by Rachel Cross
She should, she’d barely managed more than a salad yesterday. The stress of waiting for that letter—for her future—had tied her stomach in knots. And she would not gain an ounce; in fact, if she lost, it might help take some of the strain off her injured hip. Amy shook her head and watched Kyle go—her gaze not the only one following his retreating figure, judging by the craned necks on the patio.
She was used to envious glances. She was used to more than envy. She’d been the object of a jealous rage or two when whoever Kyle was seeing got the wrong idea about the two of them. Not only did they look like siblings, Kyle was the closest thing to family she had. And now that family—the set designers, the crew, the other skaters including Kyle—would go on the road without her as the Enchanted Ice powers-that-be kicked her to the curb.
The principal in an ice show had to either be a draw or young, healthy, and inexpensive. Amelia Astor had been a draw for Enchanted for eight years ever since she’d left the competitive circuit virtually on the eve of the Olympics, the top-ranked American woman skater. She’d run away to join the ice show, but at twenty-six she was getting a little long in the tooth to play a princess.
Then there were the injuries. The stress fractures, sprains, and strains from missed jumps in her youth as a U.S. junior ladies champion on the National Figure Skating circuit, were a legacy of aches and pain she would always carry. They were manageable, but there was a little something missing from her performances these days. And she couldn’t continue the cortisone injections when her hip got bad forever.
It was time to move on with her life as Amy Astor. Settle down, go to college. Figure out a career. There was no home on the road, and these summers living in a group house in Los Angeles with skaters and crew wasn’t it either. It was time to say good-bye to Amelia Astor, Enchanted princess. But not quite yet.
Kyle returned with his coffee and a bagel egg sandwich, sitting down across from her.
“Want me to talk to them?” he asked around a mouthful of food.
Her stomach rumbled and she took another sip of her coffee. “No. I don’t want to seem desperate. There’s still a chance.”
He cocked his head. “Why are you desperate, doll? You can do whatever. Coach?”
She gave him a narrow-eyed glare. “No, thanks.”
“Commentate?”
“Kyle, it’s not like I won a medal or anything.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. You won plenty, just not the medal. People loved you. After all that negative press about women’s figure skating—”
“You mean ladies’ figure skating,” she said with a tiny smile.
Kyle laughed. “Yeah, ladies figure skating got a bad rep for a while, and you were what the sport needed: drama-free athleticism combined with grace, power, and beauty. Flawless performances—”
“Oh, there was drama. The coaching changes when I hit puberty? And of course, at the end when I could barely finish my program because I was starving myself.”
His lips twisted and he examined her critically. “You doing alright with that?”
“I’m okay.”
“You look a little lean. Here.” He pushed the other half of his bagel sandwich toward her.
Her stomach rumbled and she eyed it hungrily before pushing it back.
Inside, she was a teeming mass of nerves. If Enchanted didn’t pick her up, what then? The only thing that relieved her anxiety about her future were long runs, and they were getting longer and longer, while her hip got achier and achier. Then again she’d rarely been in better shape, so when they did pick her up . . .
“So, commentating?” Kyle was asking.
“It’s been ages. I’m telling you, people don’t remember me.”
“So? Remind them. You’re the gorgeous, great blue-blooded hope who went out at the top of your game. People know you could’ve bagged an Olympic medal for us. You come up every four years, and this is an Olympic year. I’m sure one of the networks would—”
“Kyle. No coaching. No commentating. It’s not me. Can you see me blathering endlessly about program music, costumes, and skater backstory?”
“No. But I can’t see you playing a princess for the rest of your life either, even if they do sign you for another year.”
Amy tossed her hair back. “There are other shows.”
His mouth dropped open. Kyle set his coffee on the table carefully and covered her hand. “No. No way, Amy. Most of those shows are—-we both know how bad things can be with some of the other shows.” He squeezed her hand. “Enchanted may be the circus, but it has a good reputation. It’s safe, and management takes decent care of us here and overseas. We’ve both heard the stories about how sketchy the other shows are: low pay, nasty trailers, drunk performers, dangerous stunts. No. You need to figure out your retirement plan. I know you’ve thought about it. Why else would you have taken community college courses every summer? How many credits do you have now?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Good God. Maybe you should enroll for a full semester.”
“Toward a degree in what?” She groaned and put her head in her hands. “Kyle, I have no idea where to go from here. I need one more year to figure things out.”
“You said that last year.”
“I know,” she said through her fingers.
“Look, I’ll tell them we’re a package deal.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped her. “Babe, no you won’t. They’re itching for a reason to let you go, too—you’re almost as old as me and equally expensive.”
Her cell rang and she took it from her bag. She didn’t recognize the number so she held up a finger to Kyle as he nodded.
“Hello?”
“I’m trying to reach Amelia Astor.”
Amy rolled her eyes at Kyle, who frowned.
“This is she. I go by Amy.”
“Fine, fine,” the impatient male voice on the other end said. “Listen, I need you to do something for me.”
“Who is this?”
“Ike Peters.”
“Okaaay.” She widened her eyes and shrugged at Kyle.
“You don’t know my name?” he said.
“No, sorry.”
