Ice Games Read Online Free

happened a lot in her business, and my guess was that she was here to try and get herself a bit of attention.
    The cameras loved her, though. She smiled and nodded and gave a swing of her lovely hair, stepping gracefully toward a chalk-marked X that had been drawn on the asphalt for her to go stand on when she’d exited the car.
    I was guessing I’d just spotted Serge’s partner. She was gorgeous.
    The next limo contained another familiar figure—Michael Michaels. His black hair was cut into a mohawk, and spikes stuck out from both of his ears. Tattoos covered his neck, and he wore a black t-shirt that had the arm holes cut all the way down to his waistband, which was also covered in spikes. He wore a pair of tight leather jeans and big, buckle-laden boots. He also looked incredibly skinny and pale. I had his CD in my car at home.
    Next was a woman I didn’t recognize. She had blonde, wavy hair and wore a dark polo shirt and jeans. She wasn’t exactly dressed like Annamarie the model. I wondered what she did.
    Emma obviously knew. She leaned over to me. “Julia Mckillip. She’s a racecar driver. One of the few female ones.”
    O-kay. That was an interesting choice. “And she ice skates? Huh.”
    The next car held an older man with a plaid shirt, a cowboy hat, and a beard. I could almost hear Emma’s sigh of disappointment. “Louie Earl. Country singer. I bet he’s mine.”
    I bet he was, too.
    The next car held a younger girl, no more than sixteen or so. I recognized her, too. Victoria Kiss, a teen star with a few kid’s movies under her belt and an equal number of accompanying kid’s CDs. Not surprising, either. I wasn’t really seeing A-listers. I was seeing washed up, washing up, or looking to move up on the rather tough ladder in Hollywood.
    I considered Michael Michaels. If Louie Earl was Emma’s partner, either the rocker was mine or the next guy. I didn’t have anything against Michael Michaels (other than his dumb name), so he wouldn’t be so bad.
    “Last one,” Emma murmured, and I turned back to the end car, watching as the door opened.
    I didn’t have to fake my gasp of surprise. Neither did anyone else. We were all genuinely shocked at the man that came out of the sedan.
    Ty Randall, a.k.a. “Ty the MMA Biter.”
    Oh, Jesus. That was an…interesting choice.
    Michael Michaels had been lean and skinny. This guy was neither. Tall, but he seemed more muscles than anything else. His shoulders were broad, but he wasn’t bulky, and he moved like, well, a warrior. He had a big, thick neck, big thick legs, and a shaved head that held a five o’clock shadow. His face was impassive, not clearly defined, and one of his brows had a scar through it. His nose had clearly been broken more than once.
    Ty Fucking Randall.
    I didn’t watch Mixed Martial Arts, but I sure knew who he was. Everyone did. He’d made headlines about a month or two ago when he’d been headlining a fight in Vegas, and he’d bitten his opponent. Bitten. As in, chomp chomp. As in, tore a hunk out of his nose. People had been scandalized, and he’d been put on hiatus. No one wanted to fight him. It wasn’t exactly that you were expected to fight clean in MMA, but you didn’t tear your opponent’s face apart. I mean, Jesus. He’d made public apologies through his reps, but the incident was still too new and fresh on everyone’s minds for this to be anything besides a shock.
    And I was filled with a cold ripple of dread, thinking of all the beer in the fridge. Something told me that Michael Michaels wasn’t going to be my partner. Oh no. Oh, nonono.
    I didn’t want to be with Ty the Biter.
    It was clear he didn’t want to be here. He leaned against the sedan and crossed his legs, and then crossed his arms over his brawny chest. He looked bored. Pissed.
    He wouldn’t want to win. I had a feeling he was just here for some good PR. He sorely needed it. But my guess was that he’d also be just fine with last place. Not me. I