Ice Games (Games #3)(6)
Author: Jessica Clare

He grasped it in his, and I was immediately struck at how strong—and big—his hand was compared to mine. I knew that my build was small, but standing next to Ty’s bulk, he made me feel positively dwarfed. His big hand clutched mine, and his hand went to my waist, pulling me in.

Did I think that Ty spontaneously holding my hands had been intimate? It was nothing compared to him putting his hand at my waist and dragging me against him. My breast pressed against his chest, and my body fitted against his.

Imelda tittered. “Not that close. This isn’t dirty dancing.”

“Yeah, that’d probably get better ratings,” Ty muttered, his gaze flicking to me.

I smothered a laugh. “This is serious,” I told him in a stern voice. “Please concentrate.”

“Further apart, please,” Imelda instructed us.

I obediently took a step backward, extending our embrace outward.

Imelda continued to sit on her bench, directing us from afar as she guided us on our posture. She never took a step toward the ice, content with politely barking orders from afar as we shuffled, clasped hands, re-clasped, adjusted our arms, and whatever else she wanted us to do. When she was satisfied with our posture, we were instructed to simply dance around the rink in time.

I picked it up easily, which was no surprise, since I had a lot of skating experience.

Ty was definitely the weak link on our team. He struggled to find a rhythm, and his hand clasped mine so tightly that it was sweating. He frowned the entire time, watching our feet. When he stumbled, he thrust me away from him, clearly done. “This is stupid. I hate this.”

“Ty,” his manager said warningly.

“I feel like I’m f**king back in high school,” Ty muttered.

“You’re acting like it too,” I told him in a light voice, extending my hand back out to him.

He glared at me, wiping sweat from his brow. “Aren’t you tired? Don’t you want a break? I think we’ve got this.”

“Actually,” I told him. “We don’t have this. We’re not even close to having this. Your steps aren’t even remotely close to being in time with mine, your arms aren’t locked, and your skating has no rhythm at all. If we go out there like this, you’ll make us a laughingstock, and I’m not about to have that happen. So if it takes twelve hours for us to get down how to move around on the ice? I’m fine with that, and you should be, too. Understand?”

He pushed my extended hand away. “I’m not doing this for twelve more hours today.”

“Fine then,” I told him. “You can take the rest of the day off, and we’ll do twelve hours tomorrow of nothing but holding hands and skating together.”

He threw his hands up, as if done. “You know what? I’m out of here. Close enough. We have two weeks to learn this shit.” He began to skate off of the ice.

I skated after him. “You can’t quit. It’s barely even eleven am. That’s way too early to finish for the day.”

Both Imelda and his manager were frowning at him. “Ty,” his manager began.

“Nope,” Ty said, stomping onto the carpeted steps with his skates, and then outside, not even bothering to take his skates off. “Done,” he yelled. “I’ve done enough.”

I put my hands on my hips, frustrated. “Well, what the hell?” I looked over at Ty’s manager. “Are you going to let him just walk away like that?”

He shrugged. “I can’t stop him. It doesn’t matter if he looks like he can skate, missy. The important thing is that he’s on the show and the public likes what they see enough to forget about any…indiscretions.”

Unreal. So Ty was going to get to do whatever he wanted, and I was the one whose career was going to be sabotaged?

This was so freaking unfair.

CHAPTER FOUR

Zara? She’s a real piece of work. When she’s not nagging me—constantly, I might add—she’s at work on the ice. Body of a twig, heart of a champion. Gotta admire that. — Ty Randall, Day Two of Preliminary Practice, Ice Dancing with the Stars

I continued to skate solo for the rest of the afternoon, learning the steps and beats of the routine as best as I could without a partner at my side. After all, just because he was lazy didn’t mean I was. Imelda hadn’t provided the music yet, but I didn’t need it. A good skater learned the routine first and meshed it with the music later. At least, that was how I’d always been taught. I wasn’t sure if it would work as well with ‘ice dancing’ (or whatever we were calling the skating we were doing), but I’d probably find out soon enough.

By the time I was satisfied with the amount of work I’d put in, it was getting late, and the sun was going down. I’d worked up an exhausting sweat, my leotard soaked. But I felt good. My muscles were loose and aching from the workout I’d put them through, and my mood was awesome despite my terrible partner. I had a real skating job again, despite the crap partner and kiddie routine.

They wanted a mannequin that would go out on the ice and do their rinky-dink performance? I’d be the best damn mannequin on ice ever.

(I mean, after all, I’d already been a pink dinosaur on ice. A mannequin was a step up.)

I took a long, hot shower in the locker room after practice. It was a little unnerving to notice that the gym had only one shower in the adjoining locker rooms, but I guessed it wouldn’t matter since Ty didn’t intend to work up much of a sweat. I changed into leggings and a tank top, grabbed my skates and dirty laundry, and headed back to the cottage.

