Ice Games (8 page)

“Oh, I noticed,” he said with a grin. “Which is why I always say—”

“—No sequins,” I finished for him, laughing.

His eyes warmed and the grin spread wider. “Exactly. I’m telling you right now, though, if it looks Liberace-inspired, I’m not wearing it.”

His smiles made me feel good. I placed my hand on his shoulder and told him, “If it’s Liberace-inspired, I won’t blame you.”

Ty clicked a remote in his pocket, and the music began to play. We started the routine, and I began to count steps aloud to try and help him move along fast enough to keep up with the music. By the time the chorus rolled around, we were a step behind. He cursed. “This fucking footwork is killing me.”

“It’s okay,” I told him comfortingly. “You’re doing awesome. And look on the bright side. Next week will be an entirely different challenge, but at least it won’t be footwork again.”

“Bright side.” He snorted, hit the button to turn off the music, and then looked over at me. “So what are you wearing tonight?”

I gave him a little frown. “Tonight? What’s tonight?”

“The network’s having a kickoff party. I was told all the regulars were invited and the celebrities. Didn’t you get an invite?”

Embarrassment swept through me. I stepped backward, pulling out of his arms. “I guess not. I’m not really a regular, you know. I’m just a fill in for Svetlana.” And what a way to remind me. Ouch. This one was going to leave a mark for a long, long time. I tried not to let it bother me, even though I couldn’t help but get depressed.

A kickoff party for the show, and I hadn’t even been invited. Man. That was cold. It did teach me something important, though—that I didn’t count to the network.

“Aw, hell. I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Zara. I thought everyone was invited.”

I forced a bright smile to my face. “Hey, it’s okay. Not your fault. I’ll just stay here and practice.”

“Hell, no.” Ty set his jaw. “You’re going to go as my date.”

Well, if there was one thing I was learning about Ty, it was that he was loyal…and constantly full of surprises. “You want me to go as your date? Really?”

“Really.”

I had a funny little flutter in my stomach. Anxiousness? Something else? “They’re letting people bring dates to the party?”

He gave me a wicked look, and put his hand on my waist again, drawing me in for more dancing. “I’m not going to ask.”

Oh no. That was not good. Being a party crasher wasn’t smart if I wanted to be hired permanently by the network. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Ty.”

“They want me on their show? They’ll let me bring a date.” His hand clasped mine firmly. “Now. Shall we try this again?”

~~ * ~~

A few hours later, we were still a step behind the music, but making progress. We’d left practice early to prepare for the shindig, and I’d showered and toyed with my hair nervously for the past hour. I hadn’t packed anything super fancy, but I did have a little black dress. Years of last-minute tweaking on costumes had made me handy with a needle and thread and last minute alterations. I managed to tear the back and sleeves off and changed it to a slip-dress with an open back and no sleeves. I had hair ribbons (what good ice skater didn’t carry a batch of hair ribbons?) and used a few of those to add a splash of pink to my neck as a decorative choker. It wasn’t super dressy, but it’d do. I had a pair of black sling-backs that I always packed and slipped those on, focusing my attention on my hair and makeup. If I did them well enough, no one would notice that my dress was a little on the casual side.

I fixed my hair into loose waves that spread over my shoulders and back. It was so dark brown that it was almost black, and it was layered so that it hung in sexy waves when I decided to let it out of my uptight bun. I lined my eyes and put on smoky eye shadow and mascara, and I curled my lashes to make my eyes bigger. Satisfied, I finished the look with a slick of nude lip gloss. The woman that stared back at me in the mirror was still tiny, but she had a hint of sultriness to her. My eyes—and naked back—looked sexy. At least no one would think I was fourteen tonight.

Ready, I left my room and headed into the living room of the cottage where Ty was waiting for me. I was surprised to see him in a gray suit—and a little dismayed. “How formal is this party?”

“Does it matter? It’s too late to change anyhow.” He gave me an up and down look, as if appraising my outfit.

I gave a small twirl in my modified dress. “Will I pass muster?”

“Absolutely.” Ty rubbed his mouth, studying me, and then shook his head.

“What?”

“Was just wondering how come this girl doesn’t show up to rehearsals every day. She’s fucking hot.”

I batted him on the shoulder. “I’m the same girl, doofus.”

“Yes, but this one has, like, hair and stuff.” He touched it in wonder.

