Ice Games

by Jessica Clare

  “I know you’re all health conscious and crap,” he said. “What won’t you eat?”

  I wrinkled my nose, thinking. “Hot dogs?”

  He laughed. “I can assure you we’re not going to have hot dogs. Do you have a preference?”

  “I guess not? Something healthy. We’re working out hard in the morning again, and I don’t want to mess up my system with something heavy and full of carbs.”

  He eyed me from across the seat. “You don’t mind me saying, but you look like you could use a few carbs.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him. “That’s right. I’m just a stick with a mouth, right?”

  “And a pair of tits,” he teased.

  I shot him the bird.

  “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. You look fine. If you were heavier, I probably wouldn’t be able to lift you—”

  This time, I knuckled him in the arm.

  “Hey!” He laughed, mock-backing away from me. “I’m joking, I’m joking. How about sushi?”

  “I like sushi,” I agreed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Usually, the more I learn about a chick, the less I like her. Strangely enough, Zara’s the opposite. She’s crazy, I mean, with the health food and the juju-mojo shit she’s constantly doing, but there’s a method to the insanity. And the more I find out about her? The more I ‘get’ her. It’s weird. — Ty Randall, Practice Interview, Ice Dancing with the Stars

  ~~ * ~~

  When we got to the restaurant, there was a long line of people behind a cordoned rope, waiting to get in. I frowned at them through the car window. “Should we go somewhere else?”

  “Nope. They know me here.” He got out and opened the car door for me, and I slid out after a moment, feeling self-conscious in my grubby clothing and makeup-free face. All the people in line were dressed in trendy, flashy clothing, and they stared at us as we walked up. I noticed Ty put his hand at the small of my back again, leading me to the front of the line and bypassing the cordoned area.

  He nodded at the maître d’.

  “Mr. Randall,” the man said, clearly excited. “Welcome back. Your regular table?”

  “Anywhere you’ve got,” he said easily and nudged me inside.

  I raised my brows and looked over at Ty as we entered the swanky restaurant. “Regular table? You a big sushi fan?”

  He laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” I crossed my arms over my chest, maneuvering through the sea of tight, white-tablecloth-covered tables. Each one was tiny, two chairs crammed close to it, and I had to watch myself to make sure I didn’t bump anyone’s elbows. The place looked pretty fancy.

  “The last girl that asked me that wanted to ensure that I’d go down on her. Just sounded weird coming out of your mouth.”

  “What? No! That wasn’t what I was—I mean—I didn’t—”

  “I know,” he said with another chuckle. “Chill out.”

  We moved to the far side of the crowded restaurant to a private booth with deep, red seats and wooden accents. I slid in on one side, and Ty slid in next to me instead of going to the other. After my initial moment of surprise, I scooted over a bit more, trying not to blush.

  Now this was really feeling like a date. Bad Zara, bad. No lusting after your partner. Hooking up while ice skating together? Everything I’d ever been told by other skaters said that it was some seriously bad juju.

  And we had enough things working against our mojo at the moment.

  A waiter set down two glasses of water and gave Ty an expectant look.

  “Bottle of sake, please,” Ty said. “Your best.”

  The waiter nodded and whisked away.

  Ty glanced over at me. “You wanted to drink the other night. I figured this’d be your chance to get good and plastered.”

  “I’ve never had sake. Does it taste good?”

  “That depends on your definition of good. It’ll get you drunk, though.”

  “Fair enough,” I told him, curiously excited about getting sloshed. Hey, first time for everything.

  “So what’s your story?” Ty asked me as the waiter returned with a tiny bottle and two even tinier shots. Ty immediately took the bottle and began to pour a teeny tiny shotglass for me, and then held it out.

  “My story?” I took the tiny shot and sniffed it, not sure I liked the odor. It was cold, though. I’d wait for Ty to drink before trying it.

  “Yeah. You don’t drink, don’t smoke, eat healthy food all the time, work out like a monster, and you’re talented as hell. Yet you’re on this show which, for all intents and purposes, is basically a regurgitation of a bunch of washed-up talent.”

