He wanted my head in a specific position. To achieve that, he slapped me across the face. Hard. My huge dangling earring whipped into my face. I knew the camera was rolling, so I checked my impulse to fight back: I knew if I stood up for myself, it would end up on the show, making me look like a villain again, yelling at “poor Maks.” I walked out of the room, away from the camera, and took off my mike. Maks followed me and took his mike off.
“Don’t you ever fucking put your hand on me again,” I said.
He was extremely apologetic. I didn’t care. My ear was ringing as I walked out, shaking. I had just been hit, and I had been worried about how I would come off looking on television. This was a twisted world. I just wanted to get through the damn show. I didn’t want any more drama. I didn’t want to be the villain on a hugely popular TV show. I didn’t want to get hit by my partner. I had just wanted to learn to dance.
That Sunday, I was called into a meeting with the executive producer and some other ABC officials. They told me they wouldn’t stand for violence and I could get a new partner and Maks would be off the show. I felt the way I felt back when Greg Ryan had asked me about goalkeeper coaches—I was being asked to make a decision that would affect someone else’s livelihood. I didn’t want to end Maks’s career. And I knew that if I asked for a change, it would be spun in the tabloids and on the show that I was a prima donna. It was another lose-lose situation.
I decided that I was in this with Maks—we’d come this far together despite his obnoxious behavior. I told the producers I didn’t want to change.
The next night, before the show, Maks was shown the video of him hitting me. We then met in my trailer and talked and decided to move on and put the incident behind us. (Later, when Whitney asked to see the video, she was told it didn’t exist.) That night, after the show, one of the producers brought an envelope to my trailer. Inside was a letter from the producers on BBC Worldwide Productions letterhead, detailing our meeting and copying in their legal counsel.
The letter noted that “following our review of the recorded training sessions” the producers had come to me to let me know that BBCWP didn’t approve of “Maks’ physically aggressive training methods.” They let me know that BBCWP had told Maks to stop any “unnecessarily forceful contact.” They noted that they offered me the option of changing partners and that I told them I preferred to remain with Maks. They wanted me to let them know if I had any further concerns.
It was all in writing. The show had covered its collective butt, and I was with Maks the rest of the way.
VII.
Maks knew he’d almost been fired, and he backed off. The next week, we did the quickstep and a jive, and everyone, from the judges to the other dancers, talked about the “kinder and gentler” Maks. We made it through to week nine. I was in the final four—something I never expected when I signed the contract. I felt really good about my accomplishment. The competitive athlete in me wanted to win, but I knew that wasn’t realistic. The script seemed to have been written: J. R. Martinez, the Iraq veteran who was a very good dancer, was going to win. Ricki Lake—who was dancing with Derek, the most popular pro—was going to be close to the top. And Rob Kardashian kept improving—plus, he brought half the cast from his family’s reality show to the audience every week. The producers gushed all over Kris Kardashian and Bruce Jenner during every commercial break. I was just an athlete, and I was paired with Maks—a dancer who had never been paired with a winner and who riled the producers and judges despite the ratings he brought to the show.
On that last Monday night, the audience fluffer had them all up out of their seats giving Rob a standing ovation before he’d even danced. We had to perform three dances that night. One was a difficult Argentine tango—it was physically taxing and full of lifts. We were the only dancers athletic enough to perform such a demanding routine. We knew it was one of our best. Of course, the judges were critical and sounded as though they were saying good-bye. “I really admired you for coming this far,” Carrie Ann said.
When I heard that, I knew the next night would be our last.
Before the show started I was in the audience with Tina, Whitney, and Adrian. Before every show the audience is invited on stage to dance. But the cast doesn’t usually join in. That night, however, I jumped in with my support group—nearby dancers circled around me as I cut loose. I’d come a long way. I had nothing to lose.
It was a rough evening. The producers had put together a compilation of footage from the night before that painted us in the worst light: when we got our scores, I had said, “Kiss my booty” and “Give us your little eights.” I was tired of the game. Backstage before the tango, Maks had given me a pep talk telling me, “Fuck the judges. Dance for yourself; be proud—no matter what—of this tango.
