Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
Mateo
The ballroom feels different the next morning, more electric and tightly wound.
Everyone is quieter and serious. Today, we begin the standard prelims, and our second dance is the Jive.
It’s not our strongest, but Yvonne and I have worked hard to polish the routine, to bring the right mixture of energy and technique.
The announcer calls our heat number, and we step out onto the floor alongside five other couples. The parquet beneath my shoes gleams under the overhead lights, and the buzz of the crowd becomes a distant hum. Every dancer is keyed up, legs bouncing with anticipation as we take our marks.
When the fast-paced rhythm kicks in, we launch into the Jive.
The kicks and flicks, fast triples, the tight spring and bounce that makes this dance a test of stamina, and the style is on perfect display with some of the best dancers in the world.
Yvonne is light on her feet, her skirt flaring with every spin, and her smile locked and ready.
She’s quickly becoming a great friend and one of the best dancers I have ever worked with.
My footwork is clean, honed by weeks of training, but about halfway through, as we switch into a series of underarm turns, my gaze flicks toward the judges’ table.
It’s a reflex I didn’t mean to follow. That’s when I see him sitting in the third seat from the left.
Victor Denier. A name I haven’t thought about in over a year.
He’s older now, a few more lines around his eyes, but unmistakable. He was one of the French adjudicators who used to rave about me when I competed with my former partner. He coached at a training camp in Lyon where we spent two summers prepping for internationals.
His eyes are on me, not just scanning, they’re like lasers on my face. There’s no recognition in his expression, but the scrutiny is there, and it presses into my chest like a thumb against a bruise. Does he know who I am? Has he heard the rumors?
I mess up the next roll off the arm turn. Not a full stumble, just a slight drag, but I feel it, and Yvonne shoots me a confused look as we recover.
“Focus,” she hisses under her breath, lips barely moving.
I force a smile and dive into the next pattern. An American spin, link, and sharp kicks to the beat. The tempo drives us forward, making focus on anything else impossible. All that exists is rhythm and counts and the thunder of movement all around us.
The song ends in a blur of sweat and applause as we strike our final pose and hold it, Yvonne’s breathing hard, her chest rising and falling. My heart is racing for different reasons. I messed up and it was a stupid mistake. We walk off the floor and toward the water station.
“You flinched,” she says, panting. “What was that?”
I wipe my forehead with a towel. “One of the judges. I know him. From before.”
She arches a brow. “Is that good or bad?”
“Could be either.”
She says nothing, just hands me her bottle. I take a long drink, letting the cool water chase down the acid rising in my throat. Back across the floor, Victor Denier is still watching us. His pen moves across the score sheet, then stills as our eyes meet.
His gaze narrows slightly, then he nods, just once, and a chill snakes down my spine.
I don’t know if that nod is acknowledgement or warning.
I don’t know if he’s heard about my reputation, the partying, and the disappearance from the circuit, or if he remembers the kid with clean footwork and ambition to burn.
This could mean a bias score if he has the same reaction to me as Vaeda did when she first found out who I was. It could mean everything I worked hard for toward my redemption could be for nothing as my past catches up with my present.
After callbacks are posted, the air in the Palais des Congrès thickens with tension. Dancers pace the hallways with clipped strides, brows furrowed, and their words are spoken in hushed tones. Everyone’s holding their breath because now, the real pressure begins.
Quarterfinals–Adult Latin Division: Samba
Out of seventy original couples, thirty-six made the cut. Yvonne and I are sitting in the middle of the pack at number twenty. It’s a place that neither satisfies nor comforts, and it gnaws at me.
Yvonne reads my face as we warm up on the practice floor. “We’ll move up. Let’s just get through this round.”
Greyson shows up with the schedule in hand. “You’re dancing fifth, and it’s Samba. Let’s see that fire you two keep in your back pocket.”
Then Vaeda appears, standing straighter than she should, one heel slightly raised to relieve the strain on her injured foot. Her expression is unreadable, her eyes blank as she looks from me to Yvonne. I wish I had her talent for disassociation.
“You underperformed today,” she says without preamble. “Your hand changes weren’t sharp enough, and you got ahead of the beat in the jive.”
I hold her gaze, the tension between us vibrating like a wire. “We still made it.”
