Page 18 of Ice Dance

Dylan frowned and looked up. “You have something with him, Ren. I saw it today. He’s a brilliant dancer.”

“Yes, but we have two days until selection, we haven’t done a lift, and the man infuriates me.” I turned on my heel and headed for the exit. There were other reasons dancing with Navarro could be problematic. So many reasons. But one of them, and the one I would never tell Dylan, or anyone, was that when he’d gotten me riled up, when I’d gripped him so hard it must have hurt, and I’d seen his mouth part in a gasp, felt his body stiffen against mine . . . my own body had burned in other ways.

I’d wanted to do more than dance with him. I’d wanted to pull him closer still, to smother his gasp with a kiss, to taste him in ways that were forbidden. And that could never, ever be allowed to happen.

Navarro was in the hotel restaurant at breakfast.

Clearly, Dylan had not told him our little adventure in gender open dancing was over.

He hadn’t seen me when I entered, not yet. A few other skaters were here, waking up over coffee and breakfast too. Perhaps he was meeting someone else? That theory died the moment his gaze caught mine, his grin lit up, and he waved me over. The man truly smiled at anything.

I stopped by the coffee station first, going over in my head how to tell him Alisha was returning and that it was over. He’d likely be relieved. We’d all known, in reality, he and I were not going to work

“I have an idea,” he said, when I took my seat opposite him. “Hear me out.” He pushed his flop of a fringe out of the way and rolled up his sleeves.

I had thirty minutes. Hearing him out was fine.

“The routine is good. But it was choreographed around you and Alisha. I have some ideas to tailor it to you and me, leaning into our strengths.”

“Go on.” I ordered breakfast as he spoke. His food was on the way. And with nothing else to do, I listened.

“The routine should be built around tension in the holds. A good ice-dance routine tells a story.” His eyes were bright this morning. “It’s not just steps one after another with transitions between. It has to have a theme, and I think you and I can make it work if we look at it like a battle.”

“A battle?” That seemed somewhat . . . excessive.

“The current dance is based off a discovery, which is nice an’ all, but it’s too soft. There’s not enough fire, enough heat.”

“You can say passion, I am over eighteen.”

He laughed a little. “Was that a joke?”

“Not if you’re going to turn it into a spectacle.”

“Right.”

Our food arrived, calorie dense, and as we ate, Navarro continued, getting more animated as he spoke.

“It begins aloof, controlled, the tension is in the separation, but as the dance progresses, we get closer, barriers begin to fall, control changes hands, it becomes less of a battle and more of a surrender, on both sides.”

“My routine already has that.”

“It does, but it’s ‘lite.’ All soft and gentle. Now that I’ve danced with you, I know there’s more to you than elegance and poise. You have a deeply rooted sense of hunger for more. You keep people away but crave their closeness.”

I stopped eating, fork halfway to my mouth, and stared.

“I mean, in the dance,” he quickly added, glancing away. “The beginning is distance and control, slow approaches, clean, low, gliding positions. Control versus temptation. Do I, don’t I?” He pushed his plate to one side and began to sweep his fingers across the table. “Then, transition into close side-by-side, parallel, technical, mirrored turns. No touching. Nothing in the beginning. The tension is in the distance. Everyone knows it’s going to happen but when and how? That’s the thrill.” Camden brought in a second finger. “Then we do a surprise lift, the Meridian allows it, and because it’s two men dancing, we can play with expectations. Shake things up. Nothing too showy, you set the base, rotational curve. It’s a signal, we’re here and we’re doing this.”

I started eating again, dropping my gaze while my mind whirred around his ideas.

“Middle section is the argument. This is where the heat comes in. And correct me if I’m wrong, but something tells me we’ll be good at this. We want rapid sequences, diagonal steps, a rivalry on ice, almost . . . confrontational. Brackets, counters, rockers, push and pull, close passes, turns that see us almost collide. Lots of drama. Make the spectators gasp.”

He’d likely excel at drama. But we’d also need to be precise, or we would collide. It was risky. But risky was good, risky meant more potential points from the judges.

“We play to our strengths and expectations. I’ll tease, roll my shoulders, do everything I’m known for, and you do you. It will . . . protect you, if you’re concerned about any talk. We play to expectations instead of trying to outrun them.”

He was beginning to make a lot of sense. We could perform this, telling our own story, translating the category in our own way.

“Then we go hard, synchronized twizzles into near collision. Technically a fucking nightmare. Finale shoulder lift, drop, stationary pose, submission, connection. Perfection.” He clapped once, grinned, and took a bite of toast.