On thin ice, p.7
On Thin Ice, page 7
Tiny trinkets of hers decorated the room; sunglasses, a hairbrush, and a few pieces of jewelry sat tidily on the vanity. A photo of her hugging another girl was taped to the mirror, Matilda’s trademark smile plastered on her face while the other girl looked at her adoringly. Maybe they were girlfriends. Or just best friends.
And then there were the tapes.
Off the ice, Matilda was a knockout.
On the ice, Matilda shone like a fucking star.
I’d learned from Hollywood over the years that some people had show presence and others didn’t. But anyone who denied that Matilda was born to be in front of the camera was blind. The actor in me felt almost giddy at working with someone who was so obviously talented. Almost. A prickling of distrust still bubbled beneath the surface whenever she was near.
Matilda was holding back in the routines, especially from the earlier weeks of the show. They had been tailored to the celebrity’s skill set, and there were a few years when her dances were the simplest compared to the other skaters’, but somehow she still managed to outshine them all.
I thought back to that producer’s remark about her being boring and wrote him off as fucking delusional. Matilda’s reaction when he’d called after her yesterday floated into my mind. It screamed that something had gone down between them, but of course she had just brushed it off. Settled on a clear lie and pretended it was nothing.
I pushed her dishonesty to the back of my mind.
Biting into one of the croissants she had brought us this morning, its buttery flakes coating my tongue, I couldn’t help but ask, “Where the hell did you get this? It’s good.”
Matilda raised her brows before a soft grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. “They’re from Vinnie’s. It’s a bakery about a twenty-minute drive from here, but it’s worth it.”
“Thank you.” Taking another bite, I barely withheld my moan. A glance at Jack revealed he was enjoying his, too.
“You have to try it dunked in their signature mocha; it’s the best. I didn’t want to risk getting you both one today, because I know you had a black coffee the other day, but you have to try it next time.”
“We definitely will,” Jack mumbled between bites of his croissant. “Thanks again.”
A pretty rosy hue crept up her cheeks. I looked away.
As the last clip ended on the TV, she pressed pause on the remote and whirled in her seat to face us. She shuffled the papers in her hands, organizing the notes she’d been taking, and looked at me expectantly.
“What?” I asked.
“Any thoughts on our plan of action? If you tell me your expectations after watching the tapes, I can advise on the best attack.”
I didn’t need to think too long before I answered, “I need to win.”
Her smile widened, mirroring the excitement that danced in her eyes. But there was also intrigue written across her face; she wanted to ask why. She was too polite, so she settled on: “Brilliant, so do I.”
I, however, was not too polite.
“Why do you need to win?”
“Well, it’s my job to try and win, which is incentivized with a bonus.” She bit the corner of her lip before continuing. “My mother really wants me to win, too.”
“Oh, really?” Jack’s last bite of croissant froze in midair.
“Yeah, she’s always been super supportive and…” She paused, searching for a word. “involved with my ice-skating career. She wants me to win the show and carry on her legacy, blah, blah, blah.” She took another bite of her own croissant, the blush on her cheeks growing brighter.
“Her legacy?”
“She’s Julia Stevens, youngest Olympic pairs figure skater to represent the UK.” Matilda air-quoted as if she’d heard the reference a hundred times. She stood up and moved to the other side of the dressing room. Slipping her sweater back over her head, she continued, “Or was. She was in the Olympics and won bronze, but had to stop after she had me, so she wants me to succeed for her, you know? I haven’t won the show yet, so it would be cool to.”
“Had to stop? Don’t lots of people compete in the Olympics after they’ve had children?” Jack asked, genuine interest lacing his voice.
“She was planning to compete at the next Games after she’d given birth to me, but I was an emergency C-section with quite a few complications, so she never got back the strength and flexibility that she needed.”
Jack’s eyes softened with sympathy. “Oh god, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Oh, don’t worry—it’s fine. She can live through me now, anyway.” Matilda laughed but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Did you not want to go to the Olympics?” If Matilda was shocked by my sudden interest, she didn’t show it. Her lips curved upward with a grim edge, lacking the usual warmth.
“I tried but didn’t make it.” She fiddled with something in the vanity drawer before returning to her seat. It was the first time I’d seen her this fidgety; besides, perhaps, when her sister had visited. “My mother wants me to win the show so much. It would be nice to get her off my back.”
I had no idea what to say.
“Anyway, enough about me!” She shuffled the papers again, giving me whiplash from the change in subject. “After this first week of training, I think we have a good shot at making it to at least the quarters of the show. I haven’t seen the other skaters yet, so don’t take that as a guarantee, but I’m hopeful. We still need to work and get the audience to like us.”
“I’m prepared to work. And as I said before, I will put on a good show when we need to.”
“That’s fine. They tell us the theme of each show three weeks in advance, so we currently only have the first three shows. The first is Musicals, the second is Props, and the third is Fantasy.”
“And we can choose our songs and choreography?”
“Within reason. We need to get approval of the music because of the rights and stuff, and the Safety team will want to review my choreography before we start practicing, but otherwise, yes.” She tightened the ponytail atop her head.
