“Who’s this?” The female executive cut me off, moving to the man’s side. She gave me a cool look up and down.
The man gratefully snatched his hand back and put it on my shoulder instead. “This is Zara Pritchard. She’s filling in for Svetlana, since she’s too pregnant to compete.”
Yes! Thank you, Svetlana, for getting knocked up. I totally needed to send that woman flowers. I gave the female executive my best beaming smile.
“She’s awfully young,” the woman said, frowning as she considered me.
“Oh, I just look young,” I explained hastily, and gestured at my tight bun. “It’s the hair. It makes my face rounder than it really is. Everyone always talks about how I look like I’m fourteen, but I’m really twenty-five. I get carded all the time. I—”
The female executive sniffed. “They told me you were an Olympian.”
“I am. Was.” Oh god, the horrified look on Jon Jon’s face had turned to one of pity. Please, please don’t let me babble out my past. “I competed in 2002. Salt Lake. I was thirteen and—’
Her eyes widened. “You walked off after you fell. I remember.”
Oh god. I was going to barf. “It was a mistake,” I blurted out. “I was a kid, and I was really upset. I didn’t realize what a mistake it would be. I’d never do it again if given the chance to do-over. I mean, no one does that, right?” I gave a high-pitched, nervous laugh. “That’s like, rule number one of figure skating. You never walk off the ice mid-routine, but I did it. So yeah, I…um, won’t do it again.”
Please, floor, swallow me up now.
She gave me a tight look. “See that you don’t.”
“Of course not. Absolutely. You can count on me. I—”
She turned away before I could finish. Ouch. “Let’s start the meeting, shall we?”
Everyone returned to their seats, and none of the other skaters would look in my direction. My cheeks burned with humiliation, but I forced myself to sit. I would never run away again, after all. I’d learned my lesson.
I was thirteen when I’d won at Nationals, and fourteen for the Salt Lake Olympics of 2002. I was a favorite for the US, and I had been all over Sports Illustrated and figure skating magazines, and my managers were in talks with multiple sports companies about endorsement deals once I medaled at the Olympics. I was a prodigy. I was young, cute, and everyone loved me. It wasn’t a matter of ‘if’ I medaled, but when. I was the favorite going in.
And I’d been cocky as hell, too. I was so sure that I was going to mop the floor with the others that, after I’d skated a flawless short program, I was positive that I was unstoppable. I might have even skipped a practice.
But the ice had been shitty, and I’d drawn the bad luck of going first. Skating first, when the ice wasn’t all torn up and malleable, sucked. I didn’t like that. Bad luck all around. And then I’d doubled a triple toe loop. And got pissed at myself. Why was I doing such stupid moves? Why? Why wasn’t I paying attention?
And then I’d gone into my double-axel sit spin, a move I normally nailed…except I’d mis-timed it and landed flat on my too-proud ass in front of the judges.
And then I’d sat there, humiliated, as the music played on. Skaters are taught to get up and carry on, salvage the program as best they could. Keep your chin up and your head held high, and you’ll at least finish with grace.
But I’d been fourteen, and my dreams of medaling had just come crashing down around my ass. And so I picked myself up off the ice and flounced right off of the rink.
People had been stunned. No one walked off the ice. No one. They started to boo.
I then shot everyone the bird, full of myself and humiliation.
Of course, that had just made things worse.
The Olympic favorite had just scratched.
It made headlines everywhere. ZARA PRITCHARD WASHES OUT, complete with pictures of me storming away, my middle fingers in the air. My coaches were horrified. My parents were, too. The rest of my team, devastated. I’d embarrassed everyone. Worst of all? I’d killed my career. My management team fired me. Endorsement deals that were practically inked had dried up overnight. No one would hire Zara Pritchard, supreme loser. No one wanted anything to do with me. After a few years of struggling, I’d landed odd jobs skating as mascots (always masked and covered head to toe) or doing private lessons. I barely scraped by.
So now, here I was, more than ten years later, being given a second chance because Svetlana had gotten too pregnant to compete. And I was determined not to screw this up this time, damn it.
Zara Pritchard had learned her lesson.
“So,” the female executive said, taking a seat at the head of the table and flipping through a packet of notes. “We’re all familiar with the layout of the show, right?”
I wasn’t. I didn’t watch last year’s show because my hated nemesis, Penelope Marks, the skater who’d taken the gold the year I should have had it, was also one of the judges. Hated Penelope. HA. TED. But I guessed that I should have paid more attention to the show. Now wasn’t the time to ask.
“There will be six weeks of shows, since we’re a summer replacement for the network.” The executive continued on calmly. “That means six routines with your partner, provided you last the entire six weeks. You’ll have two weeks, starting tomorrow, to train and warm up with your partner. Then, we start live shows. As a reminder, if you get to the finale, you automatically get a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus. The winner gets a hundred thousand, as does the celebrity. Of course, they’ll be giving theirs to charity.” She gave us all a wintry smile. “You are encouraged to do the same, if you choose.”
Give away a hundred grand? Hell no. That’d set me for years. I pressed my lips together tightly, just to make sure the protest didn’t blurt out of my mouth.
“Costumes will be provided. Simply inform production of your choice at the beginning of the week, and they will take care of the rest. Ditto with music, so we can ensure that we get the appropriate rights to play the music. You don’t want to sub out at the last minute.” She gave a pointed look at Serge.
Ooo, someone got busted.
“You’ll be assigned the same choreographers as last year.”
Assigned choreographers? I felt my enthusiasm dim a little. I loved doing choreography and expressing myself artistically through routines. Having someone else pick out that stuff for us took a little of the joy out of it. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and I was certainly the beggar here. I said nothing.