J.D. and Rob are next, doing a comedy sketch where they each pretend to be the other one giving pre-game locker-room speeches. J.D. does a monotone, Santa-coded version of Rob, and Rob absolutely kills it with a wild motivational rant. I’m not sure the fans will get the “synergy” references, but the team is here for it.
Lefevre and Doctor Pearce do something that’s half magic, half chemistry, and completely impressive, especially when they make a puck levitate with magnets.
They leave the stage to be replaced by Björk and Volkov, rocking cutoff jean shorts with jean vests and their long blonde hair hanging in their eyes. Loud rock music blares, and they start to sing in both Swedish and Russian.
“Well, how ’bout that!” Finley says. “Did you know those two could sing?”
It’s so cute when her midwestern comes out that I can’t help but smile. “Yeah, we sit around the locker room doing sing-alongs all the time,” I reply, chuckling when she elbows me.
Everly and John take to the stage next and pull out four huge stacks of cups with the Yeti mascot on them. On beat with their pop music, they start stacking the cups.
There’s an awkward silence in the place until Finley lets out a loud whistle and yells, “Yeah, John!”
The team takes their coach’s signal as an order to cheer and ups their noise game—starting an “Everly” chant when she almost knocks a cup over. As their song comes to an end, they slide the cups down, collapsing the massive pyramid they created in just a few movements.
Well, shit, that’s everyone but us.
***
“(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life” starts, and the crowd goes wild as the lights dim. My eyes meet Finley’s as she stands in the center of the stage, shoulders thrown back. I slowly walk toward her, even doing the little finger quirk before I reach her. Her eyes meet mine, something sparking in them.
I pull her close before dipping her low. Her back bends until her long ponytail sweeps across the floor.
The boys in the seats lose their ever-loving minds, and the pleased smile that crosses Finley’s face is a real one.
We don’t do the forehead part, the one where our gazes are supposed to connect with fire and passion—my dance instructor’s words, not mine. We’re walking a fine line when it comes to professionalism, but I know it’s going to bring home a victory.
I twirl her out of my arms and quickly pull her back in, in a reflection of the dance we’ve been doing lately, the one where we get one step closer before quickly taking two steps back.
Watching her eyes as we cha-cha, I do my best not to mess this up. It’s where I’m most likely to stomp on one of her toes. Her smile softens slightly as our eyes meet, and warmth grows in my chest—fuck. What am I doing? She’s my fucking coach.
We turn, her left arm coming to rest on my shoulder as we shift into that portion of the dance. When we come back together, Finley scans my face before quirking an eyebrow. Knowing I can’t explain the sudden unease curling around my core, I subtly shake my head. I don’t know what’s happening to me right now.
She squeezes my bicep with her left hand, holding on long enough to tell me she’s there. That maybe, just maybe, she understands.
As we dance across the stage, she dips her head back and then flings her hair up, the move I teased her about relentlessly for not even trying.
I know she did it just for me.
It’s going well, we’re making our way through the middle, our steps perfect, everything aligned. Her giving a step, then me giving a step. The excitement in the room is building. They know what’s coming. But they’ve forgotten the best part isn’t the big lift at the very end. It’s the little hip thrust section that’s as close as I’ll ever get tomorewith Coach Finley Blake.
She looks completely put out during the whole section, but she does it, even going so far as to yell out, “Sprints until you puke to anyone who ever mentions this again!” midway through.
I’m surprised Larsen didn’t catch fire the way her eyes were laser-focused on him as she said it.
Our first lift happens, the one where she kicks her legs into a split and holds them at waist height while I spin her around, and—shit. She jumps a little higher than usual, and her warm breath hits my neck, causing every ounce of blood in my body to flow south. Sexy dances and even sexier coaches do not mix.Shouldnot mix.
I get myself under control enough to set her down, sneaking in the hand kiss from the movie that she vetoed in practice.
And then I jump my ass off the stage, knees up in a full cannonball pose, desperate for the distance between our bodies, yet missing her touch the moment I leave her.
Instead of dancing around the auditorium like Patrick Swayze does, I pull Larsen up, twirling him around just like I did to Finley.
The room loses it.
Coach does her part, smiling and dancing on the stage, and I hate that I want her smile back to being only for me.
After dancing with all the players in the front row, I jump back onto the stage and nod once. Finley returns the gesture before running to me, nothing but calm determination on her face.