When I stepped inside, it was dark. Flashes of light came from the living room, along with the sounds from a loud action movie. Figured. He was watching TV while I was skating and learning our routine. Rolling my eyes, I dumped my stuff in my room and then considered a moment longer.

I could let this continue, or I could nip it in the bud and have a talk with my partner.

I went for option B.

Heading into the living room of our cottage, I spotted Ty sprawled low on the overstuffed leather sofa. His legs were kicked up onto the art deco coffee table, the remote in one hand, beer in the other. A scatter of empty beer bottles covered the rest of the coffee table.

I crossed the room and sat down on the far end of the couch, away from him, and folded my legs up against me, hugging one knee. I waited for him to say something to me.

He didn’t blink an eye, just continued watching TV. After a moment, he lifted his beer to his lips and took another long swig.

“Are you a drunk?” I asked.

“Only when I’m imprisoned,” he said in a flat voice, gaze still glued to the television.

“This isn’t a prison,” I told him. “This is supposed to be your second chance. And it’s not going to work if you’re cutting out early every day just to drink.”

He looked over at me, then, and studied my face for a long moment. After a beat, he offered his beer to me. “You sound like you could use a drink.”

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”

“You scared?” He wiggled his eyebrows at me. “These are healthy. All those grains and all.”

Sighing, I snatched the beer from his hand and took a gigantic swig. I could never ignore a challenge. Almost immediately, I began to cough and choke. The taste was…vile.

He snickered. “Is that your first beer, little girl?”

“No,” I lied. Okay, so maybe it was. I wasn’t exactly a party girl. The closest I’d ever gotten to ‘party’ was champagne on New Year’s Eve. “God, that tastes awful.”

“Take another sip. It’ll get better.” He grinned lazily at me.

I took another sip and made a face. Still awful. I handed it back. “How can you drink that?”

“Like I said, I’m imprisoned.” He took the bottle back and swigged it as if it were nothing. “Imprisoned and my cellmate’s an uptight stick with a mouth.”

I bristled. A stick with a mouth? “Fuck you, Randall. I was coming out here to bury the hatchet, but I don’t care if you flame out and embarrass yourself on national television. You’re a huge jackass.”

“Stick with a big mouth,” he muttered to himself, and took another sip of beer.

I flounced up from the couch. “You’d better be there at practice tomorrow. That’s all I’m saying. I am not going to let you ruin my career just because you’re too macho to learn a few skate routines. Understand me? Because if you think you’re hated by the public now? You just wait. I can give them all kinds of shit to film in the next two weeks that will completely decimate what’s left of your image. If you tank my career, I’m dragging you down with me.”

And with that, I stormed to my room.

That night, I was having the dirtiest dream.

“Hey baby,” Ty Randall breathed into my ear. “Move your hands, sweetheart.” His big body pressed up against mine, and he felt delicious. We were on the ice in sparkling white costumes, waiting for the music to start. He’d pulled my entire body against his, and our legs were intertwined in a gravity-defying lock that was only possible in dreams. His legs rubbed against my own, so big and strong. His arm went over my shoulders and pulled me against him even more, and I was deliciously enveloped against his chest.

How had he known exactly what I wanted? Ty Randall, all over me.

One hand pushed onto my breast and I frowned down at it. I was pretty sure the judges would count off for groping during a routine. He squeezed…

And my eyes flew open.

We weren’t on the ice.

I wasn’t alone in bed.

A big, warm male body was pressed against my own, his legs mixed with mine. Ty Randall had me pulled against his much bigger body, and his hand really was on my breast, kneading it. He was under the covers with me.

I flung his hand off of me and sat up, horrified. Horrified at him, and horrified at my own reaction (which wasn’t all rage). “What are you doing?”

He didn’t open his eyes, simply burrowed deeper into my pillows. “Sleeping.”

“No! You can’t sleep in here! What are you doing in my room, you idiot?”

He mumbled something that sounded like ‘I’m the celebrity and I should get whatever room I want’.

I jabbed him with my finger and looked over at the clock. 5:55 in the morning. Five minutes before my alarm was set to go off. “You can’t have whatever room you want. I’m in this one. I gave you the big one because you’re the celebrity!”

“Windows,” he mumbled into my pillow. “Want the one without the windows. Hurts my head.”

Oh, he wanted his head to hurt, did he? I leaned into his ear. “FUCK YOUR HEAD. GET OUT OF MY BED.”

He groaned and jerked upright, knocking his skull into my nose.

I gasped, flying backward, my fingers clutched to my nostrils. Blood was suddenly gushing from my nose. “Fuck!”

He was instantly awake, sitting up in the bed. His hand clutched his head. “Oh shit. You okay?”

I ran to my bathroom, flicking the light on and reaching for a towel, not answering him. Blood was everywhere.