by Rachel Cross
Matt scowled. “She’s my employee and we could be sued over this. My manager—”
The male officer indicated the door. “Out.”
Once the door shut behind him, the officer resumed his seat. “Why don’t you fill us in on what happened last night?”
Amy relayed the events of the previous evening while the officer took notes, his eyes boring into hers.
The female officer busied herself taking photos of Amy’s wrist from every angle.
“I’m sorry for the trouble, Ms. Astor. Do you want to press charges?” he said, looking down at his paper.
“No. I think the less that comes out about this the better. My employer will be happier. What’ll happen now?” she asked.
“Well, your injuries are consistent with your story—we’ll interview Jilly, but if she was as intoxicated as you describe, it’s doubtful she’ll have much to contribute. We’ll document what we’ve been told by each of the parties involved and make a report. It’s unlikely Dean will pursue the assault charge, particularly in light of your injuries—if he does, it will go to the district attorney, who will determine the aggressor. Generally in cases like this, there will be a dismissal since you don’t want to press charges, there were no witnesses, and frankly, the evidence corroborates what you’ve told us,” he said.
The woman perched on the side of the table next to Amy. “Do you have any questions?”
“Can you let my employer know? I have a morals clause and this is the kind of thing they could use to force me out.”
“I’ll speak to the guy who was just in here.” He handed her a white rectangular card. “If you or anyone from Enchanted Ice have questions, call. We’re going to bring Jilly down for a chat. Thanks for your time.”
She left the room and ran smack into Matt, pacing the hallway.
“Amy, I can’t protect you from this. We can’t have this kind of publicity. You’d best get your stuff together.”
“I’m the victim here,” she said stiffly.
“You think that’ll matter? Trust me, it won’t. I can’t pull you off the ice today—not when we’ve got Lisa down with the flu.”
Flu? Of course Lisa was in no shape to skate today, not after last night.
If corporate was coming out, if this Dean guy didn’t drop his complaint, this could be bad.
She made her way down the hallway toward the elevators, careful not to let Matt see her limp.
Exhausted, she went back to her room, hung the do not disturb sign on her door, turned her phone off, and went to lie down and take the weight off her hip. Thankfully her roommate had already cleared out.
She’d get up in a bit and head to urgent care.
Amy woke up to a pounding on her door. She rose and limped over to the peephole. Kyle stood there, his expression tense.
“What are you doing?” he demanded. “The bus is leaving.”
“The bus?”
“For the stadium.”
Amy turned and looked at the clock. She gasped. “Holy hell, Kyle. I slept for four hours.”
He helped her stuff her things into a bag and they dashed from the room.
• • •
Shane settled himself into the uncomfortable blue seat, a third of the way up from the ice. He’d wakened to Amy’s text and immediately called Asher to ask to use his jet. He must’ve set a record getting from LA to Miami, and yet he still only managed to get there in time for the show. He debated going backstage but didn’t want to distract her.
He leaned forward in his seat as the fairies disappeared, waiting for her appearance. She skated out, smiling, but even from this distance he could see her smile was forced, her jaw set as though she were gritting her teeth. Her skating was less graceful, less fluid. What was wrong with her?
Kyle skated out. Shane may have seen the performance a dozen times, but he still tensed every time that man appeared, as it signaled the start of the lifts and the dreaded death spiral. His stomach churned.
They spun by him, together, their steps perfectly matched, but Shane was close enough to see the grim determination on Amy’s face and the stress behind Kyle’s wooden smile.
Amy circled Kyle, preparing for the death spiral, but rather than tipping her, her partner spun her out from him, across the ice. Shane held his breath. That was not the move. Not unless the show had been re-choreographed.
They took another lap and he knew it wasn’t his imagination—this was not the program. As they went back to the center, they spun and Kyle hoisted Amy in his arms, carrying her around the rink, her skates high on his chest. Unlike previous performances, she didn’t drape herself over his back, but held herself stiffly in his arms.
The audience clapped and screamed; they didn’t notice. But Shane had seen enough to know this one was way off.
Kyle released her, a move Shane had seen dozens of times. Amy spun in the air, two turns before the blade of her right foot met the ice . . . and her leg crumpled before the other blade came down.
There was a collective gasp from the crowd.
Shane was already on his feet and in motion. He raced down the aisle, watching in horror as she went spinning, a full revolution on her rear, then bounced off her hip on the ice twenty feet from him. She tried to use the momentum from the fall to regain her footing but didn’t make it to her feet.
Shane leaped over the rink wall onto the ice as she was getting awkwardly to her feet. He took two steps toward Amy in his street shoes and nearly landed on his ass. A man in a yellow windbreaker was shouting at him from the other side of the barrier; Shane ignored him.
She was up, fifteen feet away now, staring at him wide-eyed. She took one limping glide toward him and her face twisted with pain.
Slipping and sliding, but somehow remaining upright, Shane made his way to her. The only sound in the rink was the musical track still playing. The spectators were standing now, watching the drama unfold on the ice.
He was vaguely aware of Kyle, motionless several feet behind Amy, as he reached her.
The music shut off, the stadium was nearly silent.