“You’re one to talk,” I said, reaching out and rubbing his shaved scalp. “And if you saw this hair at five in the morning, I’d like to see what you could do with it.”

He gave one of my locks a tug, and then rubbed it between his fingers. “If I saw this hair at five in the morning, it’d be because it was spread all over my pillow.”

I sucked in a breath at the mental image. Ty leaning over me, me under him, my hair spread in a halo on the pillow. Just like that, I felt my nipples stiffen. Okay, wow.
Thanks for the visual
. Now I was all turned on.

He winked at me, as if to nullify any flirty implications. “Come on, Zara. Time to go party.” And he offered me his arm.

I took it, smoothing my hand over his jacket sleeve. He looked hot tonight, too. The jacket hung just loosely enough to emphasize his big, meaty shoulders, but it cut in to hug his trim waist. He didn’t wear a tie—no surprise there, because I doubted his thick neck would squeeze into one. Instead, his collar was open at the throat, showing darkly tanned skin against the pale blue of his shirt. He was freshly shaven and smelled fantastic.

I sniffed him. “Wow. Why doesn’t this great-smelling guy show up to practice?”

“Oh, he can if you want him to.” And Ty winked at me again.

I snorted. “Let’s just go already. I’m freaked enough as it is.”

“Don’t be nervous,” he told me, and his expression was grim, firm. “You have every right to be there, just as much as anyone else.”

And that kind of made me feel warm inside. If nothing else, I had the support of Ty the MMA Biter.

CHAPTER SIX

So…Okay, so that comment I made about Zara being hot? It was true, but I also didn’t mention that I find her hot all the time. Like 24/7. Even in her leotards. There’s just something about a girl that can pull her ankle over her head.
— Ty Randall, Preliminary Practice Rounds,
Ice Dancing with the Stars

~~ * ~~

The party was an intimidating affair. There were suits everywhere, clearly network aficionados. A few of the stars from last season had shown up, along with the heavily pregnant Svetlana, Ty’s manager, Chuck, and a few other VIPs.

I wasn’t good at working a crowd, so I stuck to Ty’s side like glue. He turned out to be incredibly charming, much to my surprise. Everyone knew his name and had a friendly word for him. Annamarie Evans had flirted heavily with him, giving me meaningful looks that indicated that she thought I should leave. I even tried to, but Ty’s arm remained tight around my waist.

The female executive from that first meeting had showed up, too.

“Gloria,” Ty said, holding his hand out for her to shake. “You look lovely tonight. You remember Zara, my partner?”

I held my hand out. “Hi again,” I said awkwardly.

“How are things going?” Gloria asked politely, her gaze moving back to Ty. “Ready for the premiere tomorrow?”

“As ready as we’ll ever be,” Ty said, looking over at me. “Right?”

“Absolutely,” I said, and began to gush nervous words. “Ty’s footwork is just a bit of a step behind during the main chorus sequence, but I’m sure that we’ll have it down by tomorrow once we get our costumes. I mean, we can take the day to practice and make sure we nail it in time. All it takes—”

Ty gave my waist a bit of a squeeze, cutting me off. “We’ll be ready,” he told her. “Don’t you worry.”

She gave us a patient smile. “I’m sure you will be. Enjoy the party, will you?”

“We will,” Ty said. “Next time, though, do me a favor and make sure that Zara’s invite gets to her? I think it got lost, and I’d hate for one of the assistants to get fired over something so small.”

One eyebrow rose. She looked at me, and then gave Ty a curt nod. “I’ll speak with the staff.”

“See that you do,” Ty said, and walked away, dragging me along with him.

My eyes felt like they were the size of saucers as we left her behind and stepped down onto a lovely garden terrace. “You just told her to invite me to the next one.”

“I did. They have these fairly regularly. It’s a good networking opportunity. You should go to all of them.”

I didn’t tell him that I probably wouldn’t have the chance to go to another. I was just the fill in for Svetlana, after all. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He gave me a long look. “Maybe don’t talk too much, though.”

I grimaced. “Yeah, I’m a nervous talker.”

“You’re a talker, full stop,” he said, but he gave me another comfortable squeeze at my waist, his thumb grazing my bare back by accident.

A waiter passed by with glasses of champagne, and I snagged one. God, I needed a drink. I was nervous as hell.

