Stefanie London - Only the Brave Try Ballet

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘What was it like?’

‘I was young, thought I had to prove something.’ He forced a hand through his hair. ‘I wasn’t always this way.’

‘What do you mean?’

He was at a loss for words. People usually didn’t ask personal questions—well, not those beyond what his bank balance was. They never showed any interest in him as a person, never cared about who he was...where he came from.

He shrugged, grappling for a response. ‘In charge.’

‘I have no doubt that you can take care of yourself,’ she said, a soft smile on her lips. ‘But being macho isn’t the way to go about it.’

Perhaps she’d seen the media fuss that had erupted after the incident. There had been an awful paparazzi shot of him doing the rounds on the internet for months afterwards. Luckily the media moved on quickly. Sports stars behaving badly were a dime a dozen. Grant had experienced a sense of guilt when it died down so quickly, though the story still popped up on gossip sites whenever there was a slow news day.

‘You don’t get ahead in AFL by being a softy.’

‘I don’t know. I reckon you might be a big softy on the inside.’ She laughed, poking him in the ribs. ‘You’re like one of those mean-looking dogs that rolls over for a tummy scratch.’

‘I’m at the top of my profession, sweetheart.’ He wanted to come across as controlled, but the words sounded hollow to his own ears. Defensive. ‘I’m not in it for the belly scratches.’

‘So what are you in it for?’

‘I’m in it for the game.’

‘You like to win?’

‘Hell, yeah, I like to win.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Depends on your definition of winning, I guess.’

A dark shadow passed over her face and for a moment he caught a glimpse of something beneath the surface of her warm brown eyes.

She moved on before he could probe deeper. ‘Why weren’t you always in charge?’

Of course she’d latched on to that little statement. Memories flickered at the edge of his consciousness. He didn’t want to talk about this. He’d never told anyone about what he’d left behind, about the guilt that racked him for abandoning his family only a year after his mother had passed away.

‘Let’s just say I was a late bloomer.’

‘And now?’

‘Like I said, I’m at the top of my game.’ His eyes flickered over to her. ‘Belly scratches not required.’

There was no way she’d understand. Her face was neutral, giving nothing away. She kept her gaze trained on the front window, her hands folded primly in her lap.

‘If you’re at the top of your game then why are you concerned with my opinion?’

‘What exactly is your opinion?’ He steered the car around a corner and forced his eyes to stay on the road. He wanted to see her expression, watch for a hint of how she really felt.

Why did he even care?

‘Like you said to me the other night—don’t take it personally... I don’t understand why football is such a big deal. I mean, you chase a ball around a field until someone kicks it between two posts. It’s not rocket science.’

‘We live the life of a dedicated athlete, we give up the things regular people take for granted.’

‘I’m sure keeping up with the constant partying and bedding groupies is a real sacrifice.’

‘Yeah, it’s hard to keep up with the groupies, but I try my best.’ He winked at her while they were stopped at a red light. ‘It’s good for building stamina.’

‘You’re unbelievable.’ She rolled her eyes.

‘So I’ve been told.’

Deflecting her away from the personal stuff with OTT arrogance wasn’t his finest hour, but it had steered her away from the dark parts of him and it had made her laugh. As far as he was concerned it was a win.

She huffed and shook her head. Grant couldn’t help but notice the pink flush that had spread from her cheeks down her neck, and she squirmed under his gaze.

He drove the car down the street that led to the ballet studio. Automatically he felt his shoulders tense as they drew closer. The feeling of dread that he experienced each time he came to the studio kicked in as he pulled into the car park. It was as if his body associated the studio with the pressure he was putting on himself—a manifestation of the fine line he walked with each game this season.

‘Thanks for the lift.’ Jasmine gathered her bag and umbrella from beneath her feet. ‘That rain would have been awful to travel in.’

‘No problem.’ He tried to keep his eyes forwards, but he couldn’t help stealing a glance as she stepped out of the car. The clingy fabric of her pants showed off one magnificently tight, toned ass. He gulped.

‘See you tomorrow.’

Jasmine practically bounced from the car to the studio, her pink sports bag swinging against her hip while her pert behind wiggled enticingly. Grant gave himself a moment to let his breath settle before he peeled out of the car park.

Don’t even think about it.

* * *

A quiet studio was not what Jasmine needed right now. The silence encouraged thinking, and sifting through the questions in her head was not productive...not when she had to focus on work. She stood at the barre, rolling her ankle around in a slow circle. The joint protested, the tendons tugging sharply as she pushed herself to flex or point a little more. If only she could push it a little farther each time...

Years of stretching had given her a perfect curve en pointe, but now she could barely rise up onto the balls of her feet. They refused to stretch, refused to flex and curve as they once had.

Gritting her teeth, she attempted a few moves from an old routine. Her feet thumped against the floor, clumsy in their poor imitation of how she had once danced. She wanted so badly to be able to go back to the way she’d been before the accident, before she’d stranded herself in this horrible place known as dancer’s limbo—where you were too broken to move forwards, too proud to go backwards and too engrained to go anywhere else.

She missed dancing with an ache that felt as if it split her chest wide open every time she failed to flex her feet properly. There were times when she feared that her soul might wither up and die if she went much longer without dance.

Voices from the waiting room pulled her out of her dark thoughts; she whipped her head around.

Grant stood in the waiting room, talking to her best friend and owner of the studio, Elise Johnson, but his eyes were undeniably on Jasmine. Even from a distance she could see the fire burning in their ice-blue depths. He nodded in response to something Elise said but he didn’t tear his gaze from her...not even for a second. Stomach fluttering, she crossed the studio. Their muffled voices became clearer as Jasmine reached the waiting room.

‘How come your girlfriend doesn’t come and watch you practise?’

Elise batted her eyelashes at Grant as Jasmine poked her head into the waiting room. She bit down on her lip to stop herself from groaning; the girl was as subtle as a sledgehammer.

‘No girlfriend.’ Grant shook his head, catching Jasmine’s eye and winking.

‘Wife?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘Interesting.’ Elise cocked her head to one side and smiled at Jasmine conspiratorially as she turned to grab her coat and bag. ‘Well, I’m off. Enjoy your lesson.’

Her smile was sweet as a cupcake piled high with frosting. Jasmine stifled a laugh at Grant’s get-me-out-of-here expression. Elise was full-strength girlie—none of that watered-down diet stuff. As Grant came forwards Elise shot Jasmine a thumbs-up behind his back. Her face sparkled.

Despite the fact that Elise was single herself, she’d made it her mission to try and set Jasmine up, no matter how many times she protested.