“Eh. You’re not in the industry, are you? I’m an agent and I have a client who needs ice skating lessons.”
“I can recommend some people who do that.”
“I want you.”
“I don’t give lessons.”
“No, you’re a princess, right? In the ice show? That Enchanted thing?”
“Yes, well, not right now.” And maybe never again.
“No?” the man’s tone sharpened, “why not?”
“We don’t do the shows in the summer. We’re off every year from May till September.”
“Terrific.” He sounded relieved.
“But I still can’t help you.”
“Name your price.”
“Uh, I don’t have a price, because you see, I don’t teach ice skating.”
Kyle was staring at her, an amused expression on his face.
“Well you do now. Name your price, rink, and time.”
“Who’s your client?”
It was his turn to laugh, but it was humorless. “Oh no. We’re not going there. Not until you’ve signed a confidentiality agreement.”
“So if I help this woman—”
“Person.”
“ . . . person learn to skate, I book the rink time and set my price?”
Kyle was nodding, grinning, and mouthing “Yes.”
“Whatever you want. As long as you make him proficient—no, more than that. I need him skilled. I’ll hold back some of the payment—think of it as a bonus—if you do your job.”
So this was an agent representing an actor?
“Okay.”
“You don’t talk to anyone. You don’t mention my name. Or his. Ever. Got it?”
Amy made a face at Kyle. She could use the money. It sure beat waitressing to make ends meet, or looking for a
full-time job in case Enchanted didn’t pick her up. She’d have to figure out how much skating coaches charged and then triple it. This was Los Angeles.
“Gotcha. I’m sure I can figure out how to teach him the basics,” she said.
“Not just the basics, he needs to be good. Really good.”
She frowned. “Like ice dancing, throwing-partners-around good? ’Cause that’s not gonna happen in a few weeks or months, no matter how much time he puts in.”
“No, no. Not like that. Good. Forward, backward, fast. None of that figure skating crap.”
He sounded offended and she bit her lip to hold in laughter. “So he’s not playing a figure skater?”
“Hell no!”
“Ah. A hockey player.”
There was a suspicious silence on the other end of the phone. When he replied his tone was irritated. “Can you do it?”
“I guess.”
“Do you have a fax?”
“Nope.”
“Give me your address. I’ll courier over the information. But God help you if you breathe a word of this, I’ll make sure they put your princess days on ice.”
Threats? She swallowed another giggle. This town took itself so damn seriously. “I won’t mention it to anyone,” she agreed, attempting to hide the humor in her tone. She told him her address, and he hung up before she’d given him the zip code.
Amy studied her phone, then laid it on the table. “That was bizarre.”
“So now you’re a coach?”
“I’m giving some lessons.”
“Who?”
“He wouldn’t say—some actor. I’m sworn to secrecy. Of course, as soon as I know, I’ll tell you since you’ll take all my secrets to the grave.”
“Did I hear you say rink time?”
“Oh yeah.”
They exchanged high fives.
“I’ll call around. The first few sessions he won’t last more than an hour. And Frank’s has a three-hour rental minimum. We can play for two hours after he leaves,” she said.
Kyle had a contemplative expression on his face.
“What?”
“Enchanted would scoop you up if you’re linked to a Hollywood actor.”
Amy brightened. “They would, wouldn’t they?”
“If they don’t want you to reveal he’s getting lessons, fine. But if you can get him out for a drink after practice and I took a few photos,” he tapped his chin with a finger, “I could feed it to one of those websites . . . hell, I can probably set up a Twitter account and send it out.”
“I don’t know, Kyle,” she said, pulling and twisting a lock of hair. “He said to keep quiet or he’d ice my career.”
Kyle laughed. “Too late.”
“Kyle.”
“Well it is, or did he mean to do it with a Louisville slugger? That’s so passé.”
“God, no. You know how this town is. It’s all about connections, not abject brutality. This isn’t ladies’ figure skating.”
Chapter Three
Amy reached the rink at seven-thirty Sunday night, her legs still tired from her run and the grueling stair workout she’d put herself through. She’d had to work around a variety of bookings, but she’d managed to get rink time five days a week in the evenings, after the horrible LA traffic died down and before midnight. She’d settled on the Glendale rink. It was close to home, she knew and liked the staff, and Frank, the owner, would keep quiet.
She sat in her car waiting. Who would it be? Channing Tatum? Bradley Cooper? From all the cloak and dagger, the guy had to be A-list. She snapped the radio off and nervously drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. It wasn’t that she’d never taught anyone to skate before, but she had never hobnobbed with actors whose agents set things up.
A low-slung silver sports car pulled into the lot, parked, and a tall, lean man wearing a Tennessee Titans baseball cap emerged. Amy pulled the key out of the ignition of her old beat-up Miata, nerves fluttering. She didn’t recognize him from this distance. Grabbing the bag with her skates and extra clothes, she shoved her purse into it and slung it over her shoulder, locking the door to the car.
He watched her approach, shifting his own bag higher on his broad shoulders.
