Ice Games (9 page)

I eyed the costumes of the other contestants. Most of them wore a more casual look—jeans and plaid for the guys, denim dresses for the girls, and some sort of cowboy hat or fringe motif. We were the only ones in garish colors, and judging from the sympathetic looks Emma was sending my way, we looked pitiful. Oh well.

We were the first up after the montage, and I tried not to be nervous. Well, tried and failed. I’ve always had a bit of nerves before a performance, and this was no different. Except the difference here was that in Nationals or at the Olympics, I’d be given time on the ice to warm up and prep. On the show, we were expected to take care of that beforehand and just stroll out onto the ice, ready to skate as soon as the music started.

I didn’t like that, but no one asked me. So I simply leaned over and touched my talismans taped to the bottom of my skate with my free hand, trying to increase my good juju.

“Okay, first team, you’re up. Montage ends in sixty seconds,” one of the production team told us, then pressed a hand to the headset over his ear. He pointed to the door at the far end of the Crash Room. Another assistant opened it and beckoned for us to come through.

In a daze, I stood. Ty grabbed my hand again and pulled me forward, and the butterflies in my stomach turned into pterodactyls. I stumbled after him, my legs feeling wooden. We were about to be on TV. National TV. Live TV. And Ty still didn’t have the routine down pat. How could he? He wasn’t a skater, and we’d only had two weeks to learn it. I didn’t blame him. It was the show. The entire set-up was stupid.
I
was stupid for even agreeing to be on it. He’d look terrible and then, thanks to our ugly costumes, we’d be the laughing-stock of the figure skating world. And, oh God—

“Breathe, Zara,” Ty told me as we moved into place. A cameraman was there in our faces, filming us as we waited, and I could hear the host talking to the audience, explaining the rules. There was a bit of chatter from the judges’ panel, and then more from the host. The audience began to clap again, and my panic grew once more.

“Okay, in thirty seconds, you guys are going to step right out onto the ice, wave to the audience, and then get into position,” the assistant told us. “Take off your blade guards now so you can be ready.” She held her hand out.

I did so, obediently—so did Ty. As we did, I looked at the big red curtain that would pull back in mere seconds, cuing us to step onto the ice. There was a problem. I looked at the assistant. “I need to kiss the ice first.”

“What?” She shook her head, taking my skate guards and tucking them under her arm. “Music’s starting. Get ready to go out.”

“I can’t go out onto the ice unless I kiss it first,” I said, and my voice raised to a hysterical note that was quickly drowned by the clapping of the audience. “It’s bad luck. I can’t do that! It’s bad enough that we’re going first!”

“Zara,” Ty said calmly, “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” I babbled, turning towards him with a panicked look. I tried to move forward to the curtains. I didn’t care how stupid it’d look; if they’d let me just stick my head out and kiss the ice really fast, I’d be fine. My nerves would disappear because I’d have luck on my side. It didn’t matter how torn up or dirty the ice was—I always kissed it.
Always
. “I have to do this, Ty. I have to. I can’t—”

“Listen, Zara,” Ty said, grabbing my hands before I charged through the curtains in my panic. “Listen,” he said soothingly. “They’re not going to let you kiss the ice—”

“First, no warm up, and now I can’t kiss the ice?” I asked hysterically. Tears were pooling in my eyes. I was going to hyperventilate. I couldn’t breathe. “I can’t—”

“I know,” he said, and his voice was calm. He squeezed my hands. “It’s okay. I understand. Do you know what I do when I’m about to go out into a fight? For good luck?”

“Time to go out,” the assistant said, urgency in her voice.

We ignored her. My gaze was locked on Ty’s face. I needed reassurance, and I needed it badly.

He let go of my hands. “My coach and I have a secret handshake,” he told me in a calm voice. He grabbed my hand, made a fist, fist-bumped me, and then grabbed my fingers and made a loop. Then he looped his own through it. He did three or four more hand motions before he was satisfied. “There. Lucky handshake. It’ll counteract the bad juju, okay?”

“Okay,” I whispered.

“Go out,” the assistant hissed, giving us a little shove. “We’re live, damn it!”

Ty winked at me, grabbed my hand, and then surged forward through the curtains. I had no choice but to follow.

