Ice Games (7 page)

“For your chaps,” the other said.

“Chaps?” Ty repeated. Then a low groan escaped his throat.

I shot him a deadly warning look. “Chaps are fine,” I said, even though I thought they were stupid, especially for a skating costume.

“Chaps are fine,” he repeated in a flat voice, his gaze on the pink Band-Aid on my nose.

I was glad he saw things my way.

CHAPTER FIVE

Chaps. Goddamn chaps. If there’s sequins, I’m leaving
. — Ty Randall, to his manager

~~ * ~~

We practiced our “Boot Scootin’” routine daily, and I grew to hate it a little more each time.

To be fair, though, Ty never complained. Perhaps it was the sight of my swollen face that made him close-lipped, or the fact that I never complained about Imelda’s choices (poor choices, if you asked me) of what we would do. It was like he’d drawn up his belt and decided to just endure.

Kind of like me.

The routine was child’s play for me, but it was clear that it was tough for Ty. For starters, he tended to surge while skating instead of gliding gracefully. I suspected that was a holdover from his years of hockey training, and it took us days of simply holding each other in an ice dancing embrace before we started to move together fluidly. Once we did, though, Ty gave me a cocky little grin as if to say “See?”

Of course, then we added the music, and things went to hell all over again.

I hated the song. Hated it. I loved classical music, and this piece was the antithesis of that, all twanging vocals and guitars. Ty seemed to like it, though, and I caught him humming it under his breath, as if the tune were still stuck in his head even when we were off the ice.

Which made sense, seeing as we’ve heard it so many times that I’ve been hearing the song in my dreams.

Ty worked hard, though. I had to give the guy credit. Once he’d decided that he was going to do this, he was as determined as I was. If I was there at six in the morning, so was he. If I stayed and skated until eight at night, so did he. He didn’t get off the ice until I did, and I tended to work long hours. Not only because I wanted to get things just right, but because I truly loved being on the ice and pushing my body to the limit.

Too bad the routine wouldn’t let me. While we practiced the simplistic step sequences over and over so Ty could get them right, I kept feeling the urge to add to the routine, to flick my skate in a showy fashion, or to add little twirls here and there that would make the program more artistic.

I had to constantly remind myself that I was just the mannequin. So I practiced smiling and looking like I was having a blast while I did Imelda’s simplistic—and dare I say, boring—routine. And when we took breaks, I punched things up and added a few jumps just for fun, and just because I could.

Ty was taking a breather off to the side as we finished that day’s practice. He watched me come down from a triple axel that was perfectly timed with the change in the music that led to the chorus, and gave me a funny look, wiping his sweat-covered brow. “That was awesome. Why can’t we add that stuff in the routine?”

I skated back to him, ignoring the endless twang of the music. “I’d love to, but there are two problems.”

“What’s that?”

I shook out my legs, feeling the burn from the hours of practice. I was just as sweaty as he was—and about ready to call it a night. “Well, for one, Imelda would freak out, and she has the network’s ear. I want to be seen as a team player, and changing the routine of the choreographer they selected for us? Not exactly a team-player move.”

He grunted acknowledgment. “So what’s the other problem?”

“The other is that you wouldn’t be able to keep up,” I said with a sly grin on my face. “I can do the hard shit. You can barely keep a clean edge.”

He scowled at me, but I just grinned. We’d formed an easy sort of truce ever since he’d agreed to actually try to work, and we bickered and teased and were generally comfortable with each other. It wasn’t quite friendship, but it wasn’t out-and-out hatred, either.

“I could keep pace with you if I had enough practice,” he told me arrogantly.

“No, you couldn’t,” I said, sauntering away, heading to the edge of the ice. “You’d need a lot of practice to even come close. And anyhow, I’m heading off to take a shower.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Ty said behind me, and I heard him skate closer. “I get the shower first.”

“Nope,” I said, skating a little faster. “You had it first yesterday.” Out of all the money the network had spent, why only one damn shower at the ice rink? We fought over it every day.

“Oh yeah?” Ty’s hands landed on my waist. He grabbed me and hauled me around, spinning me.

I shrieked with laughter as he spun me around once, and then flung me into the air. Was that supposed to scare me? I landed easily on my blade, with a flourish. “Was that what you call a partner toss? You’d better brush up.”

“Yeah, but now you’re further away from the bathroom,” he told me, hopping off the ice and tossing on his blade guards. He sat down and began to quickly unlace his skates.

Damn it! I skated furiously over to the bench, snapped on my blade guards and then thumped down next to him, undoing my own laces. “You are not getting in there first,” I hissed. “I got on the ice first this morning, so I get to the showers first! Those are the rules!”

“Those are stupid rules,” he told me. “And your rules don’t apply if I get in there first.” He tugged at a knot on his skate.

Ha! I pulled mine off and tossed them aside, and then scooped up my towel and ran into the shower room. Success! It was all mine. I reached in to the shower compartment and turned it on, letting the water heat up. Then, I pulled my sweat-damp hair down from my bun and began to slide out of my leotard.

“Hey, thanks,” Ty said in my ear. “You’re heating up the water for me.”

I gave a little scream and a jump, clutching my leotard to my front. One second later and I would have been topless. I turned away from him and glanced down at my front, making sure everything was covered. “What are you doing in here?”

“Gonna take my shower first, like I told you.”

“I’m getting undressed,” I protested.

“I’m already undressed,” he told me, and a second later, I heard the sound of water splashing.

I turned around just in time to see a pair of beefy, pale buttocks disappear into the hot shower—my shower! My mouth went dry at the sight, though, and I stood there dumbly as he slid the glass enclosure door shut.

