Ice Games

By: Jessica Clare

CHAPTER ONE

Ice Dancing with the Stars? You’re fucking kidding me, right? — Ty Randall, MMA Fighter, a.k.a. “Ty the MMA Biter,” to his manager

~~ * ~~

I really hated family reunion  s. You know, those shindigs where a variety of people that would otherwise barely like each other get together and pretend to be affectionate all because of a common bond? And you’re forced to sit there and endure for hours while someone goes on and on about the weather while you know they’re just dying to ask you about that horribly embarrassing incident in your past but that they just haven’t worked up to it yet?

Yeah. The figure skating community is kind of like that—a big family that can barely hold itself together, yet all forced to interact because of a commonality. And walking into the 7:00 AM meeting at JNO Studios and seeing a lineup of familiar skating faces? Yep. Family reunion   time. And as if on cue, my stomach gave an unhappy twist. If this was a family, I was definitely the black sheep.

“Right this way, Miss Pritchard,” the assistant at my elbow said, and led me to the far end of the long table where the other skaters were already seated. I was the last one there. Bad luck. My juju was already off to a bad start. I took a sip of the iced latte clutched in my hand and tried to play it casual, though internally I was sizing up the others. I thumped into my seat—last one on the right, also bad luck, but I wasn’t in a position to complain, and I certainly wasn’t going to demand a new seat.

My days of demanding things? Pretty much over. Now I was lucky to get scraps.

The others were dressed in business suits or designer clothing. No one had given me that memo. I’d thought from the phone call yesterday that this would just be a quick overview session, nothing more. Lovely. I was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, a tank top, and leggings, because, well, that was what I always wore. My dark hair was pulled into my normal tight bun and I wasn’t wearing makeup. Everyone else looked like they were heading to a Hollywood party.

Discomfort made my skin prickle, but I pretended to not care in the slightest, giving my latte a long, noisy slurp in response as continued to size up everyone in the room. Five other skaters, and they were all giving me wide, too-fake smiles.

“Zara, it is so good to see you getting back on your feet,” exclaimed Emma Rawley, seated at the far end of the table. “Did you just come straight from the ice?”

Mentally, I ran down her list of accomplishments. Two-time Olympian, one-time bronze medalist. She’d come in first at Nationals only once. She was good, technically, but uninspired. I slurped my drink. “No.”

Next to her sat Tatiana Bezrukov, a Russian champion with a bigger pedigree than anyone else. She simply watched me, saying nothing. Tatiana was never much of a talker. She kind of let her accomplishments speak for themselves. I was surprised they got as big of a name as her, though. She was a big deal in her home country.

The three men were Serge Volodin, Toby Bell, and Jon Jon Miller. I didn’t know them nearly as well as the women, but they were all very familiar to me. Very familiar and very skilled. But none of them were nearly as notorious as me.

Goody.

Jon Jon sat next to me. He leaned closer, skipping all pretense. “So…just so you know. The executives really frown on it if you walk off of the ice while on the show. I hear you’re bad at that.”

I shot him the bird.

“Now that’s a familiar gesture.” Jon Jon winked. “Nice to see Zara Pritchard hasn’t changed that much.”

Dickhead.

The others chuckled, except for Emma, who frowned unhappily at the table and then turned to me, beaming a smile that seemed sincere. “It is really great that you’re here, Zara. We heard you’d been teaching out in Ohio?” Her brows went up, encouraging me to answer.

“Tutoring,” I said, hoping they’d leave it at that.

“Anyone we know?” asked Toby.

“Nope.”

He gave me an impossible-to-read look. “So an up-and-comer?”

You could say that. Most of the kids I tutored at the mall ice rink were four- to six-year-olds. I was sure they’d be up and coming at something at some point. So I merely sipped my drink and tried to look mysterious. Let them wonder.

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