“And what are the producers like? The crew?” I wanted to kiss Jack for asking the question.
Matilda’s gaze flickered away momentarily, and a tiny crease formed between her brows before vanishing. She chuckled. “They’re OK, I guess. Pretty standard as far as producers go, or so I’ve been told. This is the only show I’ve worked on, so I don’t have a lot to compare it to. The crew are super friendly, though. And nonintrusive. They get what they need and don’t linger.”
I didn’t bother to question her on her vague answer around the producers because it didn’t matter—she wasn’t going to offer anything more, which just solidified that it was the right decision to keep her at arm’s length.
She changed the subject again. “So, any musicals that immediately spring to mind for week one? We can pick any musical we want, but it works on a first-come, first-served basis, so I want to get our choice in as soon as possible.”
Words spilled from my lips before I could filter them. “Encanto has some good music.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief, and she burst out laughing. I crossed my arms, raising a brow.
“You are so right!” Jack joined in next to me, sitting up straight. “I fucking love that film. I swear, I almost cried at Mirabel’s prophecy.”
“You did cry,” I reminded him.
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“Fine, but I saw you well up too, big guy, so you can stop pretending you’re a robot.” I rolled my eyes. “We’re rewatching it. It’s been decided.”
“What? We only watched it last week.” I released an exaggerated sigh.
“And? You were the one who just said the music was amazing.”
“I think I said it has some good music.”
“Which is basically the same thing.”
Rolling my eyes again at the idiot, I returned to a grinning Matilda.
“We can definitely do an Encanto song. But there will probably be a Disney week at some point, so I’d be tempted to keep it for then?”
“How certain are we talking here?” Jack interjected before I could answer.
She didn’t suppress her laugh. “Well, we’ve had a Disney week three out of my four years here.”
“Hmm. Feels risky.”
“It’s fine.” I pushed his shoulder. “He’s not the one choosing, anyway.”
“I’m your agent, in case you forgot. I’m here to help you make the best choices.”
“Yes, with new opportunities and PR issues. Not whether we can risk potentially missing the opportunity to skate to Encanto, dickface. We’ll save it for Disney week.”
She scribbled on her papers. “Got it. Encanto for Disney week. Any other ideas for Musicals week?”
Silence fell over the room as we thought.
“How about Grease?” She tapped the pen against her lips.
“You know what,” Jack started, “I could totally see Grease working for you both.”
“It could work,” I agreed, knowing people loved the musical.
“You’ve got that whole brooding dickhead vibe about you.” He gestured toward my vicinity. “And Matilda’s obviously got the sweet girl-next-door down to a T. It would actually match you both well.”
“You know I pay you, right?” I deadpanned.
“I do. I see my paycheck reference of ‘I’m an uptight bastard’ every month.”
“Then stop insulting me, maybe?”
“It’s not an insult if it’s true! You do give off ‘don’t fucking look at me’ vibes, and you know it.” I thought I’d rolled my eyes at Jack, in this dressing room alone, more times than I’d heard the word “cut” in my entire career.
“Maybe it’s because I spend ninety percent of my time around you.”
“You only have yourself to blame there, buddy. As we just established, you pay me to hang around.”
“Has anyone done a Grease mash-up before? That might be a good way to get a lot in, right?”
“They haven’t, no. But that’s probably because we won’t have time. We only get ninety to one hundred and ten seconds per skate, so I think it would be squeezing too much in,” she provided an answer.
I nodded and crossed that one off my mental list.
“I am pretty sure ‘Greased Lightnin’’ has been done before, so it would be good to choose a different song.”
“I’ll look at the soundtrack.” I pulled my phone from my pocket, googled Grease, and read through the song list.
Jack shuffled toward me, our thighs touching on the sofa and his breath in my ear.
“For fuck’s sake, man, can you back up?” I pushed him, unable to contain the small curve of my lips. “What’s your problem?”
“I want to look at the list!” he moaned like a petulant child.
“Then look at your own goddamned phone. I just had your warm, stinky breath in my ear.” I rubbed it, trying to erase the feeling.
“My breath is not stinky!” His head swiveled to Matilda. “I promise, it’s not. I take dental hygiene very seriously.”
“I believe you.” A mischievous glint flashed in her eyes.
Jack narrowed his eyes at me. “You fucker.”
Laughter erupted from Matilda. Fuck, she has an annoyingly nice smile. She’s so—
Catching me off guard, Jack snatched the phone from my hand and rushed to the other side of the room. At this point, I just let him have his way. He was like a fucking toddler.
His smile widened as he read the list. “Aha! How about ‘You’re the One That I Want’? That would be perfect for you two.”
“That’s the worst song of the movie,” I argued.
He slowly turned his head to me, eyebrows raised. “Do not say that again. It’s an absolute banger.”
I shook my head, dragging my hands down my face.
“It could work.” Matilda uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, tucking her hands underneath. “No one’s done it before, and it is probably one of the most iconic songs from the musical.”
