Only the Brave Try Ballet

‘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.