“But yeah,” she went on. “Kinda felt like watching my divorced parents try to coordinate a garage sale. 8 from me, guys.”
Nate swallowed hard. He couldn’t look at Holly. Didn’t need to. Her silence was thunder.
“Alright then!” Indie jumped back in with a bright smile that completely belittled how devastated Nate felt in that moment. “Thank you, Nate and Holly. When we get back, we’ll join Nick and Cherry for their show-stopping Rumba–and trust me, you don’t wanna miss it!”
Mor
Darling, I watched your dance tonight. You looked very… committed. I suppose passion is easier when one doesn’t overthink appearances.
Your partner certainly has presence. So expressive. So unafraid of being seen. It must be refreshing for you, after everything. Being with someone who lives so loudly.
I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself again. Just remember, darling, that these moments are temporary, and the world you come from is not.
Call me when things calm down. I miss you.
Nate
Tak, Mor. I’m fine. Call you on the weekend.
@enforcer_energy on X:
not the hammerhead getting benched by feelings
Power Play Daily Online:
He Shoots, He Scores… But Not With Her?
Fans were left sobbing after Nate Eriksson’s Tango left a chill rather than a slow burn. Is his showmance with Holly Martinez already on ice?
43
SMILE THROUGH THE AUTOPSY
Holly
“The press line is just emotional vampirism with ring lights.”
The press line felt like karma with a spray tan. Too-bright lights, too-tight smiles, and fifty feet of taped-down electrical cords all promising to zap her and put her out of her misery if she just wished hard enough. Holly stood dead-center in it like a well-dressed corpse, grinning like her taxes depended on it, while her soul quietly leaked out through her pores. Behind her, the step-and-repeat background spun its endless logo loop like a capitalist prayer wheel, reminding her that no matter how cooked her feelings were,the show must go on.
Nate stood next to her like the final boss in a romance novel she’d never get to finish. Black pants and a charcoal shirt, sleeves shoved to his elbows to show off his tattoos as though he’d rail you into next weekbefore apologizing to your mother.Calm. Controlled. Devastating.And completely unreadable unless, of course, you’d spent the last six weeks learning every movement of his face like a lovesick forensic linguist. Which, unfortunately,she had.
That tic of his jaw? That subtle clench of regret when he narrowed that arctic gaze of his? It wasn’t performance anxiety. That wasI pushed her away for her own good and now I’m dying insideenergy.
The silence backstage was lessawkward tensionand more anemotional hostage situation. It’d stretched long and sharp enough to slit her own confidence clean open. Nate hadn’t really spoken to her since the drive home from the ice rink. To be fair, she’d had a full-blown press-induced fight-or-flight moment and chosenfreeze, watching him emotionally crumple in real time.
Now they were deep in their little delulu era. Pretending. Performing. Cosplaying as two people who hadn’t just danced a perfectly executed Tango with all the heat of a tax audit. The audienceandthe judges had felt the ghost of what they’d almost had. And here they were, smiling for cameras while imploding one perfectly timed soundbite at a time. If this was chemistry, it was the kind you shouldn’t mix without wearing a hazmat suit.
A reporter leaned in. “Stunning performance tonight, guys. The judges said it lacked a bit of spark, though. How do you respond to that?”
Holly smiled. The kind that said polite but dead inside, thanks for asking.
“I think every couple has a different rhythm,” she said smoothly. “Tonight was about precision. Technique. Like Chantreuse said, sometimes you have to strip things back to get to the heart of something.”
She didn’t look at Nate when she said it. Couldn’t. But she feltthe way he expanded when he drew a sharp breath in through his nose.
“Holly, I—” he started, low and quiet, voice fraying at the edges like he was finally ready to crack open.Right fucking now, on camera.She turned to him with a flash of warning in her eyes, her face still carefully schooled. But the mic had already whipped to him.
“Nate,” a reporter cut in, “you’ve had a wild ride these last few weeks. Tabloid drama, allegations of fighting backstage, a redemption arc with hockey fans. Do you think this week’s dip in chemistry means your gravy train’s about to hit the station?”