Ty just as quickly took it back out of my hand again, and set it down on a nearby table. “You haven’t exactly shown me that you can hold your alcohol,” he murmured into my ear.

I started to get annoyed…and then realized he had a point. Drinking was probably bad the night before a performance, too. “You’re right. It might mess up my juju.”

He laughed, shaking his head at me. “Heaven forbid we mess up the juju.”

“You laugh, but the juju’s important,” I chastised him.

“I’m sure it is,” he said, giving me a warm look. His thumb stroked the small of my back again, and I was pretty sure that time it wasn’t an accident. “I’m thinking a lot of things are important that I didn’t notice before.”

“Oh? Like what?” I tilted my head, regarding him. A curl of my hair slid over my shoulder, and I noticed Ty’s gaze follow it.

An electric current ran through my skin, tingling with awareness.

“Ty! Ty, honey, come over here!” A female voice cooed, interrupting our intimate conversation. I looked over, and Annamarie was waving at Ty, trying to beckon him over to a group of her friends. All dressed in long, slinky gowns, all clearly models. Ugh.

And here I was, skinny Zara Pritchard, thinking I was having a moment with sexy, brawny Ty Randall. I was clearly dreaming.

I stepped out of his protective embrace and gestured. “You should go see what they want.”

He glanced at them, and then at me. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be here,” I said with a twirl of my finger. I crossed my arms over my chest and sat down on a stool at the nearby bar, waiting. I tried not to focus too much on how lovely Annamarie’s group was, but it was impossible not to notice. She and her friends immediately pulled Ty in to their group, and the conversation flew at a lively pace. Annamarie would throw her head back and laugh and lean a little closer to Ty, nudging him with her arm.

Ugh. Wasn’t she supposed to be sleeping with her own partner already? Why go after mine? I crossed my legs, and my foot swung over and over again in a nervous flick.

“Hello again,” said a voice, and a big body slid into the stool next to mine.

I looked over in surprise. Serge. Speaking of Annamarie’s partner… “Hi Serge. Long time no see.”

“It
has
been quite a long time. Two weeks, perhaps?” He gave me a smile that was supposed to be sexy, I guessed, but his shaggy, too-long blond hair screamed 70s Eurotrash—as did his beaky nose—and it was hard to take him seriously.

“I meant in competition. What’s it been, since 2002 Nationals?”

He gave me a pitying smile. “Oh, little Zara. This isn’t a real competition. You realize this, yes? This is just a TV show we do for cash and notoriety. It is like an endorsement deal. You sell yourself for money, and try not to feel dirty about it afterward.” He gave me a superior look down his long eagle-nose. “But I guess you would not know about that, would you?”

Oh, so that was what this conversation was about. Time to psych out the competition? Fine then. “No, I guess I wouldn’t.” I gave him a polite smile. “So how are those hemorrhoid ads working out for you?”

Serge actually advertised a muscle cream over in Europe, but as jokes went, it was close enough to offend. He glared at me. “I do not advertise for hemorrhoids.”

“No? I thought I heard that. Oh, that’s right.” I snapped my fingers. “I heard that you were working hard on getting the herpes market cornered. My bad.” I leaned in. “I’d tell you that you might wanna warn Annamarie about that, but it looks like she’s currently sinking her hooks into my partner. Sorry.”

He got up from his seat. “You are still an unpleasant little girl, I see. I came over to give you some friendly advice, and you have been nothing but rude.”

I kept my smile pinned to my face. “Friendly advice, huh? What about?”

Serge gave me a thin-lipped smile. “Half the points come from scoring, little one. Half comes from the audience. If you want to win this? You need them both. But I see you don’t care about winning.”

I digested this warning-slash-advice. He couldn’t influence the audience, of course, so he had to be warning me about the judging panel. So they were crooked? Great. Figure skating had a long history of ‘slanted’ judging panels, so this shouldn’t have been a surprise to me, but I did feel a twinge of doubt.

I glanced over at my partner as Serge stalked away. Ty was laughing it up with Annamarie and her supermodel buddies, and I noticed Annamarie had a long, too-tan hand on his back, an almost possessive gesture. And he sure wasn’t fighting her off.

Figured.

~~ * ~~

“No,” Ty said. “Absolutely fucking not.”

I bit my lip, glancing around nervously at the stage hands rushing around. People were everywhere, even crawling around in the dressing rooms, and so were the cameramen. No place was off limits, and that included last minute costume, ahem, alterations.

