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.”
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.”
