Ice Games
Page 12
“He did,” I said brightly, glancing back at Ty so he could back up my story. “We had a little chat last night, and he wanted to come back out and practice some more, so we did. We’re getting better, too. Did you want to see what we’ve been practicing?”
Ty’s manager looked at my swollen face, then back to Ty. Then back to me. “You said this wasn’t him? You swear?”
I blinked my puffy eyes in what I hoped was an innocent expression and not something hideous. “No. Ty’s been the perfect gentleman. Why would you think he’d hurt me?”
He looked back at Ty. “That wasn’t you?”
Ty crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his hands into his armpits. He forced a casual stance, though I could still see him practically vibrating with tension. “It wasn’t me, man. Chill.”
“I told him you’d all say that,” I exclaimed, and gave a fake laugh. “No, it was just me getting too ahead of my own feet. It’ll go away in time for the show.” And I skated back to Ty’s side as if that settled things and we were bestest buddies.
No one said anything for a long moment, and I pretended to check the laces on my shoes, waiting. Waiting for someone to call bullshit on us. Waiting for someone to tear into Ty.
“Oh. Well, okay then,” Imelda said. “Let’s get your measurements.”
I stood back up, looking at Imelda with a question in my eyes. “Measurements?”
The two strangers moved forward, pulling out measuring tapes and sewing implements. “For this week’s costumes,” one of them said.
“No sequins,” Ty immediately called out.
One of them looked up and wrote that down. “What about you, Miss Pritchard? Sequins?”
“I don’t care. So what are we wearing?” I skated over and tried to get a glimpse at the clipboard that one of the costumers was carrying.
“The theme for this first week is country,” Imelda said.
I made a face and looked back at Ty, hoping he’d share my dismay. “Really? Country? How are we supposed to skate to wailing banjos?”
“I have music picked out,” Imelda said. “And we’re incorporating line dancing, so this should be fun.”
I stared at her, an unpleasant look on my face. Line dancing? Fun? “We’re not dancing to classical?” I’d always been skeptical of skaters who picked trendy music simply to get more of a rise from the audience. After all, in ice skating, the only ones you really had to impress were the judges’ panel, and if you came out to rock and roll, there was always going to be someone that wasn’t a fan. Classical music was safe.
“‘Boot Scootin’ Boogie,’” Imelda announced cheerfully. “The required elements this week are toe step sequences, so it’ll be perfect.”
“Toe step what?” Ty skated to my side and looked over at me. “What’s she talking about? Required elements?”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Every time you skate a routine, there are required elements that you have to perform to get a certain number of points. You can’t just go out there and skate whatever you want.”
He rubbed his shaved head. “I thought that was exactly what you did.”
I laughed. “Uh, no. There are all kinds of specifics. And our judges are going to be other figure skaters, so we’ll need to be as precise as possible.”
“Precise as possible to ‘Boot Scootin’ Boogie?’”
I shrugged. I’d never even heard the song. “If it’s what the network wants, it’s what the network will get.”
“Great,” Imelda said. “I like to hear that.”
“What size skate do you wear?” one of the costumers asked me, fingers poised over his iPad.
“Doesn’t matter,” I told him. “I’m using my skates. They’re all broken in the way I like them.”
He eyed my beaten-up, white leather skates. Then made a note on his iPad. “We’ll make some skate covers attached to your tights.”
“Fine by me.” I stepped off of the ice and moved forward. Immediately, the one costume designer wrapped a tape around my thigh, measuring.
That was…weird. Normally female skaters just wore tights, and they didn’t have to be measured to the extent that she was. “So what’s with the thigh measurements?” I asked casually.
“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?”
Ty’s manager looked at my swollen face, then back to Ty. Then back to me. “You said this wasn’t him? You swear?”
I blinked my puffy eyes in what I hoped was an innocent expression and not something hideous. “No. Ty’s been the perfect gentleman. Why would you think he’d hurt me?”
He looked back at Ty. “That wasn’t you?”
Ty crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his hands into his armpits. He forced a casual stance, though I could still see him practically vibrating with tension. “It wasn’t me, man. Chill.”
“I told him you’d all say that,” I exclaimed, and gave a fake laugh. “No, it was just me getting too ahead of my own feet. It’ll go away in time for the show.” And I skated back to Ty’s side as if that settled things and we were bestest buddies.
No one said anything for a long moment, and I pretended to check the laces on my shoes, waiting. Waiting for someone to call bullshit on us. Waiting for someone to tear into Ty.
“Oh. Well, okay then,” Imelda said. “Let’s get your measurements.”
I stood back up, looking at Imelda with a question in my eyes. “Measurements?”
The two strangers moved forward, pulling out measuring tapes and sewing implements. “For this week’s costumes,” one of them said.
“No sequins,” Ty immediately called out.
One of them looked up and wrote that down. “What about you, Miss Pritchard? Sequins?”
“I don’t care. So what are we wearing?” I skated over and tried to get a glimpse at the clipboard that one of the costumers was carrying.
“The theme for this first week is country,” Imelda said.
I made a face and looked back at Ty, hoping he’d share my dismay. “Really? Country? How are we supposed to skate to wailing banjos?”
“I have music picked out,” Imelda said. “And we’re incorporating line dancing, so this should be fun.”
I stared at her, an unpleasant look on my face. Line dancing? Fun? “We’re not dancing to classical?” I’d always been skeptical of skaters who picked trendy music simply to get more of a rise from the audience. After all, in ice skating, the only ones you really had to impress were the judges’ panel, and if you came out to rock and roll, there was always going to be someone that wasn’t a fan. Classical music was safe.
“‘Boot Scootin’ Boogie,’” Imelda announced cheerfully. “The required elements this week are toe step sequences, so it’ll be perfect.”
“Toe step what?” Ty skated to my side and looked over at me. “What’s she talking about? Required elements?”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Every time you skate a routine, there are required elements that you have to perform to get a certain number of points. You can’t just go out there and skate whatever you want.”
He rubbed his shaved head. “I thought that was exactly what you did.”
I laughed. “Uh, no. There are all kinds of specifics. And our judges are going to be other figure skaters, so we’ll need to be as precise as possible.”
“Precise as possible to ‘Boot Scootin’ Boogie?’”
I shrugged. I’d never even heard the song. “If it’s what the network wants, it’s what the network will get.”
“Great,” Imelda said. “I like to hear that.”
“What size skate do you wear?” one of the costumers asked me, fingers poised over his iPad.
“Doesn’t matter,” I told him. “I’m using my skates. They’re all broken in the way I like them.”
He eyed my beaten-up, white leather skates. Then made a note on his iPad. “We’ll make some skate covers attached to your tights.”
“Fine by me.” I stepped off of the ice and moved forward. Immediately, the one costume designer wrapped a tape around my thigh, measuring.
That was…weird. Normally female skaters just wore tights, and they didn’t have to be measured to the extent that she was. “So what’s with the thigh measurements?” I asked casually.
“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?”
