Ice Games

by Jessica Clare

  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.

  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 pissi
ng 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.