Only the Brave Try Ballet

Opening the lid of his laptop, he settled onto the couch. His personal email showed the same sad scene it did every day: zero new messages. Even Dennis, the closest thing he had to a friend, hadn’t sent him anything...not even a stupid Lolcats photo. He clicked on the folder marked ‘family’ and sighed at the measly three emails that he couldn’t bear to delete. The last one was dated over six months ago.

He checked the spam folder, wondering if—hoping that—maybe a message had got caught in the filter, that maybe someone had reached out to him. No luck. The folder was empty.

He’d never regretted leaving the small country town where he’d grown up to pursue football and success in the big smoke, despite the verbal smack-down he’d got from his father. He could remember with clarity the vein bulging in his father’s forehead as his voice boomed through their modest country property. Those three little words: How could you? How could he desert them? How could he abandon the family business? How could he put a pipe dream before his father and sister?

Those wounds had only started healing, with the tentative phone calls and texts increasing between him and his sister. The old bonds had been there, frayed and worn but not completely broken. Not completely beyond repair. Even his father had provided a gruff enquiry as to Grant’s life in the city.

But all that was gone now. Those fragile threads of reconciliation had been ripped apart when he’d brought shame to the family name. They were his father’s words but he couldn’t dispute them. He didn’t have the right to be mad. He was alone because of his own actions, because of the mess he’d made. And, knowing his father, he wouldn’t get a second chance.

All the more reason to make sure the Jaguars were on top this year. If his career was all he had left he’d give it everything. He would not fail.

Slamming the lid of the laptop shut, he abandoned the couch to grab a drink from the fridge. If sleep was going to be elusive he might as well do something to pass the time.

TWO

‘Dammit,’ Jasmine muttered as she battled with her large pink umbrella. The blustery weather meant it was virtually useless to ward off the sideways rain as it pelted her in the face and soaked her jeans.

Her hair streaked around her, the dark strands blocking her vision as she wrestled it into submission. She dashed across the busy street, feet sliding on the slick pavement. Panting, she hitched her bag up higher on her shoulder and ducked under the shelter of the doctor’s clinic. She shook the umbrella, flicking droplets of water all around her, and walked through the automatic doors to the clinic’s reception.

‘Hi, Jasmine.’ The receptionist greeted her with a familiar smile. ‘Dr Wilson will be with you momentarily.’

Jasmine sank into a chair and wound her rain-drenched ponytail into a bun. Water dripped down the back of her neck and her ankle throbbed inside her boot, a constant reminder that the accident was not yet behind her.

Another one of the staff members gave her a friendly wave as they walked through the reception area. She was practically part of the furniture here.

After a brief check-up and lecture from her doctor Jasmine left, a fresh prescription in her hand since she’d fed the last one to her shredder. She hated taking the painkillers he’d prescribed; along with her inability to heal, they felt like another sign of weakness.

The doctor had again broached the topic of her seeing a psychologist...as though her problems were all in her head. But they weren’t—they were real. Her ankle would never again be strong enough to sustain her en pointe, and without ballet she had nothing...was nothing. She wrapped her arms around herself as she made her way to the reception desk.

God she missed it—the glitter of stage lights reflecting off sequins, the thunder of the audience’s applause, the thrill of mastering a new part. What could she do with her life now that all those things were gone? Every time she tried to think about it her mind went blank. There was nothing else in her heart except ballet, nothing else she was passionate about. It was ballet or bust...and she was definitely going bust.

Rain thundered outside the clinic and a bright flash lit up the windows, signalling that the storm was raging on. She regretted catching public transport; there was no way she’d get home dry. Stupidly, she’d come without the car she sometimes borrowed from Elise’s mother, thinking perhaps she could save money if she stuck to buses and trams. In hindsight it was a doomed plan, given that Melbourne’s public transport system was prone to failure when the weather turned. But without the cash for her own set of wheels she’d be rocking the drowned rat look on a more frequent basis.

Cursing, she signed the appointment form and paid with the notes from the envelope in her bag. It had her name scrawled across the front in Grant’s chicken-scratch handwriting.

‘Jasmine?’

A familiar voice demanded her attention. Speak of the devil.

Grant stood in the centre of the waiting room, dressed in his training gear. He looked infinitely more relaxed than the last time she’d seen him, his face open, though he hadn’t lost any of the arrogance in his swagger. People in the clinic—mainly women—admired him openly and whispered to one another behind their hands.

‘Fancy seeing you here.’ She kept her voice professional, pushing aside the prickle of irritation left over from their first lesson together.

‘The club gets remedial massage here.’ He signed his own form with a scrawl. ‘These tight calves are giving me hell.’