  I blinked at that assessment. “I should remind you that you’re on this show, too.”

  “I know,” Ty told me, his voice blunt. He picked up his sake shot. “But I’ll be the first one to tell you that I fucked up my career.” He held his shot out to me.

  I clinked mine to his. “To fuck-ups?”

  “To fuck ups.” He tipped his head back and downed the shot.

  I sipped mine and immediately coughed. God, that was strong. At Ty’s amused chuckle, I held my nose and downed the rest of the shot. It burned cold and oddly dry going down my throat, and I swallowed hard. Warm bliss began to spread through my veins. Oh. That was nice. “I’m…not sure I liked it.”

  He grinned at me. “You’re fine. Have another before you decide.”

  “Okay,” I said, holding my shot glass out to him.

  “But you have to tell me your story.”

  As he poured, I shrugged. “I thought you already knew my story. Everyone else does.”

  “Nope. Contrary to what one might believe, I’m not much of a follower of figure skating.”

  I giggled at that. “Somehow, I have no problem believing that. Okay, me.” I thought for a moment, and as soon as he filled my shot, I held my nose again and drank the next. I gave a little shiver at the burn going down my throat. “Oh, wow. Okay, I think I liked that one more.”

  “Slow it down, Zara,” he said in a husky voice, scooting closer to me. “We’ve got all night.”

  Those delicious words burned through me nearly as much as the sake did. I gave him a slow smile, and then my focus went to his mouth. Such a beautiful, full mouth. Hard to believe it had bitten half of some guy’s nose off.

  “Your story?” he prompted again.

  “Right.” I put my elbows on the table and propped my chin in my hands. “Well, this might come as a shock to you, but I can be a bit high strung at times.”

  He clutched his chest, as if shocked. “No! You’re kidding me.”

  I batted my hand at him. “Very funny. It’s true. Actually, I was a lot worse during my teenage years because I was also a huge brat. I was super successful really early. I was doing Nationals by the time I was twelve, and I medaled at my first one. And my next. People thought I was a prodigy, and so did I. I got really, really stuck on myself.” I swirled my finger on the rim of my shotglass, and then I licked it. I could get used to the taste of sake, especially if it came with that lovely burn in the stomach afterwards.

  “Uh oh,” he said, teasing. “I think I smell hubris on its way.”

  “Oh, it’s hubris all right. Anyhow, the 2002 Olympics came up after I’d won Nationals again. I was picked for the Olympic team, and I was the gold medal favorite. I knew it, too. I knew I’d win. I was great at the technical stuff, and I always scored very high on artistry. Judges loved me, and I think it’s because I was tiny and graceful. I can fly through the air on a triple like nobody’s business.”

  “I’ve seen that,” he murmured, his voice warm and appreciative.

  “I had already planned out my career after my gold medal win. I’d accept a few sponsorships, go on tour, maybe reach out for an acting career, who knows. I was only fourteen, and I had everything at my feet.” I sighed. “And then I blew it. I skipped a practice on a crucial day because I saw a penny face-down before I went onto the ice. I don’t know if you noticed, b
ut I’m also extremely superstitious.”

  That sexy smile tugged at his mouth. “The thought crossed my mind once or twice.”

  “Well, I was an arrogant little shit, remember? So I figured I had my routine perfectly, and if I practiced, I’d just give myself bad luck. So despite Edgar—he was my coach—and his screaming, I skipped it. I knew better than him, of course. I was the great Zara Pritchard.” I rolled my eyes at how arrogant I’d been.

  “And…” he prompted.

  “And of course I fucked it up,” I told him. “This story does not have a happy ending. I landed smack dab on my ass in front of the judges’ panel. It was the worst. I should have picked myself up and kept going, but instead, I panicked. I was so embarrassed at the thought of me—the amazing Zara Pritchard—bombing out in front of the world that I ran off the ice.” I gave him a wry look. “Rule number one of figure skating? Always finish gracefully. Never, ever, ever walk off the ice.”

  “So what happened?”

  I winced. “They booed me. I might have shot the world the bird.”

  He chuckled.

