She tilted her head. “I’m sorry! Do you want me to sprinkle some glitter on your participation trophy?”
Oh fuck, she could chirp him too?
Hardness level:catastrophic.
“Actually, yeah,” he tossed back, refusing to acknowledge his uncomfortably tight pants. “Maybe bedazzle my kneecaps while you’re at it.”
Their eyes locked, electricity sizzling in the charged space between them. Nate could swear the air tasted like blood and glitter. She looked away first, but not before he caught the barest flicker of something. Frustration? Fury? Or was it something much more dangerous… like curiosity?
“Take five,” she muttered, already turning away as if dismissing him was the highlight of her day.
He dropped onto one of the two chairs at the table in the corner, dragging the hem of his t-shirt up to mop the sweat off his face. His chest heaved, his legs burned, and his pride had taken more hits in the last twenty minutes than during his entire rookie season.
This was supposed to be easy. Smile for the cameras, flirt with the pro, nail a few sexy spins, and claw his way back into the league’s good graces. Not whateverthiswas. Not rage, rhythm, and the horrifying realization that he mightactuallybe bad at something sports-related.
He was saved from an existential spiral when his phone buzzed next to him, and he snatched it up like it might offer him a lifeline.
FROM ENFORCER TO ENTERTAINER?
New Haven Hammerhead Nate Eriksson’s Rep-Rescue Raises Eyebrows and Ratings…
He stared at the headline, a snarl curling beneath his ribs. The attached still from the promo shoot caught him mid-grimace. Holly posed like a goddess in front of him, jaw sharp and eyes narrowed. He looked like a man being punished. She looked like the woman doing the punishing.
Not inaccurate.
He scrolled past the headline with a muttered, “Fuck off,” and rubbed a hand down his face. When he looked up again, he caught something shift in the mirror’s reflection. Holly had one heel-clad foot up on the barre. She was mid-stretch, phone in hand, brow furrowed. Her lips were parted slightly, frozen as her hand clenched tighter around the screen.
Whatever she was looking at on that phone had gutted her. He didn’t know what it was, but it hit hard.
She didn’t cry. Didn’t make a sound. She just reclaimed her leg like a fucking gymnast, locked her phone, dropped it into her bag with ruthless finality, and rolled her shoulders like the weight of it didn’t matter. Like it hadn’t just knocked something loose behind her eyes. And that rattled him more than the headline. He wanted to ask, but he didn’t.Couldn’t.
They didn’t speak for the rest of rehearsal. Not because they were being professional, but because it was easier than admittinghow close they were to erupting. Their movement was metered out in jagged, uncoordinated lines, out of sync and entirely at odds. She threw counts like knives. He missed steps like landmines.
By the time she called it a day, they were both slick with sweat, vibrating with frustration, and one wrong word away from starting a war. He didn’t thank her. She didn’t look at him. They gathered their things and walked in opposite directions, their silence thick with everything they weren’t saying. Same studio. Same broken rhythm. Same goddamn storm brewing in both their chests.
@DancingQueensUnite on TikTok:
that moment when nate eriksson tries to lead and holly martinez is like “sweetie no, this is my show now” #ttf12 #powertopenergy
@TheEnforcerReport on X:
BREAKING: Nate Eriksson attempts the Rumba
It goes about as well as you'd expect when a brick wall tries to do ballet in a blackout. Enjoy 14 seconds of pain and one very well-timed ass shot
#hammerheads #takethefloor
TTF Crew Slack:
CHANNEL: #s12-production-snaps
? Nate looks like he’s bracing for a body check instead of a body roll
? Holly has “I’m gonna choke him with a shoelace” energy
? Sexual tension? 11/10
clip incoming
