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.”
“Oh, I noticed,” he said with a grin. “Which is why I always say—”
“—No sequins,” I finished for him, laughing.