He has the ball in his possession and he’s not giving it up. The players from the opposite team are chasing him. They’re almost crowding him in from all directions, all their defenders against one Reed Roman Jackson.
And for a second it looks like they might be successful.
They might take the ball away from him.
The whole stadium is expecting it. All the people who are watching, they expect Reed to lose the ball. It’s in the way that they’ve all gone silent and the way the announcers are talking with a rapid-fire speed and a louder tone.
But they’re all wrong. Every single one of them.
Like the way they’re wrong about the fact that Reed is a mere athlete.
He’s more than that.
He’s not only an athlete, he’s also a dancer.
Look at his footwork. It’s exquisite. It’s impeccable. It’s graceful. It’s the envy of every dancer, especially a ballet dancer. And I’d know because I’m a ballerina. Have been since I was five.
Reed Roman Jackson has the kind of footwork that would make any ballerina fall in love with him.
It would make any ballerina go down on her knees and weep at his feet.
Not me though.
I can’t.
What kind of a sister would I be if I did?
Therefore, I can’t widen my eyes at the rapid swipes and the swings of his legs as he zigzags through the closing-in crowd, still somehow keeping possession of the ball. I can’t wring my hands in my lap when he nearly crashes into a guy from the opposite team. I can’t lose my breath when he almost loses the ball but at the last minute, with a fake pass to throw them off his scent, he saves it.
And neither can I hop up from my seat and clap and scream when he finally,finally, sends the ball flying with such force that it feels like it’s slicing the air itself in two before hitting the net and scoring the goal. The first goal of the game.
I can’t do any of that.
I can’t.
But I can’t deny the rush in my chest or the puff of relieved air that escapes through my parted lips.
I can’t deny that my veins feel full and bursting.
They feel full of music, of the notes of a violin, and my feet are restless. So restless to just… dance.
“That’smy brother.”
Tempest’s voice pierces through and I jerk my eyes away from Reed, who’s getting thumped on the back by the Mustang camp of the team while the Thorn camp is simply going about their business of getting back into their positions, including number twenty-three, Ledger.
“Um, sorry. Who’s your brother again?” I ask because I completely missed who she was pointing at.
She throws me a sly smile. “The one you’ve been watching.”
“What?”
She bumps her shoulder with mine. “The one who scored the goal just now and you got so excited that I thought your eyes would pop out of your head.”
“I didn’t.”
Did I?
She laughs. “You so totally did. Even I don’t get as excited as you did.”
