Chapter Text
When the producers pull Rupert into a meeting the week before celebrity partners are to be revealed, he knows he is in for a treat.
Cameron had emailed him directly about the meeting, left multiple voicemails reminding him of the time, and even cornered him at the gym to hiss a threat at him. He knows better than to cross her, so he decides to show up ten minutes earlier than expected, hoping it softens her up for whatever scolding he is about to get.
“You look lovely,” he drawls, planting himself in the chair in front of her desk. “Is that a new shirt?”
“No.” Always straight to the point, Cameron glares at him, sliding a rather thick pile of paper across the desk to him. “I won’t beat around the bush. We’ve got your partner for this season picked out and I want to set some firm boundaries before you meet her.”
Rupert sits up a bit, intrigued by who could possibly have Cameron’s knickers in a twist like this. “You’ve never cared how I interacted with my partners in the past. What’s changed?”
“You’ve never been paired with Taggie O’Hara before.”
And there it is. O’Hara is a familiar name for him, of course. Declan’s show is on the same network as theirs, though he is admittedly far more popular. One of the big four late-night network show hosts, he is known for not pulling his punches and acerbic wit.
“So what, we’ve got a network nepo-baby and the men upstairs want me to play nice?” Rolling his eyes, he can’t believe he got called in for this. His reputation may be less than stellar, considering the number of partners who have actively cried on camera from his instruction styles, but he can go gentle on some simple-minded celebrity kid for a season.
Cameron groans audibly, head resting in her hands. “I knew I should have taken the job at NBC,” she mutters, before looking up at him with a glare. “Yes, Taggie O’Hara has famous parents. She is also an Olympic gymnast who just won three gold medals in Paris. She’s America’s sweetheart, her face is on the god-damn Cheerios box. Do you live under a rock or something?”
Looking down at the papers in front of him, a smiling face with three medals around her neck stares back. She’s pretty, all wide eyes and high cheekbones, the blue of her leotard complimenting her eyes. He’s not usually one to notice that type of thing, but if he’s going to be working with her for the next few months, it helps to know what makes her look good on camera.
“Not a big gymnastics fan, I’ll admit. Equestrian is more my speed. Tabby might know who she is.” His daughter, incredibly exuberant and opinionated at the age of eight, loves sports, much to his dismay. Thankfully Marcus has followed in his footsteps and continued dancing, making his own name in the ballroom world.
“I’m certain she does. Every little girl has a Taggie O’Hara poster on their walls, she’s like a My Little Pony who made a wish to turn human. Ray of fucking sunshine.” Her tone is bitter, as it usually is when they discuss celebrities who are signed up for the show. Despite Dancing with the Stars being Cameron’s baby, the project that catapulted her into Emmy-winning fame, she holds a certain level of disdain for the celebrities who join. It’s incredibly hypocritical, in Rupert’s opinion, considering those ‘stars’ are what make the show work, but who is he to judge? He’s just the dancer.
The most awarded ballroom dancer in history, world-renowned for his performances. But still, just a dancer in Cameron’s eyes.
Poking through the papers in front of him, he learns a bit more about his future partner. An Olympic and World champion, her specialty being bars and vault, she appears to be a highly decorated and well-respected athlete. It’s only when he sees her personal details that he looks back up at Cameron.
“She’s twenty.”
His producer looks at him knowingly. “Yes she is. Turned twenty in Paris, day of the vault finals. Her birthday gift to herself? A gold medal and Olympic record.”
Fucking hell. He’s never had a partner that young before, not since early days of the show when he was still being marketed as the ‘bad boy’ of the ballroom. His partners these days tend to be at least thirty, an age gap that swings towards wholesome rather than cradle robbery.
“This is going to look awful,” he groans, flipping through the papers again. God, she has a Barbie doll modeled after her. “Whose idea was this?”
Shrugging, Cameron leans back in her chair. “Got the orders from the hotshots upstairs. They want the champions angle. Highly decorated gymnast paired with highly decorated dancer. I originally pushed for Ralphie but…”
“But she would be out in two weeks with Ralphie, he can’t choreograph for shit,” Rupert finishes for her, knowing that the newer pro has struggled hard in the past two seasons. “Is she the only ringer?”
