Only the Brave Try Ballet

Instead of heading straight out, Jasmine had the sudden urge to put on a show. She stretched out at the barre, determined to show off the best of her flexibility. Inside, her head sensibly protested that he was not the kind of guy to encourage. But the thought that he might up the ante of their teasing sent a shiver down her spine. Their last lesson had thrown her into a spin. His questions, the genuine concern in his voice, the tenderness of his touch...it was enough to make even the most sensible girl fantasise. And sensible was Jasmine’s middle name.

Her heart fluttered as she stretched, excitement dancing along her nerves. What was wrong with her? She shook her head and forced herself to focus. Abandoning the barre, she set her shoulders straight and drew a deep breath.

Elise got to Grant before Jasmine made it to the waiting room. She was throwing all her charm at him—flipping her wispy blond ponytail and offering him a smile that could power a small city. Something twisted in Jasmine’s gut—a strange pang that she hadn’t experienced in a long time. She pushed it aside and walked out in time to catch the tail-end of their conversation.

‘That would be amazing!’ Elise’s voice was high-pitched. Buoyant. ‘Did you hear that? Grant is going to get us access to the Long Room for Friday’s game. We can watch him in action.’

A warm heat flared in Jasmine’s chest. Access to the Long Room was more than a couple of general admin tickets. It was a sweet gesture, and for some strange reason it made her tummy flutter. Whether that was from the generosity of his act or the thought of seeing him in his element, she didn’t know.

‘Isn’t that exciting?’ Elise nudged Jasmine in the ribs with her elbow, a hint of warning in her voice.

‘That’s extremely generous,’ Jasmine said.

However, as the warm flush of excitement faded she realised what his invitation meant. Access to the Long Room was kind of like an insider event in the art world—filled with people who knew one another, who dressed the same way, who belonged. And she didn’t belong with the other halves of football’s elite.

Her heart sank. ‘Of course I’ll have to make sure I don’t have anything else on.’

‘You don’t have anything else on,’ Elise said pointedly, her elbow once again digging into Jasmine’s ribs. ‘We’ll definitely come and watch.’

Relax, she told herself, it won’t be like the art community. Sport is inclusive, right? Her stomach pitched. Her ex had dragged her around to all manner of gallery openings, VIP exhibitions and artist previews. She’d never fitted in. Everyone at those events had been able to afford the art hanging on the walls. She’d had more in common with the paintings themselves than the people she’d been paraded in front of.

‘Great.’ Grant flashed them both a smile. His eyes lingered for longer than necessary on Jasmine. ‘Elise has given me your number so I’ll text you the details.’

‘Great.’ Jasmine fought to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. Of course Elise had given him her number—why would she expect anything less?

An amused smile played on his lips. The two women watched him walk into the studio, both of them locking on to the way his hips rolled in their lazy, sensual gait.

‘I can’t believe you gave him my number.’ Jasmine glared at her friend as soon as the door swung closed behind him.

‘I’m doing you a favour, Jazz,’ Elise said, positioning her hands on her hips. ‘He’s drooling over you during class and you’re too chicken to do anything about it.’

‘That’s not true. He’s practically a celebrity—he could have any of those red-carpet bimbos by his side.’

‘Yes, but he’s looking at you.’ Elise sighed. ‘You’re too blinded by your own stubbornness to see it.’

‘I am not stubborn.’ But even as she said it Jasmine knew it was a lie.

‘Right.’ As if on cue, Elise cocked her head and rolled her eyes. ‘You know not every guy is like Kyle. Grant is different. He—’

‘Stop it.’ Jasmine shut her eyes. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’

She loved Elise, but this was crossing the line. She didn’t want anyone pushing her towards Grant—especially when she was having a hard time controlling herself around him as it was. There was something about him that drew her like a magnet.

Magnetic attraction or not, she knew a relationship with him would never work because she didn’t belong in his world. She’d had her time in a glamorous community filled with extreme wealth, cliques and persistent paparazzi. She’d promised herself she’d never go there again. But something pulled her to Grant—something deep and inexplicable.

She watched him through the viewing window while he warmed up at the barre. Against her better judgement, she didn’t look away.

* * *

The pre-game rush was what had drawn Grant into the world of football back in his childhood. Some guys lived for the relief that came when the siren sounded, others purely for the swell of the crowd’s cheer upon victory. But Grant was all about the build-up, the anticipation...and this match had it in spades.

He told himself it was because the Jaguars were playing their fiercest rivals. But deep down he knew the jangling of his nerves was caused by two things: Jasmine, and the niggling sensation in his hamstring. He couldn’t let it get the better of him today...not when so much was at stake.

‘Bloody hell, you’re a space cadet today.’ A hand slapped down onto his back, the sound barely registering above the locker room din.

‘Huh?’ Grant turned to see his team-mate, Archer, standing beside him, shaking his head. He was a small guy, as rovers tended to be, but he had a larger than life personality. His eyes glittered with mischief.

‘You seem light on your feet lately, mate. I should start calling you Twinkle Toes.’

‘Now, now...’ their coach warned, his voice booming above the noise.

‘I thought Grant might be able to share some of his experiences with the team.’ Archer looked up at Grant, unperturbed by the half a foot height difference between them. ‘How are the pirouettes going?’

‘You don’t want to go there, Arch.’ Grant stretched up to his full height. ‘Even doing ballet I’m still twice the man you are—mentally and physically.’

‘Short jokes...clever.’ Arch rolled his eyes as he stretched out his quad.

‘Nothing wrong with getting in touch with your feminine side, is there Grant?’ Another player chimed in.

‘Back off.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a bad sport.’ Arch elbowed Grant in the ribs. ‘I’d say pink is your colour.’

‘You’re just jealous, Arch.’ Grant felt the frustrations of the past year building, but he remembered the breathing exercises and calming techniques he’d learnt. Unclenching his fists, he let out a slow breath. ‘I get one-on-one time with a hottie ballerina and you’re going home to your old lady. I know who I’d rather be.’

Den Porter came up to the two guys and clapped them both on the back, chuckling at Grant’s joke. ‘Can’t argue with that, can you, Arch?’

Archer muttered a retort but left Grant alone. The locker room buzzed around them, pre-game jitters filling the air with a crackling, unpredictable energy.

‘You have been a bit of a space cadet,’ Den echoed, taking a long swig from his water bottle.

‘I’ve got things on my mind.’ Grant shrugged.

‘They’d better be game-related things,’ the coach said as he walked past. ‘This season is your chance, Grant. An opportunity for redemption.’

‘He sounds like a goddamn evangelist,’ Grant muttered as the coach disappeared from earshot. ‘He’s got the memory of an elephant too.’

‘Maybe you should have thought of that before you dragged the club into your personal life.’ Archer’s voice was stony. ‘You cost us that season.’

‘If I remember rightly, you didn’t score a single goal that game,’ Grant said through gritted teeth.

‘Who could concentrate, with you stumbling all over the place? You were a mess.’

Grant slammed his locker shut, enjoying the loud crack. He’d been on the straight and narrow for over six months now, but his team would never pass up the opportunity to have a go. They thought he’d cost them a winning season—their first winning season—and that his antics had distracted the team.

He’d given up the partying, he’d given up the booze, he’d even given up the groupies. But it wasn’t enough; in everyone’s mind he was the reason for their failure. He could still remember the last call he’d had with his father in the days after the story had hit the media. ‘Now you’re a deserter and a drunk. You’re no son of mine.’

‘You whinge like an old woman, mate.’ Den rolled his eyes at Arch.