Shane gathered Amy into his arms and the crowd burst into applause.
She held herself stiffly, and he whispered into her ear, “Oh my God, Amy, what is it? Your hip?”
She nodded into his chest; he wrapped his arms more tightly around her.
His mind raced. There was no way he could get Amy backstage without skates—even with skates he doubted his skills were up to it.
He looked around desperately.
Kyle met his eyes and came gliding over, stopping dramatically a foot away, his skates spitting ice.
Amy tugged out of Shane’s embrace.
Then the man dressed as a prince reached for Shane’s hand, raised it, then bowed as he released it, gesturing to the crowd for applause. The crowd shouted and cheered.
A dozen fairies skated out as the soundtrack started up again. They surrounded Shane, guiding him across the ice toward backstage.
He cast a glance over his shoulder in time to see Kyle sweep Amy into his arms with a flourish.
The crowd roared its approval as Amy forced a smile and linked her hands behind his neck.
Before he’d even left the ice he hissed to one of the skaters, “Get an ambulance.”
“They’re on their way,” she replied.
“Has she been hurt, before tonight?”
The girl shrugged, depositing him in the area behind the curtain before she and the rest of the fairies departed to change for their next set.
Amy arrived backstage in Kyle’s arms. He put her gently into a chair and still she cried out in pain.
Shane rushed over.
“You got this?” Kyle asked, his hand atop Amy’s bent head.
“Yes.”
The man departed, headed for the costume area.
Shane knelt in front of Amy, her face buried in her hands. Someone approached—a scowling man, Matt something, he’d met him before—and a gray-haired man in an
expensive suit.
“Amy, what the hell?” Matt said, shuffling from one foot to another as his boss looked on. “You missed two jumps and the spiral—”
He rose to his feet, getting between Amy and this moron. “That’s what you have to say? You walked over here to berate your skater because she’s hurt?”
The man scowled and raised his voice. “If she was hurt, she shouldn’t have been out on that ice at all. And you? Taking the ice in mid-performance without skates? Are you nuts?”
Shane took two steps forward and glowered down at the manager.
Amy raised her head. “He’s right, Shane. I shouldn’t have been out there. My hip is . . . hurt. I need to have it checked out.”
The paramedics arrived, wheeling their equipment and stretcher into the cramped confines of the room. They helped her onto it—she cried out in pain and Shane’s heart seized up.
He went over to unlace and remove her skates as one medic checked her vitals and the other asked questions about her medical history. Apparently she’d hurt it last night, hauling around an inebriated friend. The suit looked ready to blow a gasket. Matt kept asking for the name of the drunk friend, but Amy gave him a dirty look.
He handed his rental car keys to Matt. “Make sure these get to Kyle, tell him to bring her stuff. I’m going with them.”
• • •
Three hours and one MRI later, the diagnosis was confirmed. Labral tear of the right hip.
The physician relayed the information in quiet tones and Amy burst into tears.
Shane sat next to her on the bed, enfolding her in his arms as she wept, her body intermittently shuddering and stiffening with pain. He didn’t know what those words meant, but clearly it was devastating news to her.
“It’s not necessarily a career ender, Ms. Astor,” the ER doctor continued, “but it is a season ender. I have a call into one of our orthopedic docs who specializes in hips, and she can at least tell you options—surgery and the like.”
An hour later the specialist arrived. She discussed alternatives and tried to allay Amy’s fears. “You have options, Ms. Astor, and these days, there are alternatives to surgery. But whichever way you go, the process of recovery will take months. I’m sorry I don’t have better news. There’s a guy near where you live at UCLA who is very good. I can give him a call if you’re interested.”
“Yes, thank you,” she replied dully.
Shane settled himself on the bed as Amy continued to cry quietly in his arms after the doctor left. He stroked her hair, helpless. “We can go home anytime; I have Asher’s plane.”
She nodded, sniffing into his shirt.
He looked up to see Kyle standing in the entry to the room, watching them expressionlessly.
“Labral tear?” he asked.
Shane nodded.
He released Amy, and Kyle came over to give her a hug and a kiss on the top of her head. As their eyes met, Shane was surprised to find he didn’t feel a twinge of jealousy, only shared concern.
“Are you taking her home?” Kyle asked.
“Yes,” he said, “as soon as possible.”
“Good.”
“And I’m siccing my attorney—our attorney—on the Trevor Dean situation,” he added.
Kyle grinned and handed over the rental car keys.
“Chin up,” the man told Amy. “Just last night you told me you were ready for a change.”
Her tears continued to flow. “I know.”
She leaned back on the bed and turned her face away, closing her eyes. Retreating into herself, leaving Shane helpless on the outside.
Kyle motioned him to follow him out into the hall.
“How bad is it?” Kyle asked bluntly once they had walked to the end of the corridor.
“Bad. Painful. The MRI shows a lot of chronic damage but also a significant tear. She’s out for the rest of the season at least.”
“Damn it,” he said. “I hate that the decision was taken out of her hands, though she’d decided this was her last tour.”
Shane raised both eyebrows. This was news to him. Amy had been desperate to be hired, and though she talked about life after skating, she seemed in no hurry to leave Enchanted.
