Page 21 of Ice Dance

The music began, and Dylan moved closer to the screens. “I love this one,” she said.

The beat was good, and Hasegawa knew how to use it. He dug his edges in, pumping to get speed, and once the vocals dropped, his routine began. All the rigidity melted off him, and he moved like fluid, turning his body into liquid motion that just so happened to be connected by metal blades to hard-as-concrete ice. I knew the technical aspects, but I wasn’t interested in the technicality. I was interested in his personality.

The song was about falling in love with a sex worker, a very un-Hasegawa song. The vocals, the music, it flowed through him. The turns, the dips, the change of edges, deep curves, elegant spins.

There was also a reason I’d watched this routine countless times, over and over, that had nothing to do with technique. In this routine, we got a glimpse of the depths of his feeling. A tiny little hint of so much more.

A glimpse, I’d admitted to nobody, that had fascinated me for years.

The music and his performance ended, and he came off the ice, onto the rubber mats, panting hard.

“Hey, that was good.” I grinned and caught the tail end of what must have been a smile on his lips. Even that tiny smile softened his face and made his eyes shine. I wanted to see more of that man, the one who only came out on the ice. Wanted to get to know him, find out what his dreams were, what made him get up in the morning, what he craved.

I reached out and steadied him as he sat, without thinking. The touch felt different off ice. Different like it had when we’d danced in the conference room, more personal and charged.

I let go before he noticed, and frowned at my own tumbling thoughts. This was not the time or place to cozy up to Hasegawa. That was a line that might as well be a nine-foot-high wall. Not least because he was Ren Hasegawa. Watching him dance to “Roxanne,” though . . . He could move. Had he ever danced salsa? He’d be dynamite between the sheets. And I was not thinking that thought ever again. Padlock it, toss it over the nine-foot-high wall, and never go there.

Clearly, I’d spent too long getting my hands on him, and that wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. I could be professional. I was professional.

Besides, he was a walking red flag. I mean, I was too, but he had the monopoly on tall, dark, and domineering.

“Let’s dance,” I said. If I didn’t work out the tension in my body, my mind was going to run with all its unhelpful thoughts and make pretty little X-rated pictures out of them. I needed to get laid. Or get exhausted. Only one of those was a realistic option right now.

Hasegawa didn’t argue. And so, we danced. And I’d been right, his barriers had come all the way down. The turns. The twizzles. The synchronization. The entire routine, we almost had it. Hands locked, his touch scorching where it landed, where he held. Firm, precise, steady. He wouldn’t let me fall. And the trust between us was coming, sprouting, growing into something actually worth a damn.

Holy shit, we were good.

I’d screwed up a few times, but it was minor, and nothing that would faze the selection panel.

The end of day four, and we were as ready as we were going to get with just a few days to make it work. We were doing this.

I left the rink with a bounce in my step. Not only could we pass selection, we might also be able to take it all the way, take it to the Meridian, and show the world that two men could dance as partners with the best, and win.

ELEVEN

REN

He’d baited me on the ice.

I sat in the hotel bar, nursing a glass of wine, my body still coming down from our earlier practice, not knowing how to think or feel about Camden Navarro. I’d watched his personality bloom during his sensual routine. He clearly held himself in check when dancing with me. But when he danced alone, he did so freely. He’d loved it. And I’d enjoyed watching him.

Of course, I’d kept my face measured, although it may have slipped a few times when I’d forgotten my thoughts. For a few minutes, during his scandalous routine, I’d forgotten who I was, who I was supposed to be, and admired his control of his body. How he’d moved. Such elegance, such effortless control of his blade edges.

I stroked my wine glass’s stem, tracing the motion while my thoughts took me on a merry dance somewhere they should not go.

Soft music played in the bar, something forgettable, something from the ’50s, slow and romantic. A few people chatted at tables. But it was late, and most of the guests had turned in for the night.

I sipped my wine, letting it go down smooth. The woman in the bar song sung about Romeo and Juliet and never falling in love again.

I turned my gaze to the window. It was dark outside. The glass reflected the bar back at me. There I was, seated alone. Always alone.

When I’d come into the bar the evening before Dylan had suggested Navarro and I work together, the night I’d thrown my drink in Navarro’s face, I’d come down thinking I’d be alone again. But he’d been here, surrounded by people he knew. Laughing, smiling, at ease with his peers. I’d never been at ease around people. Always felt closed off. I didn’t know how to open up, and every time I tried, it went wrong. Like it had then too.

Performing was the only place I relaxed, paradoxically.

And dancing with Navarro . . . It wasn’t like with Alisha. Dylan had been right about that. He moved like a woman, made it easy for me to pretend, and maybe that was why I was having thoughts. Thoughts that had no business taking up my headspace.

That damn dance.