She couldn’t stop the spread of an evil smile across her lips. Her calf exercises were notorious for punishing new students and she felt a small tingle of satisfaction that he was no different.

‘Cry-baby,’ she said, wrapping a fluffy orange scarf around her neck and preparing for the onslaught of the rain.

He chuckled. It was a sound designed to make a woman’s stomach flutter, and hers did...right on cue. She cursed her body for its mindless response.

He walked beside her, and a frosty blast of air hit them as the automatic doors slid open to reveal a wet and miserable winter’s day. ‘What are you here for?’

‘An old injury.’ She paused under the awning of the clinic. She undid the clasp on her umbrella and opened it against the wind, wincing as the material flapped in protest. Turning to walk away from the car park, she waved. ‘Well, I’d better run.’

Grant raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. ‘You didn’t drive?’

She couldn’t blame him for thinking she was mad—even she was thinking she might have gone loopy. Who would choose to give up a car with seat warmers on a day like this? Her bones were already chilled to their core, and a five-minute walk to the bus stop was only going to make things worse.

She shook her head.

‘I’ll give you a lift. You can’t walk in the rain.’

Grant set off towards the car park without waiting for her to accept his offer. She paused, her brows furrowing. Another blast of cold air made her shiver as she followed him. Indignation at his demanding tone wasn’t going to force her to give up a free ride today.

Grant’s long strides made quick work of the car park. He walked with his head bent to the wind, not looking to see if she’d followed him. She quickened her pace, her boots splashing through puddles as she jogged. The car’s lights flashed as it was unlocked and Jasmine scampered around to the passenger side, eager to get out of the wet.

Slamming the door behind her, she shivered. Droplets of water had flicked all over the pristine leather seats, and the windows fogged from their breathing. Grant turned over the engine and flicked on the demister. They waited while the glass returned to its normal transparent state.

His eyes were on her.

* * *

Her pale skin was flushed from the cold. A strawberry colour stained her cheeks and, even as dishevelled and rain-soaked as she was, Jasmine was still the most stunning woman Grant had ever encountered.

‘Where am I taking you?’ He started the engine and let the car idle while it warmed up.

‘To the ballet studio.’ Blowing on her hands, she rubbed them together and shivered in her seat. ‘Please.’

Grant turned up the heater, flicking the centre vent so that it blew in her direction. He could smell the combination of perfume and rain on her skin. Water droplets slid down her neck, disappearing beneath her scarf. For some reason he found that indescribably erotic.

‘So you’re dealing with an injury?’ He forced his mind onto another topic. Injuries were safe, unsexy. ‘From dancing?’

‘Yeah.’ Her voice sounded tight and she didn’t elaborate.

He stole a glance at her profile as he turned to the rear window, easing the car out of its spot. She shot him a rueful smile, a dimple forming in her cheek. His eyes flickered over her small but full-lipped mouth.

‘I bet you get more injuries in football, though—like a broken nose, perhaps?’ Her voice held a slight sense of mischief.

Most girls wouldn’t be so quick to point out that he had a crooked nose. But, then again, he could see she was different in every way from the women he met on the football circuit. She wasn’t fake tanned and bleached to the hilt. She didn’t have that artificial look that was the uniform of the WAGs. She was an authentic beauty—a rarity. Her long black hair was wound into a neat bun, and the only skin that showed was on her hands and face. She had a certain primness about her that Grant found appealing—a polished elegance that made her look every bit the perfect prima ballerina. And she gave him attitude left, right and centre.

‘Yes to the broken nose, but it didn’t happen on the footy field,’ Grant said, returning his eyes to the front. ‘I had a fight when I’d barely turned eighteen. It was my first night out drinking and I got into a fight at a bar.’

At one point that memory would have filled Grant with a sense of macho pride, as though it were a rite of passage for a young male. Now it made him queasy, with memories bubbling to the surface. Many women liked the whole ‘bad boy’ thing—hell, he’d used it to his advantage time and time again—but those days were well and truly over. Not that anyone believed him.

‘That was a long time ago.’

He kept the mood light, but Jasmine wasn’t letting him get away that easily.

‘I don’t understand why guys fight.’ She shook her head. ‘You don’t need to beat your chest to attract the ladies, you know.’

‘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.

She held open the door to the waiting room. ‘Shall we get lesson number two over with?’

‘It’s going to feel even longer if you count down every single lesson,’ Grant said, walking past her, close enough that she could smell the faint aftershave on his skin.

‘You were the one who wanted to speed up the results,’ she said, focusing her attention on the mirrored wall as they walked over to the barre. Each breath had to be forced in and out of her lungs, as though she might forget to breathe if she were near him for too long.