  I grimaced. At least one of us thought it was funny. “I scratched. I was a disgrace to the team. I had to make a public apology for my actions. Penelope Marks won the gold and got my endorsement deals. I got a big fat donut.” I made an O with my fingers. “My coaches fired me. So did my manager. I was disinvited from every event I could think of for poor sportsmanship. And I couldn’t show my face for years afterward. Still can’t, in a lot of circles. I’ve been blackballed by any figure skater that might have any sort of professional pull, and now I’m too old to start over. So I get jobs where I can. I skate at a mall, give private lessons to kids, and have done the occasional foray as a big, pink dinosaur.” I grimaced. “And thinking about all that? Makes me realize I need another drink.” I held my glass out to him.

  “Damn,” he said with a shake of his head. “When you flame out, you flame out good.”

  “So what about you?”

  “What about me?” He grinned and refilled my sake shotglass. “Don’t tell me after selecting Jaws for our theme music that you really have to ask what I did?”

  “Well, no.” I watched him fill his own shot, then down it. “I saw a video of what happened. It was pretty brutal.”

  “Mixed martial arts is a pretty brutal sport overall. That’s one of the things I like about it.”

  “I guess I really just wanted to know why,” I began, but trailed off when the waiter arrived to take our orders. My head swimming from the alcohol, I barely glanced at the menu before going with simple—a tuna roll. Ty ordered four kinds of sashimi and a vegetable roll. For some reason, that tickled my funny bone, and I laughed again. “Hungry?”

  “Starving, but I’m going to make you try some of it, too.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me and leaned in. “Even if I have to feed it to you.”

  I flushed hot, the mental image of that suggestion sweeping through my mind and doing all kinds of crazy things to my body. Distracting. Which was probably on purpose, now that I thought about it. “Don’t change the subject. I spilled my guts. Your turn to do the same.”

  “I’m not changing the subject,” he said, and he leaned back, watching me with a contemplative look on his face. “As far as how that went…well. The guy was an old enemy of mine. Never liked him. Blowhard, rough with his girlfriend out of the ring, just an all-around asshole. He was talking a lot of shit before the fight, and it pissed me off. Like a constant stream of garbage.” Ty shook his head. “Then we got in the ring, and he’s pulling all these dirty moves. Fish hooking, rabbit kicking me, heel kicking my kidneys, you name it. And they didn’t call any of it. Fucking pissed me off. He’s making foul after foul and the ref isn’t calling any of it.” His jaw tightened. “Then he stomped me in the nuts, and I lost my shit. Got furious as hell. Saw nothing but red. So when they called the fight…” He shrugged. “I wasn’t done fighting. The ref tried to pull me off of him, so I punched the ref, too, because he was making shitty calls.”

  “And then you bit the other guy,” I said. Seemed like I wasn’t the only one with bad impulse control.

  He rubbed a hand down his face. “Fucking stupid-ass move. You ever have one of those moments in your life where you can’t believe you did something so stupid? And how you pretty much fucked up everything and threw it all away in one hotheaded moment?”

  “No,” I said sarcastically. “Tell me what that’s like.”

  Ty chuckled. “Right. Forgot who I was talking to. Yeah. It was the stupidest thing ever. I was just so pissed off I couldn’t see straight. I think I was more pissed at the ref than at my opponent, but I took it out on the guy I was fighting. Well, mostly. Turned out I bit off a huge chunk of his nose.” He grimaced and glanced down at his sake glass. “It was horrifying. I’m still sick that I did it. I paid for his plastic surgery, but it wasn’t enough. It’ll never be enough.”

  I knew that feeling. That moment that you realized you were a complete and total fuck up. That you’d gotten so arrogant and so complacent about who you were that let you let it all go to shit because your pride got in the way. And no matter how much you regretted it—an hour later, a week later, a month later—you couldn’t take it back.

  Ty and I were more alike than I’d thought.

  “No,” I said softly. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  He downed his shot and shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t take it back, so I’m just working on being a dancing monkey in the hopes that I can repair my image a little. After all, they eventually let Tyson back in the ring, right?”

  “Did they?” I didn’t know anything about that. “What happens if they don’t let you fight again?”

