Holly Martinez
Pro Ballroom and Latin Dancer. Former Adult Latin World Champion. Three-time TTF! finalist. Known for her innovative choreography, bold musicality, and strong work ethic. Fiercely competitive. Intensely private. The Ice Queen of the Ballroom.
She was mid-dance in the photo, all sharp angles and unapologetic presence, her face a masterclass in don’t-fuck-with-me. Eyeliner like a threat. Legs like violence. A bodybuilt from pain and Pilates. She looked like she took no prisoners and liked her coffee just this side of demonic possession.
Nate felt something low and hot twist in his gut.Not good.
He’d thought he’d come to LA, fuck a hot dancer until he was eliminated in week two, and then mosey on back to Connecticut. Now he’d actually seen her, was he worried she was going to gracefully orchestrate his ruin and leave him in a puddle at her tiny, heel-clad feet?
Mildly.
He normally dated girls who were easily impressed by his on-ice presence. Cute and sweet, with ‘just grateful to be here’ energy. Holly Martinez looked like a war crime wrapped in caution tape, waving a red flag above her own damn revolution.
And that was aproblem.
Nate dragged a hand over his face. This wasn’t a dancer. This was a woman who would eat him alive, spit out his bones, and choreograph a paso doble to his emotional destruction. He took a long sip of beer.
“Fuck.”
Holly
Holly stared at the photo of her Season 12 partner loading in hi-def cruelty.
Nate Eriksson
NHL defenseman for the New Haven Hammerheads. Former Olympic Team Denmark. Known for his on-ice presence, aggressive playing style, and explosive attitude.
The pic was offensive. He was leaning against a wall somewhere between Heaven and Hell, all icy blue eyes beneath a mop of curly black hair. It was like he’d heard the phrase ‘reputational management’ and interpreted it as ‘thirst trap, but make it court-ordered’. She clocked the curve of his biceps in the dark gray compression shirt that looked like it’d been painted over his chest.
He looked like a man who thought therapy was for the weak, and that the only thing cooler than drinking Hennessy on a Friday night was drinking his coffee black the following morning while hiding behind dark sunglasses and a backwards cap.
The tattoos. The hands. The quiet, simmeringfuck around and find outenergy. She hated that her body had astrong opinion.Traitor.
She exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fuck.”
4
DO NOT TOUCH MY ASS: A LOVE STORY
Holly
“Did I consider kicking him in the shin on national TV? Yes. Did I aim higher? Also yes.”
The Season 12 Meet and Greet was already in full swing by the time Holly slipped into the crowd. She snagged a mimosa off a passing tray, then sipped like it was the only thing tethering her to sanity.
This was just a formality. Smile for the camera. Gush about how excited you were for the season. Bond with your celeb partner before gearing up to create enough memories and shared trauma to last a lifetime.
It looked like all the other pairings had already found one another. Laughing. Hugging. Polishing their fake chemistry to a high-definition shine while the cameras drank it in. She’d prepared for war by wearing a fitted blush pink midi dress that made her feel like a total baddie. Now she just needed to confront the enemy.
But he wasn’t there. Twenty-five minutes past call time, and no sign of Nate Fucking Eriksson, the poster boy for violence disguised as professional sport. She was just about to textMartin averypolite ‘Where the fuck is he?’ when the studio doors opened, and in walked…
The instrument of her destruction.
He was six-feet-plus of sex and regret in a black tee that hugged him like sin. Black jeans, fresh kicks, andgoddamnaviatorslike he was auditioning to be the bad decision in a pop star’s memoir. He was carrying two iced coffees, like the opening scene of a softcore workplace harassment lawsuit.
The room parted for him subconsciously, the way a school of fish would maintain a buffer around a shark. He didn’t smile. Didn’t rush. Just strolled in like the room belonged to him and he wasn’t half an hour late to a show built entirely on punctuality and pelvic isolation.
Oh fuck, her ovaries whispered.