Ty threw down his shirt and looked at me with disgust. “What did I tell her all week?”

“No sequins,” I said, biting the inside of my cheek and trying not to laugh.

“And what is this freaking…monstrosity covered with?” He gestured at the garish shirt that was now wadded into a ball.

I picked it up and studied it. It was a virtual match to my own, which meant it was incredibly hideous. It was a cowboy outfit…sort of. To go with our “Boot Scootin’” theme. Sort of. Except it was neon. I was neon pink and he was chartreuse. And both were covered in yellow fringe going up the arms (which was bad enough) and purple sequins (which was even worse). To make matters worse, I had bright white chaps and he had purple ones. Again, sequined and covered in fringe. His cowboy hat was bright green, and we had fake ‘boots’ that went over our skates and matched our chaps.

It was pretty much a costuming nightmare. No wonder they hadn’t wanted to show us until the last minute.

Ty shook his head at me. “I’ll wear the goddamn ugly hat. I’ll wear the fucking fringey-ass pants, since I have to, but I refuse to wear sequins. Absolutely and completely refuse. NO fucking way.”

I studied his clothing. It really was an odd choice for a guy as masculine as Ty. Maybe for a traditional figure skater with no sense of taste? But not Ty Randall, big, beefy, incredibly sexy MMA fighter. They didn’t even show off his tight ass.

I shook my head at myself. Where on earth had those thoughts come from?

“I’m sorry, Zara,” Ty said to me. He took my hands in his and gave me an earnest look. “I tried really fucking hard these last two weeks. I did. I understand how badly you want this. But a man’s got to draw a line somewhere, and this is my line. If they have to scratch us from the competition, I’ll take the scratch and work on another way to fix my PR.”

“It’s not that bad,” I told him, giving his hands a squeeze.

“I look like I belong in a gay pride parade.”

Okay, he kind of did. I studied his costume and then sighed. We could either spend the next hour warming up for the show, or I could try to fix his costume. Looking into Ty’s angry gaze, it was clear what my choice was. I pulled up one of the folding chairs and got out my costume alteration kit. “Let me see what I can do.”

Forty-five minutes later, Ty no longer looked like a parade float. We’d scrapped the shirt entirely, as well as the hat, and he’d decided to go bare-chested at my suggestion. After all, he had a gorgeous chest. Seemed a shame not to put that to good use. I couldn’t do anything about his sequined boot-covers, so we ditched them. Instead, I focused on de-fringe-ing his pants and removing the strips of sequins that had been badly sewn down the seam of each leg. When I was done, he had garish neon pants, but now they just looked like they matched mine.

“Do you want a hot pink bandanna?” I asked as he pulled on his pants again. “It could complete the outfit.”

He scowled at me. “Do I
look
like I want a hot pink bandanna?”

I giggled. Guess not. “Does this mean we can still go on?”

“I guess so,” he said, and sighed heavily. “The guys are going to give me such shit for this.”

~~ * ~~

The music went up, and the show began. I could hear the audience cheering from the Crash Room—horribly named, I thought—in the back where teams sat and waited for their turn to go out on the ice. The judges were introduced, and then a montage of clips from the past two weeks began, showcasing moments from our introductions to trainings.

I could hear a swell of gasps come up from the audience and heard my own voice, loud and tinny, over the speakers, explaining how I’d tripped and fallen. Oh no. They were showing the video of my bruised and swollen face.

At my side, Ty clenched my hand and rubbed his chin, clearly nervous about how it would go over. But then they cut away to another team, and laughter filled the studio a moment later as Michael Michaels had a montage of clips of him falling on his ass repeatedly.

No big drama about my nose, then. Good. I relaxed, too, and touched the bridge of it. It had healed up nicely a week ago, and you couldn’t even tell that it had ever grown to the size of a potato.

The makeup artists had taken their time with me before the show, making sure that I looked like the others…which meant lots of make-up in bright colors. I wasn’t surprised. Skaters were used to heavy eye-makeup, blush, and lipstick so you didn’t look featureless and washed out on the ice. Of course, I was also used to my hair being pulled into an ultra-tight bun so it wouldn’t get in my face, and they’d insisted on braiding it into two cutesy tails over my ears. Ugh. It went with my horrible psychedelic cowgirl costume, I supposed.