When she did a sharp turn and left her right arm out, Nate took it and spun her into him as though the coach’s patience had finally run out. Just like in rehearsal, he felt the familiar click of alignment the second their frames connected.
This wasn’t chaos, it was an orchestrated conversation. He guided, she resisted. He corrected, she exaggerated the mistake and then over-delivered on the fix to make the audience laugh. The choreography leaned into the coach-versus-rookie dynamic, but beneath the performance there was something steadier humming between them.
A current that had nothing to do with acting.
She stole his clipboard mid-routine and flung it aside with a flourish that drew another wave of cheers. He caught her around the waist and pulled her back into hold, the movement seamless, controlled. The distance between them shrank by degrees, the teasing edges of the choreography tightening into something hotter and more deliberate.
He could feel her breathing change as she focused on him.
The cheekier the routine got and the closer it pulled them, the less it felt like a joke. Her hands traced up his chest in a movethat was technically part of the choreography, but the way her fingers lingered at his collarbonewasn’t.Her eyes met his and didn’t slide away, and he felt his breath catch when he realized there was no ice in them tonight. No guarded distance.
This wasn’t heartbreak choreographed.
This was a fucking test.
She spun out of his arms and snapped back in on the next count, close enough that her mouth brushed the line of his jaw as she leaned in under the cover of a turn.
“I’m done running,” she said, the words barely louder than the rustle of fabric.
The stage lights were blinding. The crowd was screaming and the cameras were everywhere. And somehow he still heard her perfectly, like she’d opened up his chest and whispered those words straight to his heart. The same instinct that let him read a play before it unfolded told him this wasn’t improvisation. She wasn’t performing like she’d chosen him. She’d decided.
His hand tightened at her hip as the routine accelerated toward the final eight-count, footwork crisp and unapologetic, their bodies moving in sync without the slightest hitch. The mock coach façade dissolved somewhere between one turn and the next. There was no clipboard now. Just them.
When the music drove into its final beats, he drew her in and she came without resistance, chest to chest, breaths mingling, her jersey fisted lightly in his hand. She looked up at him in his own backwards cap, eyes bright and unguarded, and for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel like he was chasing her shadow.
The music cut clean, the last beat snapping into a silence so sharp it felt manufactured. For half a second, the entire studio seemed suspended, a thousand people collectively holding their breath while Holly stood in his arms, chest rising against his, her fingers still curled lightly in the front of his jacket like she hadn’t fully decided to let go.
Then everyone went crazy with a roar that rolled over the stage in waves. There were whistles, cheers, and someone shouting something unhinged about marriage from somewhere in the upper tiers, but Nate barely heard any of it. He was still looking down at Holly, still aware of the heat of her through the thin cotton of his shirt, as he processed the fact that she hadn’t stepped away the second the music stopped. When she finally did shift, it wasn’t to create distance. It was to turn toward the judges, her hand sliding into his as though that part had never been choreography at all.
Indie swept in from the wings like she’d been waiting for the exact decibel level of chaos to justify her entrance. Sequins flashing, smile weaponized, she took one look at Holly’s jersey and then at Nate’s face and made a soft, scandalized noise into her mic.
“Weeeell,” she breathed, dragging the word out as the crowd continued to buzz, “I don’t know if that was a Cha Cha or a very public declaration of emotionally charged intent, but I am going to need amoment!”
Laughter rippled through the audience.
“Nate,” Indie continued, turning toward him with open delight, “how does it feel to be professionally objectified in your own jersey?”
He could still feel the imprint of Holly’s body against his. “I’ve had worse road games,” he replied, dry enough that it didn’t betray how hard his pulse was still hammering.
The crowdloved it.
Indie swung her attention to Holly. “And you. The crop. The cap. The audacity. Was this strategy, or are you just out here committing felonies against hockey players for sport?”
Holly smiled, bright and unrepentant. “Just one hockey player in particular.”
Nate felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck before he could stop it, his grip tightening instinctively around her hand. Of course she said it like brightly, shamelessly, and completely unbothered by the fact the entire country had just heard her claim him in real time. And the worst part was how quickly his chest answered it, like his heart had been waiting weeks to hear those exact words out loud.
“Oh,” Indie said, hand flying to her chest. “Not her specifying the target. Nate, sweetheart, you’ve just been publicly identified as the sole victim of this crime.”
The audience howled.
Indie leaned closer, comically lowering her voice like she was sharing state secrets. “And judging by his face, I’d say he’s not pressing charges.” She pivoted toward the judges’ table, eyes gleaming. “Let’s hear from Chantreuse Devayne before she spontaneously combusts!”
Chantreuse was already fanning herself with her scorecard, expression poised somewhere between appraisal and delight. When she spoke, her tone was measured, but there was heat underneath it. She didn’t speak immediately, removing herglasses with deliberate dramatic flair as the audience prepped for her truth bomb.
“Well,” she purred at last, voice rolling out like velvet dipped in gasoline, “first of all… how dare you.”
The crowd screamed.
