The assistant pointed to the stage as the music of the show filled the studio. She sucked in a breath, knowing she had to focus. She might have to support her celebrity in his dances, but now was about supporting herself. A pro dancer’s contract depended on so many factors, not least of which was her celebrity’s popularity and technical ability. Conversations with Coco and Miguel and some of the others in recent days had revealed how some pros had been cut due to factors beyond their control. A celebrity could be immensely popular, but their lack of dancing prowess or technical skills was sometimes seen as a reflection on the skills of the pro dancer, resulting in some pros’ contracts not being renewed. Others had been forced into retirement, thanks to ageing and unwanted curves. “Nobody wants to see a thicker dancer,” Miguel had said at last night’s group dinner at the hotel. “This show is supposed to be aspirational, showing what can happen if you dance the heck out of your body, and we all know the camera adds ten pounds.”
She’d put down the dessert she’d been about to consume, knowing only too well that while there were some things she couldn’t control, like whether Luc remembered his steps, there were other things she definitely could, like what she ate or how much. So, if she wanted to continue, then she needed to hit all her cues, execute all her routines perfectly, and pray that Luc’s performance was enough to see them make it through.
They were sent onto the stage, the lights dimmed, the crowd hushed. Then the music began, and she snapped into her role. Precise movements. Controlled arms. Sexy sway. Then she partnered up with Miguel as they did the 1950s-themed dance moves that would showcase tonight’s jive, rumba, and paso doble.
She grinned, settling into the rhythms of the dance, kicking, flicking, careful to keep her movements defined and clean. Tonight’s little motivational talk had only doubled her efforts to prove herself, to prove to others that she was strictly a professional, that there was nothing to worry about for anyone. And she’d do so—
Ow! Her foot collided with Miguel’s—a joint mistake—but after a “sorry!” she instantly pasted her smile back on. See what happened when she wasn’t paying attention? She finished the routine, her sitting on Miguel’s knee, arm around his neck, as she pointed her aching toe to the ceiling. She could feel the animosity coming off him.
But he also had to pretend nothing was wrong, and thanks to the fact Miguel was opening the show, she had no time to say anything but a quick “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there” to him as they departed backstage.
Coco found her in the dressing room, where they were helped out of their costumes and prepped for their celebrity dance outfits. “What happened? Miguel was fuming.”
“It was my mistake.” Her stomach grew queasy as she described her mishap.
Coco winced. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s always snarky with those he blames for getting things wrong. But we’re professionals, and as they say, the show must go on.”
The trepidation about tonight’s performance trebled as her dress was zipped up, and her makeup and hairstyle refreshed. But no. She wasn’t dancing with Miguel, but with Luc. She had to focus on him, focus on doing all she could to help him feel confident and sure. They were dancing last, which meant after their introductions at the start she’d have over an hour to keep him calm. Which also meant over an hour of trying to act strictly professionally with him, and not stirring up unnecessary feelings. Lord, help me focus.
She hurried back to the wings, finding Luc, who held out his hand then slowly twirled her as he smiled. “Looking good, Bails.”
“Thanks.” She released his hand, gesturing to his costume. “I’m loving the hat.”
“Apparently it’s called a fedora.”
“Is it now?”
Oh, it was too easy to banter like this. She needed to stop. She dimmed her smile back.
He nudged her. “What is it?”
She shook her head, they were due on…
“Now!” hissed the assistant beside the curtain, pointing at them.
Bailey pasted on a big smile as she tugged Luc to the stage, while the announcer said, “Please welcome Luc Blanchard, and his partner Bailey.”
The lights and camera and swell of applause at their entry accompanied them to their position on the stairs this week, the producers judging Luc’s height wouldn’t hide anyone standing behind them.
She stood, ramrod-straight, smile fixed, wondering where in the crowd his family sat. Luc’s hand was on her waist, and through the nude mesh she could feel his hand was already sweaty. Her toe throbbed from where she’d accidentally hit Miguel, and she hoped his wasn’t worse. Still, stuff happened, and she’d apologize more thoroughly later, and pray he wouldn’t hold it against her. And thank God that because Miguel was on first and their act was last there’d be reduced time to talk with each other.
They were released, then she returned with Luc backstage, as her toe complained. Still, a dancer couldn’t protest, and she knew if she took her shoe off now there’d be no way she could get it on later. She’d just need to toughen up—and pop an ibuprofen or two if it got worse.
“Are you okay?” Luc asked her.
“Yep!” She needed to hide her pain, not give him a second’s worry. “How are you feeling?”
“Better than last week, but still nervous.”
She straightened his collar, as the temptation grew to run her hands down his shirt and feel those muscles underneath. She stepped away. Put her hands behind her back. “Did you want to run through anything again? Going last means we have time.”
“Could we? I don’t want to seem needy, but if we’ve got time that would help.”
She nodded, and ignoring the music that signaled the start of the author’s dance with Miguel, she slowly walked her way to the corner, doing her best to not limp like she wanted. Lord, please let it not be a broken toe.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
She nodded, looking around for one of the ever-present bottles of water. She grabbed one, sipped it, then smiled. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”
“You’re not going to dance with me?”
“I will, after I see if you remember the moves.” And after her toe calmed its fiery roar.
He grinned. “Is this more of your motivation? I haven’t forgotten about the movie, you know.”
Darn. The movie. Why had she suggested such a thing? She knew exactly why. Because she’d started to succumb to his charm, and thought that he might even enjoy the opposites-attract underdog story of her favorite movie, ever. She’d have to find a way to make it seem less date-like. She couldn’t afford for anyone—Luc or producers—to get ideas. Well, none more than what she’d already given.
“But first you have to get through tonight. So let’s see what you’ve got, big guy.” She perched on a stool and watched as he began his introduction, clicking his fingers for two beats, not the four as she’d originally planned, but tweaked during rehearsals. Then he spun around, in a skater move like he’d done on the ice last Monday, then skidded forward like he was skating to where she’d meet him.
He looked lost for a second when she didn’t join him, but she simply called “Keep going.”
The job of a performer was exactly that. Keep going, even when you messed up, and missed a cue or a word or a note. Redos weren’t possible with live TV, and part of the challenge was being able to sell the performance even when you knew you’d made a mistake. He was used to that anyway, so he’d said in Wednesday’s rehearsal, when she’d first had him go through this alone. He’d explained how hockey had the potential for all kinds of errors, from turnovers to icing to missed checks and missed shots and goals. That was one way training an athlete was helpful, they knew how to press through adversity.
Just like she would. With her sore heart and aching toe.
“You nailed it!”