Holy shit. Ty Randall had just walked past me, naked, and I’d missed all the good parts.

The shower cracked open a moment later, and Ty stuck his head out, water streaming. “You’re welcome to finish undressing and join me.”

“You’re dreaming!” I said quickly, and stormed out of there, feeling flustered as hell.

“I am,” he called after me.

~~ * ~~

I was still flustered by our conversation even after I retreated to my room and took a shower in my own small private bathroom. After I was clean, I opted to avoid the living room and kitchen a while longer and flopped down on my bed, my smartphone in hand, and began to Google him on the internet.

“Ty Randall bite” immediately pulled up dozens of search terms and videos. I clicked on the first video and began to watch.

Ty’s rugged face filled my screen, his upper lip jutting. A moment later, he bared his teeth, revealing a bright blue mouth-guard. Oh, that was why his lip stuck out. He closed in on his opponent, dripping sweat, and began to fling punches at the guy while the other shielded his face. A moment later, the action reversed, and Ty was on the defensive. I watched every fist flung with brutal precision, wincing each time Ty took a smack to the face. That had to hurt, but Ty showed no emotion even as blood streamed down from his forehead. His opponent knocked his feet out from under him and then Ty was on the ground. A moment later, the opponent raised his foot and slammed Ty’s thigh. Ouch. That looked like it hurt. And it seemed to enrage Ty, because he struggled his way back up a moment later and started to lay into his opponent. Right, left, right again, an uppercut, and then the guy went to the ground, and Ty locked him into a submission hold. The guy tapped out, and Ty was declared the winner.

But instead of taking his win and running with it, Ty attacked his opponent again, furious. He slammed the guy in the face with another round, and when the ref stepped in, Ty punched
him
. The audience roared in outrage, and Ty attacked his opponent again. Then, I saw it. Ty leaned in and bit the hell out of the guy’s nose. When he pulled away, blood gushed from the other man’s face and his opponent screamed, clawing his face. Ty spit out a wad of…something onto the mat, and the video cut away.

Dear
lord
.

I tried to rationalize what I’d just seen with the man I knew. Ty was a big, surly lug at times, but he was a hard worker and had never even come close to losing his cool with me. I knew he had the name of “Ty the MMA Biter” but I hadn’t really registered what that meant until I’d seen the brutality for myself.

This was the man that was my partner? Me? With my fragile figure skater’s form, five-foot-three height and hundred-and-two pound weight? No wonder they’d all freaked when they’d seen my swollen face. Of course, if they expected Ty not to play well with others, why cast him on the show?

Either he had friends at the network, or they wanted him to cause drama. I wondered if that was why they’d cast him with me, too.

~~ * ~~

The next day was the last full practice day before the live show the next evening. I intended to spend the entire day on the ice with Ty, working on foot sequences. We had most of the routine down flat, but there was quick-stepping footwork in the chorus of the song, and Ty sometimes missed the beats. I couldn’t blame him. It was like the routine went from childishly easy to moderate in the space of an instant, and my partner, who didn’t have years of training, was struggling to keep up. He never complained though, just tried and tried again.

I was frustrated, but I think Ty was twice as frustrated as I was.

Sure enough, he was on the ice before me that morning. I did my usual luck routine, kissed the ice, and then stepped on, skating to warm up. It was clear Ty had already been there for some time, judging by the sweat on his brow.

“Hey,” I told him, skating past.

“Hey,” he said, barely glancing at me. His gaze was on his feet, and as I watched, he tried another shuffle step that still wasn’t quite quick enough.

I winced. “You’ll get it by tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he said flatly.

I continued to skate, thinking of what I’d seen in the YouTube video last night. And what I’d seen as he’d stepped into the shower, too, as I skated past. A girl couldn’t help but check a guy’s ass out after she’d seen it naked. But my mind kept circling back to the fight and the vicious bite I’d seen.

“So,” I started as I skated close.

He automatically took my hand, pulling me close into dancing position. “What’s up?”

I put my hand in his, hesitating a moment. “I was just…you know, wondering.”

“About?” He raised his scarred eyebrow at me, and I stared at it, momentarily fascinated. Was the scar from fighting?

“Um, your fight. What made you do it?”

“My fight?” He looked confused for a moment, still setting his hands in position.

“You know.” I made a chomping motion with my teeth. “Your
fight
.”

He snorted, the look on his face going shuttered. “Do we really need to talk about this right now?”

“I guess not,” I said, though I was nosy and incredibly curious. And a little disappointed. We were friends, weren’t we? Didn’t friends talk with friends about this sort of thing? It must have been bad if they were making him come on the show when he was so vehemently opposed to it. Had the guy slept with Ty’s girlfriend or something? Called his mom names? What? The curiosity was bothering me, but I tried to steer the conversation into safer subjects. “So, more dancing?”

“More dancing,” he told me, sounding resigned. “For now.”

“Oh?” I glanced around, but Imelda wasn’t here, only our cameraman. “Where’s our choreographer? For that matter, where’s our costumes? Today was supposed to be dress rehearsal.”

“Apparently there was an issue with the costume department because another team’s costumes changed mid-week and had to be redone from scratch. That meant ours got delayed. Imelda ran off to go talk with the studio about it.” He shrugged. “You really want her hanging around, criticizing our footwork?”

“Nah,” I told him. “I just wanted to see what monstrosity she’d cooked up for us to wear. Most figure-skating costumes tend to be a bit on the flamboyant side, if you haven’t noticed.”