“I’m debating how much to share with you about Amy. About how this might affect her—and her issues.”
“The eating?” he replied calmly.
Kyle stiffened. “She told you about that?” he said.
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure she’s out of the woods there.”
“From what I’ve read, you never are.”
Kyle acknowledged this with a nod. “And lately . . . well, I’m sure you’ve noticed that she’s leaner?”
It was Shane’s turn to freeze. Of course he’d noticed. He saw her naked every month, but Amy told him that was a natural consequence of performing. “She said it was normal to drop weight on the road, with how crazy the schedules are.”
Kyle’s expression was skeptical. “I’ve noticed the weight loss since I’m the one lifting her out there. She tells me the same thing. But I’m worried, and not just about the eating. I’ve known lots of skaters who’ve gone into a depression when they retire.”
“That’s what you think this is, retirement?”
“It should be,” he said firmly. “And she knows it. The trouble with Amy—” His lips clamped together.
“The trouble with Amy is that she doesn’t know who she is if she’s not a skater,” Shane finished his sentence.
“You get her, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he said. “And I experienced something similar when I left music.”
Kyle shook his hand. “Then take care of her for us.” He backed away, his expression serious before turning on his heel to disappear through the exit doors.
• • •
The doctors loaded Amy up on pain-killers for the flight home. Thank God they were going via private jet. It would make all the difference to her comfort. As they waited in the air-conditioned office in the Miami hanger for the plane to be readied for the cross-country flight, Shane’s cell phone rang. He checked the number. Ike.
Amy was stretched out on the couch next to him so he got up and went outside.
“Hello?”
“Shane, you are a fucking genius, boy!”
One of the pilots nodded at him to indicate they could board.
“Ike, I gotta go.”
“Sheer genius!”
“What, Ike?” He shouldn’t have taken the call. Whatever it was could wait.
“Going out on the ice to rescue the princess? Brilliant move.”
Shane frowned. “Move?”
“That video of your ridiculous self slip-sliding all over the ice to rescue your girlfriend is everywhere. There’s a Buzzfeed of it! You are the man of the hour. Image problem solved.”
“Whatever man, I gotta go.”
“You coming back to LA?”
“Yeah. I’m flying back to LAX with Amy. Ike, the pilots are ready to take off.”
“You holding up the flight?”
“Yeah, I’m on Lowe’s Lear. I’ll talk to you later.”
Shane hung up, shaking his head. He couldn’t give a rat’s ass about his image when Amy was reeling.
• • •
She slept most of the flight, though whether she was actually sleeping or in a narcotic induced haze could be debated. Shane read, looking over at her every few minutes until she waved her hand grumpily. “Stop checking up on me,” she mumbled. “I can feel you worrying. I’m fine.”
At the end of the flight, he hefted Amy into his arms. She’d definitely lost weight on the road. It had been gradual, but now, carrying her down the steps of the plane and into the private terminal, it worried him. She struggled in his arms to be put down. He did, afraid she would hurt herself otherwise.
She burst into tears when she couldn’t make it two steps without gasping in pain.
Shane swept her up and carried her to the waiting limo cradling her
shuddering body in the backseat.
Forty minutes later the limousine pulled up to his building. It was nearing midnight, but there was a swarm of paparazzi in the circular driveway.
Shane groaned. This was all they needed, some celebrity staying at his building. He was about to ask the driver to pull around the back when the horde spotted the car, and within seconds they were swarmed.
He stared in disbelief as thirty or more people in rumpled clothes with expensive cameras flashing, shouted his name and Amy’s.
Amy stared out the window in shock.
“Fuck,” he spat out.
She turned huge, dilated eyes on him. “Oh my God, Shane. I’m drugged and wearing sweatpants,” she said in horrified tones.
He stared at her, then a bark of laugher escaped. He pressed his lips together, unable to prevent a grin.
He tapped the glass and the driver rolled down the window. “Let’s make it quick, okay?” he said.
The driver agreed. He came around to let Shane out of the car, then got the bags from the trunk. Shane went around and scooped Amy up into his arms. She buried her face in his chest, and he couldn’t resist dropping a kiss on the top of her shining gold head, ignoring all the shouted questions, the demands, the strobe-like lights of so many cameras going off. The swarm stayed outside, and the door to the lobby shut, leaving them to wait for the elevator in relative quiet.
“What was that all about?” she asked, squirming to be put down.
“I’m not putting you down, so stop wiggling.”
He entered his apartment, put Amy on their bed, and went out to tip the driver, who left their bags at the front door.
Amy was sitting on the bed, feet up, when he returned. He unlaced her sneakers and checked his watch. It was time for another dose of the pain meds. He got her pill and some water.
She took it begrudgingly.
Shane checked his voicemail—a million messages from his sister to his agent. He ignored all but the one from UCLA Medical Center. “The orthopedist will see us first thing tomorrow. 10 A.M.,” he relayed.
“Shane,” there was trepidation in her eyes, “what was that all about? Outside? Has something happened?”
He saw what she was really asking; she wanted to know if he’d done something, gotten caught. “Ike called while you were sleeping. He told me there’s video of us online, of what happened on the ice in Miami.”
