I heard stomping, and then someone banged on my door, a crude version of a knock. “Hey. Hey! Mouthy girl. Open up.”
I frowned at my closed door. The entire thing had vibrated when he’d knocked. It was just cheap wood, but still. I didn’t want him destroying my room. I had to live here for the next two months, after all. “I’d better let you go, Naomi. Talk to you later.”
“Good luck.” She sounded worried. “You’re going to need it. Break a leg.”
“You don’t tell a skater that,” I yelped at her, but it ended up being the dial tone. Damn it! I could practically feel the juju going south on me. I went immediately to my desk and touched each of my lucky talismans in a row, trying to reverse the negativity.
Skaters were superstitious. I was more superstitious than most, but I also didn’t like to take a chance on something like bad energy. I needed all my luck around me for the next two months.
Ty banged on my door again, and I set my phone down and went to answer it. I’d kept the door shut all afternoon, needing to unwind from the horrible meeting. One of the cameramen told me that we could be filmed anywhere in the house except for in our bedrooms, so I’d more or less hidden there. Like a coward. But I didn’t have to be ‘on’ until tomorrow morning, so I’d save my mental fortitude for then. I had a feeling I’d need every ounce of patience possible.
I opened my door and a crack and gave Ty a cross look. “There a problem?” Sure enough, there was a camera hovering over his shoulder.
He looked pissed. His eyes were narrowed and he held a bottle of beer in his hand. Likely a warm beer. “Yeah, there’s a problem. What did you do?”
“Do?” I blinked my eyes innocently.
“My beer’s hot. The entire fridge is f**ked. What did you do?”
I ignored the question he asked me and posed one of my own. “You’re an athlete, right? You shouldn’t drink beer if you want to remain in top form.”
“I’m an athlete on hiatus stuck on a dumbass dancing show,” he told me, his eyes narrowed. “What did you do to my fridge?”
“Ice skating, not dancing,” I hissed at him. “And it’s still a sport.”
“Yeah. Okay.” He was clearly humoring me. He jiggled the beer in front of my face. “All I want to know is if you’re responsible for this.”
I eyed it, and then his angry Neanderthal face. Did I think his nose had been broken only twice? I’d probably sorely underestimated. And right now? I couldn’t blame those people that broke his nose. Heck, I’d be volunteering for a swipe right now myself. “If you’re going to be an athlete,” I told him, “act like one.”
His mouth tightened with fury. “So it was you—”
I slammed my door shut in his face.
Silence. I cringed, expecting to hear a roar of rage. Maybe he’d scream names at me through the door. Something. He didn’t seem like the type that could hold his temper. And they were filming, which wasn’t great.
“You and I need to have a talk,” he said through the door.
I ignored him.
“Fine then,” he said after a long, long moment, voice surprisingly calm. “You’ve got to come out of there sometime to eat.”
I sat down on my bed, cross legged, and pulled a box of organic granola bars off of my nightstand. I peeled one open and began to eat. I actually didn’t have to leave my room. My bathroom was attached to my bedroom, and I’d brought in bottles of water and snacks so I could deliberately hide away all evening. I peeled a bar open, feeling pretty pleased with myself.
“So you ignoring me?” he asked.
I said nothing. He wanted to be childish? I could be childish too. Just watch me.
“All right then. Since you don’t plan on answering, or coming out so we can talk about this shit, I’ll just use your fridge. Problem solved.”
I made a face at the door as he stomped away. It was going to be a long eight weeks.
The next morning, I woke up at five AM and showered, ready to face the day. Not only ready, but excited. This was my first day back being a professional, and I was determined to show my stuff.
I dressed in a red leotard and black tights, yanked my hair into my bun, and grabbed my lucky socks. My skates were pulled off of their hook and slung over my shoulder, I touched my talismans laid out on my desk, and then I was ready to go. Sucking in a breath, I cracked my door open, peeking out.
Nothing.
I stepped out of the bedroom and glanced around. Everything seemed quiet. Ty’s door was shut, so I didn’t know if he was awake or not. My guess was ‘not.’ I turned the corner to the kitchen…and paused.
That ass**le.
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.