  He gave me a blank look. “I honestly don’t know. I never had a backup plan.”

  “Me either. That’s how I ended up being a dinosaur on skates.”

  He grimaced. “Point made. Guess I’ll have to think of something, just in case.”

  I crossed my arms and leaned in on the table, feeling deliciously languid and warm. Alcohol was pretty awesome so far. Why had I avoided it until now? “What do you like to do besides fight?”

  He gave me a lazy look. “Fuck?”

  “See, there you go. You can start a second career in porn.”

  “I don’t think so. Those girls aren’t my type.” His eyes glittered as they focused on me.

  I sat up straight, suddenly feeling…flushed. And hopeful. “So what is your type? I know it’s not a stick with a mouth.”

  “I never said that.”

  I blinked, a blush creeping up my cheeks. “So what is your type?”

  He scooted a bit closer to me in the booth. Marginally closer. Maybe I’d imagined it. But his gaze was on me, flicking from my face to my neck, then back to my face again. “I like them a bit more creative,” he murmured, his voice so low I barely caught the words.

  “I’m sure there are some creative types in porn,” I began, but the words died in my throat when he scooted even closer to me.

  “You know what I mean. And driven. I like girls with drive. And I like athletes. I don’t even mind if they’re high strung.”

  By now he was sitting so close to me that I could see the details of that little scar in his brow, the sexy dip in the center of his upper lip, and his long, long eyelashes. I was frozen in place, unable to scoot away—and not really wanting to. What was Ty going to do? I’d been closer to him on several of our skate embraces, but this felt like the most intimate thing ever.

  He leaned in, and his mouth ever so slightly grazed mine.

  I sucked in a breath, and in doing so, breathed him in. He tasted of sake and a unique flavor that I could describe as nothing more than ‘Ty.’ My lips parted, and he kissed me again, his mouth moving over mine in a kiss that rapidly deepened.

  I froze in place, not sure how to respond. Ty Randall was kissing me. Sexy, dangerous, gorgeous Ty Randall was kissing the stick with a mouth. Was it just the sake talking? I d
idn’t know how to react.

  “Zara,” he murmured against my lips, and his thumb touched my chin, angling my mouth open a bit more. His tongue swept inside my parted mouth.

  I moaned against him, caught up in the sensations. God, Ty was an incredible kisser. His tongue slicked against my own, flicking and teasing. My entire body went wild with sensation, my nipples hardening. I leaned into the kiss, curling up against him as he pulled me even closer to him. Under the table, his hand grasped one of my legs and pulled it over his own, his big hand clenching on the inside of my thigh, anchoring me in an intimate embrace.

  He made a pleased sound in the back of his throat as I gave in to him, and the kiss grew deeper, Ty’s tongue thrusting into my mouth in a way that made me wet between my legs and hot all over.

  “Zara,” he murmured again, breaking the kiss. “Let’s forget about dinner and go home.” His hand flexed on my inner thigh, reminding me precisely of where it was.

  And I panicked. I pulled away from him, my eyes blinking wide open. “Wait.”

  He gazed into my eyes, giving me that sleepy-eyed look that was making my stomach do somersaults. “What is it?”

  “We can’t do this.”

  He chuckled. “Well, not here, we can’t. But nothing’s stopping us from going home and picking up where we leave off.”

  “No,” I breathed, and I hated that I had to say it. Hated. I put my hand on his chest. Oh god, he had such a good chest, too. “I mean we can’t do this. We can’t hook up. Not right now.”

  Ty blinked at me, as if just now registering my protest. The hand—warm, delicious, big hand—fell away from my inner thigh. “Let me guess. Bad luck?”

  It was all that, and more. “We’re just doing so well right now as a pair. I don’t want to change the dynamic and somehow screw up both of our chances.”

  Because if we had sex and it was bad? Everything changed. Awkward afterward? Everything changed. Really really great and we wanted to spend the next week in bed? Everything changed. Or if one of us was bad and the other was good? Again, everything changed. No matter how you factored it, sex changed things, and we were in the middle of a competition. We needed to stay the course, not add another aspect to navigate.