Yeah. Sure he was.
“Just smoke the opposition, okay?”
He smiled, but it was like her words clicked his brain into gear. He needed to concentrate. She was doing her best to help him. He needed to do his best to hold up his side of the bargain and try too.
“You don’t need to frown,” she said, pushing a finger between his eyebrows.
“That’s my thinking face.”
She nodded. “Well, you don’t want to show the judges you’re thinking so hard. So just relax. You’ll get this.”
He didn’t think so, but… “Okay.” He exhaled. “It’s just dancing, right? How hard can this be?”
Man. Why hadn’t anybody ever told him how hard dancing could be? Luc wobbled like an old man to his tan leather couch then crashed on it. He heard a splintering sound, that just may have been a leg crumbling—a couch leg, not his own, though they felt just as likely to.
Every single muscle screamed for an ice bath. He hadn’t known four hours of dance—more like five, because Bailey was being a drill sergeant, keeping him on his toes until his toes couldn’t handle it anymore—could hurt so much. Who would’ve thought he’d ache more from dance than hockey? He needed a massage, stat.
Yet Bailey barely sweated. He’d thought his fitness was good, but hers was next-level, which made him all the more amazed.
Bailey really was amazing. She was so patient with him, so encouraging. She really knew her stuff, not being shy about pushing him around simply because he was twice the size of her. Well, not in height, because that would’ve been dumb. With her heels on she came to his chin, which wasn’t too bad, he supposed. The mirrors in her studio suggested that wouldn’t look too ridiculous, anyway.
He eased his leg out, toeing off his shoes, that fell with a soft thud, thud to the floor. She’d warned him she’d go soft on him today, his first day. If this was soft he’d hate to see what tough was.
His phone rang. He was tempted to ignore it. He’d gotten way too many crazy messages from people in recent days. He glanced at the screen anyway, then pressed answer.
“Hey Mom.”
“Lucas. How did you go today?”
He closed his eyes and groaned.
His mother chuckled. “That good, eh?”
“She’s a little warhorse. Like, worse than Coach Frantzen.”
“But she looks so sweet and pretty.”
“She is. I mean,” he cleared his throat, “she looks sweet, but she’s really mean, Ma. Always picking on me.” He smiled.
“Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“You like her, huh?”
“No.” He winced. He sounded like a little kid.
“I saw the way you two were yesterday morning on that breakfast show. You like her.”
“Mom, she’s fun, and yes, she’s pretty, but she’s a pro and so am I. Nothing can happen.” If he said it enough, his brain might send the message to his senses to stop noticing her so much. Like that moment earlier when Bailey had looked at him, then tapped his bicep and said, “How strong are you feeling?”
He’d flexed, then said “Plenty strong”, kinda hoping that would make it onto the camera, as long as it didn’t make him look like a tool.
Then she said, “I didn’t think I’d do a lift on the first day, but because you’re so big and strong I feel like we can do this.”
She’d then proceeded to instruct him on how to lift her, and he’d grabbed her under her arms and spun her. And somehow, in that moment, he could understand what the fuss was about, why the male dancers on the show owned their dancing prowess without a hint of embarrassment or apology. Because dancing like this, with her, her hair flying out, her absolute trust in him, felt good. More than good, he felt strong and powerful, but also, for the first time in his life, he’d felt sexy too.
Maybe that had been the result of the way she’d looked at him after, eyes wide. “You do have some strength to you, don’t you?”
“I try,” he’d said, as modestly as he could.
“I bet you could bench press two of me.”
“How much do you weigh?”
She told him.
He nodded. “Yeah, I probably could.” He’d then glanced at where the cameras kept rolling. “Want to try now?”
She’d laughed, declined, then winked. “You gotta give them something for tomorrow.”
He smiled at that now, then became aware that his mom had asked him something and he hadn’t noticed. “Sorry, Ma, what did you say?”
“I want to know about tickets. How do your father and I get tickets to watch you perform on Sunday?”
“Oh no, you do not want to come.”
