Nate’s jaw tightened. “It’s not that simple.”
“It rarely is.” Nick folded his arms, studying him with unnerving calm. “She looked broken in that promo shot. So did you. That’s not choreography, it’s bloody heartache.”
“She left.”
“Oh well-spotted,” Nick tossed back sarcastically. “Peopledothat when they’re overwhelmed. Doesn’t mean they don’t care.”
Nate huffed a bitter laugh under his breath. “Doesn’t it?”
“No.” Nick met his gaze and held it. “It means you don’t wait for a bloody invitation when it matters.”
Nate turned away, tossing the Gatorade onto a nearby chair harder than necessary.
“What if I say everything I’m supposed to say,” he muttered, “and it doesn’t change anything?”
Nick didn’t move. Didn’t soften. He considered the question like it was choreography that needed tightening, like there was a right answer and a wrong one and neither involved panic.
“Then at least you’ll know you tried,” he pinned Nate with a pointed look. “You can’t half-lead someone and expect them to trust you enough to follow, that’s not how partnership works. On a floor or off it.”
Nate glanced at Nick, feeling a shift.
Nick’s eyes narrowed, almost like he felt it too. “Love isn’t certainty,” he went on, tone cool, almost detached. “It’s choosing to know each other.Properly.Even when it’d be easier to keep your pride intact.”
Nate didn’t answer because his chest already knew he was hearing the truth. Because somewhere beneath the tailored calm and the cutting commentary, Nick Marlowe spoke like a man who’d learned that lesson the expensive way.
Nick straightened his cuffs, as if satisfied the rehearsal was over. “For God’s sake, try it with music next time,” he added, as though Nate had massively inconvenienced him, silently cutting his heart open in a deserted rehearsal studio close to midnight. “It’s less tragic.”
And then he turned, leaving Nate alone with the mirrors… and a choice.
70
CHA CHA NO. 5 (A LITTLE BIT OF ERIKSSON)
Nate
“I probably should’ve stretched first.”
The lights dropped and the live studio shifted into that strange, electric quiet that only ever existed in places built for spectacle. Nate stood alone at center stage, spine straight. He was wearing a blue training jacket with the zip pulled high, and had a clipboard tucked under his arm like he’d been born carrying authority. He checked his watch once, slow and pointed, then let his expression settle into long-suffering frustration as he scanned the wings, a hand shielding his eyes.
The audience laughed before the joke even landed.
The opening staccato beats of Training Season pulsed through the speakers all upbeat, confident, and unapologetically modern. A ripple of energy rolled through the crowd, until people in the audience were looking, too.
Holly didn’t glide into the light. She barreled in from stage left like aproblem,dropping her water bottle and one hockey skate on her way in. She skidded to a stop in front of him, and then straightened like a soldier, a breathless grin firmly in place.And then for a split second Nate’s brain failed to process a single goddamn thing.
Because she was wearing his jersey.
Not a costume approximation. Not some rhinestone parody.Eriksson. #5.Stitched across her back like a declaration of independence in the filthiest way possible. The sleeves had been trimmed, somehow… and the worst part was that she’d cut it into a crop-top that showed off her taut belly and the pair of tiny navy micro shorts with white athletic stripes up the side that barely covered her ass. She’d left her hair in its natural curls that made her look even cheekier, held back from her face by a backwards baseball cap thatactually belonged to him.
The crowd detonated, and Nate found himself in the deeply inconvenient position of having a rock-hard boner on live national television. Because a woman in your jersey did something primal to a hockey player’s nervous system. It bypassed logic completely and went straight to instinct. And here Holly was, smiling like she had no idea she’d just triggered it.
Thankfuckfor black dance pants and his old faithful hockey jockstrap.
He tapped the clipboard once, sharply, and pointed at his watch. Holly pressed her hands together in exaggerated apology, mouthingsorry, coachwith zero remorse in her eyes. By the end of the second eight-count, the music slid cleanly into the first verse.
Nate circled her in character, posture rigid, expression unimpressed, inspecting his so-called rookie like he wasn’t acutely aware of every inch of exposed skin. She bounced on the balls of her feet, barely containing her grin, then snapped her armsup into a practice hold with a precision that wiped the mockery straight off the floor.
He pretended to be critiquing her through the first sequence, even though her hips hit the beat like she’d been born hearing it in her bloodstream. Every lockstep landed with bite. Every flick of her wrist carried just enough defiance to make the audience howl. Holly wasn’t pretending to be reckless; she was playing at being underestimated and showing him up in the bargain.