“There are a few others. An ex-Disney kid, from some musical franchise. A Bachelorette. The usual. No one as noteworthy as Taggie, though.”
Taking a moment to compose himself, he braces himself for the next conversation. “Alright, what are your rules?”
The list is simple: no scandalous costumes, relatively tame choreography, and absolutely no showmances. “I mean it Rupert,” Cameron scowls, “I don’t want even a hint of romantic tension. You treat that girl like she’s your daughter, or even better, your grandmother.”
It’s frustrating, having such tight reins put in place before he has even met the girl. A twinge of pity crosses his mind, knowing that she is likely under the same level of scrutiny, if not more. His most successful partnerships have been with partners who fully let themselves embrace the chaos of the competition and truly enjoy dancing.
Selfishly, he doesn’t want to water down his own work for the sake of the network.
Smiling, he agrees to Cameron’s terms. “Whatever you want boss,” he tells her, appeasing the dragon while plotting how he will actually make this season work.
🏅
Taggie is certain she’s hallucinating when her mother tells her she’s competing on the next season of Dancing with the Stars. She chokes on her bite of spag bol, the one carb-heavy meal she’s allowed per week. Part of her mourns that this recipe will now be tainted by her mother’s announcement, she will never be able to look at the meal again without thinking of Maud ruining her life.
“You said I could have the rest of the year off,” she states slowly, trying to keep the whine out of her voice. Her plans, hatched carefully with her sister between training camps and tours, are going to be ruined.
Her mother simply rolls her eyes. Maud O’Hara is many things, but conceding is not one of them. Once called the Kris Jenner of Olympians, she functions as Taggie’s manager, coach, and agent. Motherhood comes fourth in the list of hats she proudly wears. “Think of how wonderful this opportunity will be,” she crows, hands waving wildly as she launches into the overarching plan. “You’ll do the show, obviously you’ll win, and then go on tour for the Spring with the dancers. I’ve already got you booked on your father’s show the week before the premiere, the promotion would be wonderful!”
“But I—“ she can barely get a word out before Maud is biting back at her, fully shifted into Momager mode.
“Champions don’t take time off,” she barks, pulling the plate of pasta out of Taggie’s reach. “You barely scraped by at the Olympics, honestly it was embarassing. That girl from France was right on your heels the entire competition.”
Three points had separated her and the silver medalist in her final event, uneven bars. In gymnastics, those three points were a chasm. The French competitor was never going to beat her, and Maud knew it. But nothing Taggie did was ever good enough. Three gold medals could have been five, her mother constantly reminded her, if she hadn’t bowed out of two event finals in favour of resting. She doubted Maud would ever forgive her for that, and this Dancing with the Stars gig was her form of punishment.
Sighing, she reaches for an apple, watching as her mother nods in approval. “When does it start,” Taggie mumbles, biting into the apple sadly.
“Next week. You’ll stay at the Los Angeles house, Grace will be with you while I wrap things up in New York.”
“Will you bring Gertrude with you?” She is willing to beg for her to bring the dog, she hasn’t seen the sweet girl in months. Gertrude lived at the family brownstone in New York, while Taggie and Maud had spent the past six months sequestered in Texas, where her gym was located.
“I’m not bringing that thing on the jet,” Maud sneers, her disdain for the scruffy mutt palpable. “Have your sister send you photos if you miss her that much.”
Caitlin regularly sent photos, and videos, and sat on FaceTime with her for hours when everything overwhelmed her. She was also the one who submitted her application to UCLA, set to begin that September in their Nutrition program.
No one but her knew how badly Taggie wanted out of gymnastics. Ever since she showed ‘promise’ as a five year old, it had taken over her whole life. Everything revolved around the gym, competition, and how much money she could make for their family. UCLA was going to be her escape, her opportunity to embrace mundanity.
Plan B, she supposed, would be to crash out on national television.