“You barely made it.” Her words are clipped and clinical.
“Stop counting your steps. You should know them inside and out by now. It’s time to command the floor and own it.
Show them you belong out there.” Then her gaze cuts to Yvonne.
“And you need to match him. Don’t just follow.
Engage. There’s no room for hesitation in Samba. ”
Yvonne nods, jaw tight.
Greyson’s tone is lighter. “This is your strongest rhythm. Trust your training.”
We leave them behind and disappear into the changing area. I pull on my deep green Samba shirt, the fabric cool against my skin, and adjust the tight cuffs at my wrists. The color pops under the lights, a visual spark to match what I plan to give them on the floor.
Yvonne is already warming up, shoulders rolled back, arms flicking into rhythm like a metronome when I step back to the floor. She doesn’t speak, and I appreciate the silence. It’s the calm before the storm.
When we’re called to the floor, we step out into the chaos of dozens of couples flooding the parquet in a tide of sequins and rhythm.
The Samba beat kicks in, bright and unrelenting.
We find each other in the mess, and then we move.
Voltas, whisk turns, bounce actions. My body sings with the tempo, grounded in the rhythm, riding the syncopation like a second pulse.
Yvonne hits every movement with sharp energy, and her expression electric.
The skirt of her costume fans out in quick bursts, like a flickering flame.
We circle, pivot, and lock into the final routine sequence.
I flick my head and catch a glimpse of Victor Denier again.
His eyes are on me, and I give a subtle nod back this time.
The last eight counts pass in a blur of rhythm and sweat.
We end in a sharp dip, my hand firm at her waist, and her breath hot against my neck.
Applause swells as we bow, and when we rise, I find Vaeda’s face in the crowd. Her arms are crossed, her expression hard to read, but her eyes… her eyes are on me. Grace is beside her, clapping with exhilaration, her face red with excitement.
We walk off the floor in silence, heartbeats still thudding.
We won’t know the scores yet. The judges keep them sealed until the final tallies are posted after the semifinals.
For now, it’s all anticipation and waiting, but I know this much: we didn’t just survive that round, we showed them we belong.
VAEDA
The air inside the ballroom feels thick, pulsing with music, heat, and the shimmer of sequins still caught in the air.
Mateo and Yvonne bow out of their final pose to scattered applause, but all I can hear is the roar of my blood in my ears.
They did well, better than I expected. Mateo moved like a storm unleashed, electric, fluid, and commanding.
When his eyes lifted to meet mine in that final pose, I felt something inside me unravel.
Greyson claps beside me, his expression cautious.
Grace leans in to speak, a smile locked on her face, but the pain in my ankle flares so violently it steals the breath from my lungs.
I murmur to her and Greyson about needing a moment and slowly limp from the ballroom, past the swirl of dancers and officials, and into the quieter corridor.
The women’s washroom is mercifully empty as I stagger in, clutching the sink as I brace my weight on one leg.
My reflection looks pale, sweat curling at my temples, and my mouth set in a tight line.
I reach into my clutch and pull out the small bottle of painkillers, unscrewing the lid with trembling fingers. Just one.
The pill hits the back of my throat and I chase it with a sip of water from the tap, then lean over the sink and press my palms to the porcelain, breathing in deep.
My eyes lift once more to the mirror and the pain reflecting back at me isn’t just physical.
My heart is destroyed, every beat a protest against my ribs.
I’ve never wanted someone so badly in one breath, and then wished I’d never met them in the next.
A groan of hinges cuts through the stillness as the bathroom door opens.
I turn, startled when I see Mateo’s form in the mirror.
He steps in and closes the door behind him, turning the lock with a deliberate click.
His chest rises and falls in rapid waves, sweat still clinging to his collarbones.
There’s a glint in his eyes that makes my stomach pitch, wild and hungry and unbearably raw.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” I whisper, even as my breath catches.
“I’m done with this fucking game we’re playing,” he snarls.
The distance between us shrinks as he stalks forward, his strong legs flexing beneath the fabric of his pants. My spine presses to the counter, my ankle flaring again as I straighten, but I can’t think about pain right now. Not when his eyes are devouring me.
“You were unbelievable out there,” I say, my voice tight.