Chapter 2
NOT MY CIRCUS, DEFINITELY MY CLOWN
Holly
The fourth spin was a mistake. Her ankle gave a vicious throb of protest the second she landed wobbly, and Holly Martinez hissed through her teeth like it might scare the pain into silence.
No such luck. It burned anyway, sharp and low, radiating from tendon to temple like a private threat.
She reset her frame, rolled her shoulders back, and spun again.
Seven hours in the studio. Two protein bars, one lukewarm coffee, and the ghosts of last season’s judges’ comments still haunting the corners of the mirrors. She’d been a core cast member of Take the Floor for three seasons now. Hadn’t won a season. Yet.
She had to nail this choreography. Had to make the song choices relevant and the numbers pop. Because if she didn’t come out swinging this season, it wasn’t just her ass on the line.
It was impossible to hide in front of the mirrored wall of the rehearsal studio.
Holly kept her eyeliner so sharp it could gut a man, and her hair slicked into a bun that could survive nuclear fallout.
She looked as if she were in control. Like she was handling her shit.
But she could see the cracks in her carefully constructed lies every time she saw her reflection looking back at her.
A polite-but-unwelcome cough signaled a presence by the studio door.
“Don’t say it,” Holly called, breathless, not bothering to look up.
“Say what?” Martin, her producer, sounded falsely upbeat. Cheerful in that way people got when they were about to fuck you over with a smile.
“That I need to rest. That I look tired. That I’m pushing too hard. Or, God forbid, that I should take the afternoon off and ‘find my center.’”
Martin laughed, which meant it was worse than she thought. His loafers shuffled across the floor. Arrogant. Slovenly. Pick your fucking feet up if you’re coming in here to kick my ass.
His assistant, Kendall, was tapping on the surface of the tablet she had permanently attached to her hand. Ever-present, ever-judging.
“We’re just checking in,” Kendall chirped. She was young enough to still believe that meant something good.
Holly turned slowly on her heel with grace that took years to perfect. “And I’m just pretending I don’t know what that means.”
Martin smiled. “You’re one of our most experienced pros.”
“And you’re about to tell me my partner is a rotting bag of disappointment. Just rip off the Band-aid, Martin.”
Kendall swiped on the tablet. “Two words for you, Holly. Nathanael. Eriksson.”
Holly blinked. “Who?”
Martin coughed. “NHL defenseman for the New Haven Hammerheads. Very… Danish.”
“He’s six-four, built like a tank, and is a total dreamboat,” Kendall gushed. “The viewers are going to die.” She tempered herself when Martin raised a brow at her. “In a good way,” she added.
Holly frowned. “Why the hell would an NHL player want to be on the show?”
“Well,” Martin began in a tone that told her the quid pro quo was stacked in their favor. “He’s currently suspended.”
“For?”
Kendall beamed as if all her Christmases had come at once. “On-ice violence. Viral clips. There’s a meme.”
Of course there was a fucking meme.
Martin stepped in. “The network thinks he’s… a rehabilitation opportunity.”
Holly tilted her head. “What? Like a rescue pit bull?”
Kendall snorted with amusement. “He’s a household name. We’re looking at major crossover viewership.”
“Well, I’ve never heard of him,” Holly muttered wryly.
Martin cleared his throat. “You’ve always been good with… difficult partners.”
Holly shot him a murderous glare. “Everyone else already turned him down, didn’t they?”
“So fast,” Kendall nodded, not even bothering to hide it.
“Fantastic,” Holly sighed. “I’ve always wanted to train a shitstorm waiting to happen.”
Martin beamed, too relieved to notice the venom. “Knew you’d be a team player. Trust us–with all this stuff about hockey players as heroes in romance novels, the public’s gonna froth over this.”
Kendall gave her an encouraging thumbs-up, which Holly wanted to snap off and shove into a very specific orifice.
“Totally. Can’t wait to work my magic,” she said sweetly, knowing full well this particular ‘magic’ was going to involve forcibly dragging a meat puppet of barely repressed testosterone across the dance floor while pretending not to loathe every second.
Martin and Kendall knew enough to get going while the going was good. They made their exit, but the door barely had time to swing shut before it was filled again.
Nick Marlowe leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyebrow cocked in that annoyingly British way that made women flirt and directors flinch.
He had face that made you believe in villains with redemption arcs.
Sharp, smirking, a little too symmetrical to be trusted.
His sleeves were rolled up, his hair artfully tousled, and he looked like he’d just strolled off the set of a cologne ad titled Emotional Damage for Men.
Rumor had it he’d once made a pop star cry mid-rehearsal.
Producers called him high-risk, high-reward.
Judges called him technically flawless. His last three partners called him a fucking nightmare.
But Nick Marlowe moved through the world like a man who’d been born under a spotlight and never fully stepped out of it.
He was dry, dangerous, and devastatingly watchable.
You didn’t like him. But you’d be damned if you could tear your eyes off him when he danced.
“So,” he drawled, voice dipped in West End whiskey and warning labels, “they’ve paired you with the angry fridge.” His brows flickered. It was the only way Holly could tell he cared. “Good luck, darling.” Nick pushed off the frame to follow Martin and Kendall back to the depths of hell.
Holly counted to three. When she was sure she was alone again, she braced her palms on her knees, breathing hard. Not from exertion. From rage. From panic. From the white-hot knowing in her chest that this was it. This was her last shot.
Her mother’s chemo schedule was intensifying.
Her savings were nearly gone. The insurance had lapsed again because the network’s bullshit ‘prize bonus’ system wasn’t reliable income.
And now they were pairing her with a meat stick in a jockstrap who probably thought a chassé was something you caught from an ex.
She didn't have time for this. No time for hockey fists, and bad attitude, and a redemption arc built on her fucking spine. She needed the win. The money. The rest of them were dancing for the corny trophy. For bragging rights and future career opportunities.
She was dancing for her mom’s survival.
@DanceTeaDigest on Instagram:
Holly Martinez: former World Champ. Three seasons as a Take the Floor pro, zero wins.
If technique was the only thing that mattered, she’d be untouchable.
But now they’ve paired her with suspended NHL enforcer Nate Eriksson and I’m just saying…
this is either her redemption arc or her villain origin story.
#takethefloor #hollymartinez #justiceforholly
@BallroomBaddies on TikTok:
CAN WE TALK ABOUT HOW HOLLY IS A WORLD CHAMPION AND THEY KEEP GIVING HER PARTNERS WHO ARE LIKE rhythm allergic like babe she is NOT a rehab facility for emotionally constipated men
#saveholly2026 #takethefloor
Mamá
Hola mija did you stretch before rehearsal today don’t forget to ice after and eat something with real protein I’m doing okay the nurses are very sweet and one of them says she used to watch you dance she couldn’t believe you’re my daughter I told her you shine on and off the stage love you always x
Holly
Yeah, I stretched, Ma. Love you so much. I’ll come by this week. Let me know if you need anything x