After being backstage in the dark prep-room behind the curtains, gliding out onto the brightly-lit ice was blinding. The audience rose up into a wild cheer, and both Ty and I raised our free hands to wave at the crowd, moving to the center of the ice, our hands locked.

Ty stopped, digging his toe-pick into the ice, and then he pulled me close. We got into our starting pose, froze in place, and waited. As I stared at him, my hand clasped in his, I realized his palms were sweating, and he was more nervous than he’d let on. Strangely enough, now that we were on the ice, all my nerves had gone away.

So, I winked at him to let him know everything would be okay.

The music began, assaulting us with the thick guitar twang of “Boot Scootin’ Boogie.” We jumped into the dance, our hands tightly clasped, and began to perform to the music. I wore my brightest smile, trying to make this seem like fun, since the look on Ty’s face was one of pure concentration. He was supposed to smile at me and look at ease; we’d practiced that multiple times. But it seemed he couldn’t smile and do footwork at the same time, so I settled for footwork.

The chorus swelled, and we began the first footwork sequence, our skates moving fast and in-sync on the ice. Perfect! I knew we’d nailed it when I’d heard the audience clapping, and we continued on through the song.

Somewhere in the second half, Ty began to slow down. Perhaps it was too much to concentrate on, or maybe his nerves were getting to him, but I tried to cover for it as best as possible, making my moves a little more sweeping to disguise the fact that he wasn’t quite able to keep up with the song. By the time the chorus moved through a second time, though, we were a full step behind. Nothing to do but carry on and persevere.

We only had a minute and a half to perform, so the song was truncated. I wanted to wince when the music ended before our dancing did. We flung our hands out into our finale pose, ignoring the fact that we were a step or two off, and the audience burst into applause.

We’d survived the first skate. I sucked in a breath and looked over at Ty, grinning.

He yanked me forward and pulled me into a hug, plastering my smaller form against his big, naked chest. The audience cheered even more, and we hugged even more, and then we gave another wave to the crowd as the host skated over.

Maybe I hadn’t been paying attention to the show itself, but the host I recognized. Chip Brubaker, who hosted a ton of these types of shows, moved over to us, a little wobbly on his skates. He wore a tux, a pound of makeup, and a fake smile. “Ty and Zara,” he announced. “Our first skate of the evening. Give it up for them!”

We smiled and waved as the audience cheered again.

“Let’s give our judges a minute to tally their scores,” Chip said, and moved closer to us. “Ty, I notice you’re missing half of your costume.”

The host shoved a microphone towards Ty for him to answer.

After a moment’s hesitation, Ty leaned in and spoke. “I am.”

Chip took the microphone back, all goofy smiles. “Any particular reason for that?” Again, the microphone went right under Ty’s nose.

“Sequins,” Ty said immediately. “I’d rather be naked than wear sequins.”

The audience gave a startled laugh, and I could hear whistles from one section.

Chip chuckled, as if pleased with our answer. “All right then.” He turned to the cameras. “For those at home, just a reminder of how the scoring works. Fifty percent of the ice dancers’ score will be based on our judges’ criteria. They’ll be looking for artistic performance, originality, and technical expertise, and they’ll be scaling our dancers on a score of one to ten. The other fifty percent of the scoring will be based on your vote. If you like a couple and want to save them, vote. The phone number for voting for Zara and Ty will be on your screen.” He pointed at the air, and I guessed that was where the phone number would show up. “Your favorites need your vote. And with that, let’s go to our judges’ panel and see how Zara and Ty did!”

We turned, and the spotlight went to the first person in the judges’ panel. Penelope Marks, my old nemesis. When I’d walked off the ice at the Olympics? She’d gone on to medal despite having a totally inferior program. I hated her. She also got two of the endorsement deals that had been courting me until that moment. To say that I wasn’t a fan was putting it mildly.

She looked gorgeous, if a little too tanned. Her limp blonde hair was cut in a jagged style, and she dripped with designer jewelry. She waved to the audience when they cheered, and then gave us a bright, pastel-pink smile, clasping her hands together. “So, Ty and Zara. First of all, I want to say that I appreciate how hard it is to come out here and perform.” She gave us a polite smile. “I know it’s tough, and ice skating is not for everyone. That being said, I do think you both need to work on your form and your footwork along with your artistry. I just wasn’t feeling it at all.” She held up a scorecard. “Sorry.”

