates flying into the air.

I yelped in surprise.

He laughed and looked over at Imelda. “Well, at least she’s easy to lift.”

I squirmed out of his grasp, flustered. That contact had felt weirdly intimate. I mean, it wasn’t as if I didn’t expect to be grabbed on the ice. I did. That was how lifts happened. But that spontaneous embrace? That flustered me.

Imelda got to her feet and held out two pieces of paper in front of us. “Now that you two are warmed up, I thought I’d go over the choreography for the first routine.”

I skidded away from Ty on the ice and moved to the edge, reaching out and grabbing the first piece of paper from Imelda. “Print outs? Really?”

“So you can learn your steps,” she told me in a calm voice. “I’ve already mapped out your routine and what you’ll be wearing.”

“You what?” I looked at her in shock. “You picked music and everything?”

“I have. It’s all taken care of.”

That…didn’t make me happy. “So why did you guys get professional figure skaters?”

She tilted her head at me. “What do you mean?”

I shook the printout at her. “You can get any idiot to do a jump and a sit spin. After all, you’re having celebrities do this.”

“Hey,” Ty said sharply.

“It’s true,” I said, looking down the list and reading it. “This is kiddie shit. So if you’re picking out the routines and the costumes and the music, why not hire amateurs? Why do you want real skaters doing this?” I was lashing out at her, but I was growing increasingly disappointed with this job. I thought it would be a chance for me to show my stuff in a public venue. Get my face back on the map. Instead, they wanted an idiot that would just wander around the ice and do what she was told.

I scanned the routine she’d made for us. Yawn city. This was turning into a disappointing job, all right. I’d be paid well, but that was about it. No one would be interested in a figure skater who did as shitty a routine as what Imelda had mapped out. I’d get a paycheck for this job and not much more.

To say I was frustrated was an understatement.

Imelda looked clearly hurt by my arguments. “Well, Miss Zara, I understand your concerns. Would you like for me to tell the network that you’re not interested in doing the routine?”

I blinked a few times. “No, ma’am. I want this job.”

She beamed at me, just as if I hadn’t argued with her at all. “Well then, I believe we should practice, don’t you? Now for starters, let’s get you two comfortable with each other. You both look like two porcupines with how prickly you’re being to one another.” She gestured with her hands for us to move forward. “Ice dancing is all about body language, and right now your body language is telling me ‘no thank you.’ I want you both to pull in together and try to waltz on the ice.”

I dug my toe pick into the ice and skated toward Ty, extending my hand for him to take.

He grasped it in his, and I was immediately struck at how strong—and big—his hand was compared to mine. I knew that my build was small, but standing next to Ty’s bulk, he made me feel positively dwarfed. His big hand clutched mine, and his hand went to my waist, pulling me in.

Did I think that Ty spontaneously holding my hands had been intimate? It was nothing compared to him putting his hand at my waist and dragging me against him. My breast pressed against his chest, and my body fitted against his.

Imelda tittered. “Not that close. This isn’t dirty dancing.”

“Yeah, that’d probably get better ratings,” Ty muttered, his gaze flicking to me.

I smothered a laugh. “This is serious,” I told him in a stern voice. “Please concentrate.”

“Further apart, please,” Imelda instructed us.

I obediently took a step backward, extending our embrace outward.

Imelda continued to sit on her bench, directing us from afar as she guided us on our posture. She never took a step toward the ice, content with politely barking orders from afar as we shuffled, clasped hands, re-clasped, adjusted our arms, and whatever else she wanted us to do. When she was satisfied with our posture, we were instructed to simply dance around the rink in time.

I picked it up easily, which was no surprise, since I had a lot of skating experience.

Ty was definitely the weak link on our team. He struggled to find a rhythm, and his hand clasped mine so tightly that it was sweating. He frowned the entire time, watching our feet. When he stumbled, he thrust me away from him, clearly done. “This is stupid. I hate this.”

“Ty,” his manager said warningly.

“I feel like I’m fucking back in high school,” Ty muttered.

“You’re acting like it too,” I told him in a light voice, extending my hand back out to him.

He glared at me, wiping sweat from his brow. “Aren’t you tired? Don’t you want a break? I think we’ve got this.”

“Actually,” I told him. “We don’t have this. We’re not even close to having this. Your steps aren’t even remotely close to being in time with mine, your arms aren’t locked, and your skating has no rhythm at all. If we go out there like this, you’ll make us a laughingstock, and I’m not about to have that happen. So if it takes twelve hours for us to get down how to move around on the ice? I’m fine with that, and you should be, too. Understand?”

He pushed my extended hand away. “I’m not doing this for twelve more hours today.”

“Fine then,” I told him. “You can take the rest of the day off, and we’ll do twelve hours tomorrow of nothing but holding hands and skating together.”

He threw his hands up, as if done. “You know what? I’m out of here. Close enough. We have two weeks to learn this shit.” He began to skate off of the ice.

I skated after him. “You can’t quit. It’s barely even eleven am. That’s way too early to finish for the day.”

Both Imelda and his manager were frowning at him. “Ty,” his manager began.

“Nope,” Ty said, stomping onto the carpeted steps with his skates, and then outside, not even bothering to take his skates off. “Done,” he yelled. “I’ve done enough.”

I put my hands on my hips, frustrated. “Well, what the hell?” I looked over at Ty’s manager. “Are you going to let him just walk away like that?”