I was about to disagree, hating the idea of doing a remotely romantic dance, but Matilda continued, “Aaaand, it will be a good way to show on-screen chemistry.” She emphasized the “on-screen” part, holding up her hands in submission.
“What do you mean?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear this.
Her cheeks were tinted pink, and her smile was slightly tighter than normal. “You don’t want to be friends or anything; I get that. But you want to win, and, whether you like it or not, we need to show some chemistry. So, instead of looking like friends in the cutaways and risking faking it, we could choose some iconic romantic music instead.”
My gut instinct said absolutely not. Even the thought of pretending to be romantic with Matilda made me want to retreat. It felt like crossing a barrier I’d promised myself I’d never step over again.
But I had to admit…it made sense.
“You said you wouldn’t have a problem acting like we liked each other while skating, right?” She was talking faster now, her words bubbling with excitement. “Then let’s give them something to talk about through our routines.”
“You know, she’s definitely on to something.” Jack spoke to me while gesturing with my phone at Matilda.
“It’s the best of both worlds, then,” she continued. “We don’t have to be friends, but we could still get the audience vote if there is speculation around how we are on the ice together and our music choices.”
The idea of feigning closeness to Matilda unsettled me as much as it sent warmth through my veins. It would be too easy to “act” close with someone like her, so effortlessly beautiful and seemingly kind. Combine that with spending every day together, touching and skating…It felt like a disaster waiting to happen.
But as we had been watching the tapes, I’d noticed that a few couples who Matilda said had made it to the finals weren’t always the best skaters. A quick Google search revealed streams of speculative articles around their relationships, from a romantic song choice to holding each other a little too long after a dance had finished. That would be a safer way to get publicity than pretending to be friendly off the ice, right?
“I could definitely work this angle, Luca.” Jack pulled his phone out of his pocket, throwing mine back to me. He typed something and then re-pocketed it.
“I don’t like being dishonest,” I offered weakly, feeling like I was fighting a futile battle.
“You’re not being dishonest. You’re acting.”
My mother’s face flashed in my mind. The heaviness that had lingered in her eyes when I visited yesterday.
“Fine, let’s do it.”
“Fuck, yes.” Jack punched the air in victory, narrowly avoiding the flat-screen TV behind him. Jack was right. What was the difference between this and acting?
“I feel really good about this season.” Matilda’s eyes sparkled with hope as she organized the papers in her lap, a genuine smile crossing her lips. Jack started rambling some shit about getting more food, but my eyes flicked back to Matilda.
She was still sorting through her papers, taking little notes. But her smile remained, eyes crinkled at the corners, and her body relaxed. She was content with our arrangement. No friendship off the ice, but ninety seconds of acting romantic on the ice.
I’d gotten what I wanted, so why did it feel like I hadn’t really won at all?
Three weeks in, and our mirror sequencing looked good, even though I tripped us over numerous times during practice.
Last week, Matilda had taught me the basic glides, forward crossovers, twists, and backward crossovers; this week had been spent perfecting them. It wasn’t difficult per se, but it was fast due to the upbeat music. When we were perfectly in time, it looked good. But when we weren’t, it looked hideous. And with every pass and movement, it became impossible to ignore how close Matilda was—the warmth of her hand in mine, the focus in her eyes, the soft curve of her waist. It was unsettling how much I noticed.
“Let’s go once more, and then we can break for a bit.” Matilda gestured to our starting position, and I took her lead.
“Five, six, seven, eight…” We pushed off and started the sequence. It was only about thirty seconds long. As we finished our last crossover, she spun and placed her hands on my shoulders, preparing to go into the lift we had yet to practice. Her touch was soft, but it lingered, her fingers warm against the fabric of my T-shirt. Her breath brushed my ear, fast and shallow. It was just part of the routine, but something about the way she felt in my grasp had my pulse picking up.
She released me, her lips stretching into a radiant curve as her eyes lit up. She was clearly unaffected by our proximity. “That was so much better,” she said. I nodded, acknowledging the compliment. Her joy was overwhelming sometimes.
“We’ve got two hours left on the ice if we want it. Do you want to take a break for twenty and meet back here?”
“Sure,” I answered as we skated across the rink to the seats where we’d left our bags. Jack’s space was empty, as he was helping out with an incident at his parents’ summer camp.
Stepping off the ice, I unlaced my boots and pulled on my trainers. Matilda was scrolling around on her phone when I exited through the double doors to get a drink from the café. I picked out two bottles of water, an apple, and a brownie for her because she seemed to inhale anything sweet and barely ate when we were practicing.
Muffled voices echoed around the rink as I returned to the studio. I hadn’t realized anyone else was there today.
I searched for where the voices came from, and my jaw clenched.
Matilda was skating backward while holding a woman’s hands, the woman’s male partner watching and mumbling instructions. He said something that caused the woman to stumble, but Matilda stopped her from hitting the ice and kept guiding her. They paused, and Matilda slowly demonstrated how the skate should slide on the ice, picking up on the problem spot for the other woman. They repeated the same sequence until the woman managed to execute it without stumbling.