She’d given us a two.

Bitch.

The audience gasped. A few courteous ‘boos’ echoed.

Penelope shrugged. “I just didn’t love it. Better luck next week.”

The spotlight moved to the next judge, Irina Brezhlova. She was a Czech coach from back in the day, and very famous. Her motherly smile beamed down on us. “I thought you both did very well for being the first team to come out onto the ice. I wasn’t a fan of the music, but I enjoyed your colorful costumes and the fun routine.” She held up her card. Six. Getting better, at least.

The audience clapped politely.

The third judge was Raul Pacheco, a male skater that I vaguely recognized from the decade before mine. He studied us for a minute. “Your timing was off, but I think you both have potential. I’d like to see what you bring to future performances.”

He unveiled another six.

“All right. That’s a total of fourteen points out of a possible thirty.” Chip patted me on the back since I was closest to him. “We’ll see how that stacks up against the rest of our contestants. Thank you again, Ty and Zara.”

We waved to the audience and then skated away, heading back to the Crash Room.

We were hosed.

Bad juju had totally nailed us.

~~ * ~~

The rest of the show went by in a blur. The others performed, but I barely noticed except that Michael Michaels completely fell on his ass at one point. They had come back to us for one more question, which Ty had glibly answered while I’d sat there, numb. My mind kept playing back the scores. Penelope Marks had given us a two. I seethed at that two. It was like she was deliberately trying to torpedo us. We hadn’t been great, but we hadn’t been that bad. The score had been totally unfair.

Most of all, it bothered me that she’d openly screw Ty just because she didn’t like me. That wasn’t fair to him.

At the end of the show, all the scores were tallied and teams were sent back out onto the ice in the order of our scores. At the front of the lineup, Serge and Annamarie were tied with Toby and Victoria Kiss. Next was Jon Jon and Julia, then Emma and Louie Earl. Ty and I were tied with Tatiana and Michael Michaels for last.

The music went down, and the show was over.

CHAPTER SEVEN

So that competition thing? That was a total hoser. What was the point of me coming on this show again? To prance around with a sexy partner and then wash out in the first round? What the hell? Huh? Sexy partner? Yeah, I said that. Have you seen Zara? That tight little ass? It takes everything I have not to try and grab it, because that’d make me a perv.
— Ty Randall, Post-Show Interview, Week 1,
Ice Dancing with the Stars

~~ * ~~

That night, when we returned to the cottage together, I headed straight for Ty’s fridge (that was now plugged in), searching for beer.

“What are you looking for?”

“A drink,” I told him. “I think I need one after tonight.”

He snorted. “I thought it went better than expected. The audience liked us.”

“Yeah,” I told him. “But the judges hated us, and that’s half of our score.”

“Come on,” he told me, pulling me away from the fridge that was now filled with health foods and bottles of water—curse my interference! —and pulled me toward the sofa. “You didn’t really expect to win, did you?”

I thumped down on one end of the couch and gave him a look that said, “yes, I did expect to win.”

He laughed, sitting on the other end of the couch, and grabbed my feet, pulling off my tennies to make me comfortable. I let him put my feet in his lap. A foot massage was obviously meant to distract me…but I was game for a bit of distraction. I crossed my arms over my chest and wiggled my feet as he tossed my shoes to the ground and began to rub them through my socks.

“That first chick that was the judge,” he said. “What was her name?”

“Penelope Marks,” I said sourly. “A really old enemy of mine.”

“I think she hates everyone. Did you see that she gave Michael Michaels and his chick a one? She’s clearly supposed to be the mean judge.” He rubbed my foot and then frowned at my red-and-yellow-striped socks. “Didn’t you wear these yesterday?”

“I wear them every day during competition,” I said, wiggling my toes at him.

“Gross?” He released my feet.

I laughed and poked him in the stomach with my big toe. “I wash them in the sink every night, silly.”

He put his big hands back on my feet, and that smile that made my stomach tie into knots tugged at his mouth. “Let me guess. More juju?”

I nodded, and then sighed. “Not that it mattered. Between the lack of an ice kiss and Penelope on the judging panel, I’m pretty sure we’re screwed.”

“You worry too much,” he told me easily. “It’s fine.”

