I grab a water bottle from my bag and approach him with it out in offering. “Are you okay?”
When he opens his eyes, I’m startled by what I see—a mix of hurt and defeat.
“Not a good time, Priss.” His voice is chalky, his gaze sliding to the floor between us as if he’s ashamed of himself in this state.
“I know. That’s why I’m asking. Drink this.”
He nods and then starts to work his gloves off, ripping at the Velcro with his teeth. I still his efforts and take one of them in my grasp, unlatching the wrist strap and free one hand.
He remains silent, just watching me, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“So metal, huh?” I say with a small smile, braving a glance at him as I work to get his other glove off. “That’s your bag?”
“Old Metal and Rock. I grew up on it.”
Gloves off, I hand him the plastic bottle and he thanks me before draining it.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Look, if you need—”
“This is why I like to work out alone. No offense, but this is my time to do my thing. All right?” Biting my lips, I nod and take a step back. He didn’t say it in a way that offends me, but I feel the sting of rejection anyway.
It’s then I fully understand why he doesn’t want me in the gym with him. “I-I can come back.”
“No, you’re good. I’m done. Just going to rope for a while.”
“Okay.”
I turn to make my way towards my corner and glance back. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for the shitty things I said.”
“Yeah, same.” He gives me a nod before making his way to his locker room. As I start my own music, I can’t help but glance over at him when he emerges a few minutes later in his usual attire. He begins with his jump rope, clearing it easily at an exhausting pace. It’s as if he’s tapped into some sort of reserve and is hell-bent on fatiguing himself. Curiosity piqued, I spend a few minutes stretching, just watching as he wears himself out.
What are you hiding, Lance Prescott?
As if he hears my question, his gaze meets mine briefly before he packs his duffle and leaves me staring in the direction he left.
Harper
Being overlooked isn’t a bad thing, especially if you plan on being a back-up dancer. The only thing I want people to recognize when they see me is how in sync I am while dancing. I don’t want the spotlight, that’s not my goal. Winding my hair into a bun, I check my reflection. I’m wearing my favorite black shorts and cut to midriff T-shirt. Clothes only get in the way of watching my form as I execute. Though my outfit borders indecent, I didn’t see Lance anywhere when I arrived at the gym. Just as well. I want to try something new, and it would be hard to get the kinks out with him around.
I’ve noticed his pattern in the last few weeks and been quick to avoid it. He’s at the coffee shop I frequent in the mornings, either on his laptop or reading. We’ve kept mostly to ourselves since the night I saw a few of his true colors, a polite nod here and there with little to no conversation.
Cardi B’s “I Like It” fills the gym as I dig into the routine I memorized on YouTube. Jerking my head, I follow it with the smooth transition of my torso sliding left and right within the same second before I whip back into starting position. Gyrating my hips, I use my arms to emphasize every step before gliding along the floor in seamless and purposeful movement. It’s a level ‘insane’ routine, but it’s near the difficulty I’m looking to conquer. Before I know it, I’m lost. Whipping my body, dominating my steps, twisting my frame. I bounce on my heels and push-off, jerking, sliding, breaking my body down twice the tempo of the beat.
Satisfied once the song ends, I jump back when I see Lance in the mirror casually leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He’s in his typical attire of mesh shorts and a form-fitting white tee, his eyes intent on me as I audibly swallow.
“That was pretty…fucking amazing.”
Lance
She’s…pointy. She reminds me of a little bird, in a way. But when the girl starts to move, she takes flight. I was honest when I told her she’s not my type. She’s not, but I can’t stop watching. The minute she starts to move, I’m fixated. It’s witchcraft what she does on those killer legs. She’s perfectly toned, and I can’t deny the jolt to my cock when she works herself like a contortionist. Today the music doesn’t suck, and neither does her routine. If I’m honest, I’ve been impressed with her talent from the get-go.
Whatever she’s auditioning for, I have zero doubt she’ll make the cut.
She’s that good.
I watch as she bounces and transitions like she’s floating on air, liquid, fluid but never mechanical, every move purposeful, calculated and perfectly executed. When the music stops, my mouth moves before I have a chance to think it through.
“That was pretty…fucking amazing.”
I take satisfaction in the surprise on her face when I pay her the compliment.
“Take that compliment,” I push off the wall, “it was genuine.”
“Even if I don’t care for the supplier?” She grins, and I grin back.
“Suit yourself,” I walk past her and drop my duffle before pulling off my shirt. I catch her checking me out in the mirror, and my smile widens.
“What made you come to this school? It’s hardly the place to hone your skills. Wouldn’t you be better off at a dance academy or something?”
She tilts her head, surprised at my line of questioning. “In-state tuition.”
I nod. “I get it. If I didn’t have a full ride, I wouldn’t be in college at all. But, with the way you dance, you couldn’t get a scholarship?”
She blows out a breath.
“Humor me, Priss.”
Her nose scrunches in distaste for her pet name. “My dad is on faculty here. And no, the dance program at Grand wasn’t my first choice, but it’s decent. It just made more financial sense to do it here.” She shrugs. “I’m not going to let it stop me.”
“No doubt you won’t.”
“I can’t tell if you’re sincere or if it’s this chip I’m carrying keeping me all icy and suspicious.” Another grin, but I can tell my digs grated on her the way hers did me.
“Sorry about that. But you can be a little frigid, especially when someone is trying to apologize.”
“You’re right. I’m just as guilty. The day we met was a shitshow for me as well, so I’m sorry for what I said.”
“We’re cool. And you really are good. I mean that.”
“Thanks,” she says, a slight heat creeping up her face. “So are you, at ball, I mean. But you’re still in need of a personality makeover.”
“Whatever,” I shiver in exaggeration. “Is it cold in here?”
“Shut up,” she says, cocking a hip, making her legs look even better.
We eyeball each other as I unzip my bag and pull out my gloves. She takes a step towards me and turns the tables.
“So, what’s your story?”