‘Do I need to wear these stupid things every lesson?’ He pulled at the fabric of his sports tights and allowed it to snap against his thigh. ‘At least at footy I can wear shorts over the top.’

‘Are you worried about your modesty?’ She raised an eyebrow.

‘It’s not me I’m worried about.’

She put on her most serious teacher voice. ‘I need to see how your muscles work while we’re going through the exercises.’

Heat crawled up her neck and she forced her eyes to stay on his face. She would not look down. She would not look down.

‘My muscles? Right.’ He drew the last word out, barely containing his laughter.

‘I think you should consider taking these lessons a little more seriously, Grant. Preventing injury is no laughing manner.’

‘God, you sound like an insurance commercial.’

He was pushing her on purpose, and he seemed to be getting an immense amount of pleasure out of it. Since this was her lesson, she could pay him back.

‘Why don’t we get started with some calf raises?’

He rolled his eyes and groaned, as though she’d told him he needed to climb a mountain with one hand.

‘Suck it up, Grant. If there’s one thing you should know about people who’ve studied ballet it’s that we have discipline beyond anything you could imagine.’ She sounded smug, sure, but he totally deserved it.

He shook his head and laughed. ‘You’re not selling the ballet ideal very well.’

‘You don’t think you’ve got what it takes?’ She cursed herself. She shouldn’t be baiting him. No doubt he’d be the kind of guy to enjoy a little verbal sparring. But the words had slipped out before she could stop them. It was too...fun. And she needed a little fun right now.

He grinned at her, confirming her fears. ‘If I want something, there ain’t a force in the world that will stop me from having it.’

Jasmine gulped. His pointed look sent liquid fire through her veins. There was no doubt in her mind that she was on his list of things to want. She had to remind herself that this was business and—fun as it might be, she was only after a pay cheque. But that grin...the crooked, self-assured way he smiled...it was like a fist through her stomach.

No, this would not work on her. She wasn’t another airhead groupie, ready to fall at his feet.

‘You can’t have everything you want. That’s not how the world works.’ And didn’t she know it.

He raked his eyes over her. ‘Watch me.’

Awareness tingled on her skin. She could feel his gaze so keenly that it might as well have been the brush of his fingertips or the rasp of his tongue for what it was doing to her insides. She bit down on her lip, trying unsuccessfully to blank out the flickering reel of R-rated images in her mind.

‘Since you’re so strong of mind, why don’t you focus some of that energy on this lesson?’

After Grant had made his way through the warm-up she moved them on to a new exercise, facing him at the barre.

‘We’ll start the tendu à terre in first position. Watch me.’ She extended her right leg forwards until only the tips of her pointed toes touched the ground.

Looking as out of place as one would expect from a footballer in a ballet studio, Grant struck an angled version of first position with his working arm, his shoulders bunched up around his neck.

Jasmine rested her hand on the tense muscle. ‘You have to loosen up from here or you’ll never relax into it,’ she said, running her hands down his arm and shaping it into the proper position. Her fingertips brushed his hard, curved biceps. Her breath quickened while her heart bounded like an over-excited puppy. ‘Now, extend your working leg forwards slowly. Point your foot and keep it on the ground.’

He shifted as he moved his leg forwards, tipping his hips out of alignment. Her hands automatically went down to put them back into place. Her fingers fluttered involuntarily against his hipbone. Through the thin fabric of his running tights his muscular thighs were perfectly visible. The fitted garment didn’t leave much to the imagination...and, speaking of imagination, hers was running wild.

From the sharp intake of his breath and the flare of his pupils he must have felt it too. And the jolt of electricity that made her whole body feel like a live wire—could he feel that as well?

She stepped back and instructed him to complete the exercise on his own. Using her remote, she played classical music so he had timing to work with. He fought to keep his posture straight and Jasmine clasped her hands in front of her to stop herself from reaching out to touch him again.

‘That’s looking good. If we can get those hips to stay square, then you’ll master this in no time. The tendu leads on to a lot of other steps in ballet.’

She was babbling—a side-effect from the onslaught of lust. God, it had been far too long since she’d been with a man, it must be the hormones making her crazy. That’s all it was, a perfectly reasonable and natural response...absolutely nothing to do with him. She needed a break. Now.

‘Why don’t you grab a drink?’ She walked to the front of the studio where her water bottle sat next to the MP3 player and her mobile phone. ‘We’ll get started again in a few minutes.’

They had another half an hour to go—how was she going to keep herself in check for that long? She took a swig of her water and relished the cool liquid sliding down the back of her throat.