“And you’re not worrying at all,” I complained at him. “Don’t you care if we get totally reamed by the judges? The longer you stay on the show, the better you’ll do, PR-wise.”

“Yeah, but if it means ripping sequins out of my clothing every night five minutes before we’re supposed to go on stage? I’ll take my chances.” Silence fell between us, and Ty looked over at me. “Did you see the others’ costumes?”

“No,” I said sulkily. “I was too busy being blinded by ours.”

He chuckled. “Yeah. Imelda has some shit taste in costumes.”

“And routines, and music.”

“I kinda think we’re hosed either way,” he told me.

That just made me feel worse. Tears brimmed in my eyes. “I hate losing.”

“Oh, come on,” he told me, and he grabbed my calves, dragging me forward. He pulled me until my legs dangled over his lap and my butt rested against one of his big thighs. “Don’t cry. Do you need a hug?”

He spread his arms and gave me a silly puppy-dog look that made me laugh despite my tears. “You’re really taking this ‘kinder, gentler Ty Randall’ thing to heart, aren’t you?” I teased, leaning in and putting my head on his shoulder.

Ty hugged me close, rubbing my back. “I know it sucks to work this hard on something and get nowhere. We just have to do the best we can. That’s all we can do. Fuck the rest of them.”

I wiggled closer, enjoying being cuddled against Ty. He was so big and strong and…cuddly. You wouldn’t think that a tough guy bulging with muscle could be cuddly, but he was warm and comfy to lean against, and I liked the way his big hands rubbed my shoulders and back. I snuggled closer, sighing. “I feel like I failed you. Like I failed us. Just because Penelope Marks hates me.”

“You didn’t,” he whispered. His hand stroking my back slowed, and I felt his fingers trail slowly up and down my spine. “You did awesome. It’s her fault if she can’t see that.”

We said nothing for a long moment. His hand continued to move slowly up and down my spine, sending little shockwaves through my nerve endings. To my embarrassment, I felt my nipples harden. Awareness moved through me, and I felt heat pooling between my legs, my pulse pounding as he continued to lightly brush his fingertips over my back, and I could feel him through the thin material of my t-shirt. I didn’t move, I simply breathed in the scent of Ty from where my head was nestled against his neck. His big neck. Odd that I liked a guy with such a thick neck. I’d thought it was a sure sign of a dumb jock at first, but Ty was clever, and determined, and I really liked him the more I hung out with him.

Which was totally bad news.

I pulled away with a small, reluctant sigh, not trusting that I wouldn’t somehow embarrass myself around him.

“Thanks for the comforting,” I told him, trying to keep my voice chipper and hide the fact that I wanted to crawl all over him and put my mouth on his. I wasn’t his type—a stick with a mouth, he’d called me. Annamarie Evans was his type, and I was nothing like her. “I think I’ll head to bed. I’m going to be useless until they give us the results tomorrow anyhow.”

He nodded and cleared his throat. “Sounds good. You going to practice early?”

Part of me wanted to pout and hang up my skates for good, but I’d learned my lesson about that. “Yeah. I’ll be up at dawn as usual. I figure if we move on, we have to have a new routine learned by next week’s show. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

Ty chuckled. “Good point. I’ll be there, too.”

I gave him a faint smile. “Night.”

“Night.”

~~ * ~~

Waiting for the live show’s results, the next day passed slowly. We only had a half day of training, since the rest had to be spent getting ready for being on-air that evening. Imelda hadn’t shown up, but she had sent over an assistant with notes for us. Next week’s theme would be ‘theatrical soundtracks,’ and she’d picked a theme from
The Maltese Falcon
that I didn’t recognize. She’d left a note that she was already working with costuming on our outfits, so not to worry about it.

The element added this week? The pair spin.

We skipped practicing that for now, since it wouldn’t matter if we had to learn it or not if we were voted out. Ty and I took it easy, going through the steps of the new and equally-boring routine that Imelda had picked out for us.

I was starting to wonder if our choreographer was in cahoots with Penelope and if they were determined to make us the most boring team out there.

~~ * ~~

“We have the results from last night’s voting,” Chip said. “May I have the envelope, please?” He paused for dramatic effect as a young child skated out to him with the big red envelope.

My hand clenched Ty’s sweaty one.