Wait. She did recognize him—that actor who looked like he spent the morning out on the waves, and the afternoons surrounded by bikini-clad babes. Piercing deep-set, light blue eyes in an oddly angular face; a scruffy, dark blonde almost-goatee—he wasn’t classically handsome, and he looked better on the big screen. Up close he looked intense and humorless.
What the hell was his name? He’d been in one of those dark, angsty pictures—sci-fi or superhero? It had been out a year or two ago, and hadn’t gotten the warmest reception. Her eyes narrowed. Wait a minute. Was this the guy—?
“Shane Marx,” he said dryly.
Heat rose in her cheeks as she realized from his expression that he’d noticed she couldn’t place him. And probably noticed when she did place him and why, judging from the long-suffering expression on his face now.
He was all over the Internet last month. That full frontal image of his perfectly sculpted nude, sleeping body had been everywhere. Someone had posted a link to the unedited version and she had clicked it, of course. Now that she’d seen him up close, it seemed likely the photo was the real deal, and that the chest under that teal Henley was physical perfection—the broad-shouldered and muscular physique of an Olympic swimmer. Oh my God. This was the guy she was going to teach to skate?
She gulped and strove for professionalism.
“Amy Astor,” she said, sticking out a hand.
“Amy, not Amelia?”
“That’s right.”
His large, warm hand enveloped hers as they shook. He held it a smidgen too long, his assessment, blatant, expression, bland, and eyes, appreciative.
She withdrew her hand.
“Nice to meet you.” Now that he’d said his name, she knew exactly who he was. Boy band singer turned actor. Not A-list but leading man material—he could definitely get her on with Enchanted if word got out. Maybe he would suggest a drink. But even while fantasies of Enchanted’s call ran through her head as she turned toward the rink, the hair on the back of her neck stood up. She could feel his eyes on her and she whipped her head around.
His lascivious expression was gone in the blink of an eye as his face relaxed into less predatory lines.
He walked around her and held the door open.
“Thanks,” she muttered. “You got hockey skates?”
He tapped his bag in answer.
“I’m going to talk to Frank, the owner, okay? You can get your skates on,” she said, moving through the entryway.
He followed. “I think I need to talk to him, too.”
She stopped, turned with her hand on her hip, blocking his way, her smile saccharine sweet. “It’s okay. I’ve paid Frank enough to rent the rink and keep his mouth shut.” She manufactured a giggle and added conspiratorially, “I’ve known him for years. He’ll keep quiet if there’s money to be made. I warned him that if word gets out, we’d have to go elsewhere.” Amy pointed to the benches in a corner. “Put your skates on and I’ll be right over.” Her smile firmly in place, she waited as he rubbed a hand over his scruffy chin, considering her. Whatever he saw in her face must have convinced him, because he turned away.
Moments later, she returned and took a seat next to him on the bench. She laced her worn skates.
“Make sure you lace them tight, okay?” she said, eyeing his handiwork.
He grunted in response.
When he stood, she offered her arm with another smile.
He raised his brows. “I think I can make it there without falling on my ass,” he said.
“Hold up,” she said as Shane made a move to step onto the ice. “I want to go over a few things before we get out there. Did your agent tell you I haven’t instructed much?”
“No,” he said, his face settling into those expressionless lines.
This guy was a tough read. But she couldn’t fail to notice he spent an inordinate amount of time scoping out her body when he probably thought she wasn’t looking. Dealing with overly amorous males around the world had given her a sixth sense about men on the make. She’d need to straddle the line between professionalism and feigned interest.
“I can teach you the basics. But if my instruction is too fast or too slow, let me know. The last thing I want is for you to get hurt. The ice is unforgiving.” Her hand went instinctively to her right hip and she gave it a rub. “Have you been on skates before?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. Then we’ll start at the very beginning and go slowly. We have time, right?”
“Enough.”
Amy took a deep breath and stepped onto the ice. “When you step onto the ice, step sideways and hold the barrier. Put your feet into the shape of a V.” She demonstrated. “We’re going to work on penguin steps.” She bent over to give her laces a final tug. When she raised her head he averted his eyes so quickly she realized he was checking her out again. In other circumstances she might find his blatant attention irritating. But if she could parlay his interest into a bite or a drink out after practice, she would be golden—just as Kyle suggested.
“You’ll feel silly the first few lessons, but I’m sure you’ll pick it up quickly,” she said, trying to establish her professional boundaries.
Shane’s head tilted and a suggestion of a grin pulled up the corner of his mouth.
God, he was attractive when he smiled. Unbidden, that photo popped into her head and her eyes drifted down to the front of his pants.
She froze, blinked, and dragged her gaze back up to his face, but he was more concerned with finding his balance on the skates than watching her wandering eyes.
Amy released the barrier and took a few more forward steps, arms extended in front of her, picking up her feet as she demonstrated the beginner’s awkward shuffle. “Like this.” She skated to the entryway. “Ready?”
Shane made his way onto the ice as she suggested. She skated backward as he penguin-stepped around the rink. He had remarkable grace for such a tall guy, and he was muscular in that lean, cut way that indicated an active lifestyle or lots of time at the gym with a personal trainer. He’d been a dancer with TruAchord and obviously kept himself in shape, so this shouldn’t be too difficult.