So far, the results show hadn’t been nearly as painful. It was only a half-hour long, which meant there was time for a montage recap of the prior night, some commentary from the judges, a singer to trot out and flog their latest single, and then the results. We’d all paraded around the ice one last time in our costumes from the night before, and then we’d lined up in the order of our scores.

“Before we read the results, I’d like to see who our judges think will go home?” He looked to the judging panel.

Oh no. My lip curled. This was going to be like salt in the wound, wasn’t it?

Penelope played with a pen on the judging table, tapping it as she thought. “I considered this for a little while last night, and I feel like the weakest link is Ty and Zara. They should be the ones to go home.”

I made a gagging face, and then remembered that we were on camera. I hoped they hadn’t caught that. The way the audience laughed, though, they had clearly seen my expression. I’d have to remember that for next time.

“And you, Irina? Who do you think should go home?”

“I feel,” she said in her thick accent, “that all of the teams did well. I don’t think I could choose someone to go home at this point. They’ve all worked really hard.”

Clearly Irina was the softball judge. The audience clapped, agreeing with her.

“And Raul?”

He considered for a moment. “I thought Jon Jon and Julia had no chemistry. My vote would be for them.”

That surprised me. I glanced down the line at Jon Jon, but judging from the look on his face, he’d been expecting something like that.

“Time for the results,” Chip said. “Based on the audience votes and combined with the scores from last night…the first team safe is…Emma and Louie Earl!”

Triumphant music broke out, and I clapped for Emma, glad for her. She hugged her partner and looked thrilled as they skated forward, waved to the audience, and then moved off of the ice.

“The next team safe,” Chip continued, waiting for the clapping to die down. “Is…Serge and Annamarie Evans!”

I clapped, though less enthusiastically for them. Neither one was a surprise there. Louie Earl was an older man who was surprisingly agile on his feet, and Emma was talented. Serge and Annamarie were both graceful and good-looking. They’d never be the first to go.

“The next safe…Toby and Victoria Kiss!” More clapping. That meant we were one couple away from being in the bottom two.

“The last couple safe is…Jon Jon and Julia Mckillip!”

Yep. Bottom two. I wrinkled my nose and looked over at Ty with an I-told-you-so expression. Next to us were Michael Michaels and Tatiana. Tati looked pissed as hell, though she was smiling with gritted teeth. Poor Tati. Evidently she wasn’t happy with the results. I didn’t blame her. I knew Tati was a perfectionist, so her partner falling down mid-routine had to be bothering the crap out of her.

The spotlight focused on Ty and I, and another on Tati and Michael Michaels. My stomach churned nervously, and my hand clasped in Ty’s was trembling.

“The team going home tonight…is…” Chip paused for dramatic effect.

I dug my toe-pick into the ice, ready to skate forward. I took a deep breath and sighed, closing my eyes. Goodbye, second chance.

“I guess the audience isn’t a fan of sequins, either! Tatiana and Michael Michaels, you will be going home. Ty and Zara, you are safe for one more week!”

The orchestra began to play, and I opened my eyes, looking at Ty in shock. We were safe? Ty the MMA Biter had been saved by the audience vote? Holy crap.

He grabbed me around the waist and swung me around, grinning, and I clung to him. Holy crap. Holy crap, we were safe!

The audience clapped, and Ty and I were shuffled off the ice so Tati and her partner could do a last lap around the ice while the credits rolled and Chip yammered into his microphone.

We were safe one more week, despite everything. Maybe we stood a chance after all.

~~ * ~~

The next morning, I studied the boring routine paper and frowned at Imelda. “There’s only one lift in this entire thing.”

She sniffed and texted something into her phone, seated in a folding chair away from the ice, as usual. “This week’s required element is the sit spin. Lifts aren’t until next week.”

“I know. But lifts are flashy and the audience always loves them.” I skated toward her, a little frustrated. “Ty’s a big strong guy. We can do more than one lift.” I looked over at Ty. “Don’t you think?”

He shrugged. “I can bench press two hundred. What do lifts involve?”

“We can always do an Ina Bauer for you, and I can do a handstand, or we could do a crouch and horizontal, or…” I stopped at the glazed look in his eyes. “Just trust me. You can pick me up, right?”

He snorted. “Duh. You weigh nothing.”

“I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” Imelda said in a prissy voice. “We need to keep things easy.”