Chapter 3
WELCOME TO THE THIRST TRAP OLYMPICS
Nate
“She’s got Ice Queen energy and I’m a human penalty box. … this is fine.”
His studio-provided apartment smelled like the ghost of bougie oat milk and influencer desperation. The ceiling fan whined. The air was too warm, too clean, and too fake. Like someone had feng shui’d the place and then sprayed it with Lysol.
Nate slumped deeper into the leather couch, muscles stiff from the flight. He scrolled mindlessly through his phone, a sweating beer he was barely interested in drinking in his other hand. No call from Sully. No new chirps in the team group chat. Outta sight, outta mind.
I hate it here already.
His hair was still damp from the long-ass shower he’d taken, like maybe he could scrub off the shame of being sent to LA like a bad boy mailed to a glitter prison. He took a swig of the beer and instantly regretted it.
Then—ping.
Email from: Take the Floor – Production Team
Subject: Welcome to Season 12
Nate’s thumb hesitated, like maybe he didn’t really want to know after all. Like maybe if he just delayed the inevitable for a while longer, he could pretend like none of this was happening.
Then he tapped.
Holly
“I’ve seen that exact same jawline on Greek statues. And at disciplinary hearings.”
Across town, Holly curled deeper into the corner of her emerald-green velvet couch.
Her hair was twisted into a towel turban, a face mask working its kiwi-fruit magic.
The iPad balanced on her knees played a highlight reel of her own greatest hits.
Last season’s rumba, the year she made it to the finals.
The time the judges gave her a set of perfect tens, and she smiled like her heart hadn’t exploded under the weight of it all.
She pressed rewind. Again. The kettle clicked off behind her, but she didn’t move.
This was her pre-show ritual; her reminder that no matter whatever else happened this year, she’d worked hard to be here.
Now she just had to hope that she could get her blunt-force-trauma season partner to toe the line.
Ping.
The notification blinked at the top of her screen, and she tapped it on autopilot.
Email from: Take the Floor – Production Team
Subject: Welcome to Season 12
Nate
Nate’s eyes scanned the glossy image that loaded slow as hell on hotel Wi-Fi, like even the universe was bracing for the chaos. He scrolled through all the other pairings, looking for his own face. Waiting to see what the damage was going to be. And then there she was.
Holly Martinez
Pro Ballroom and Latin Dancer. Former Adult Latin World Champion. Three-time TTF! finalist. Known for her innovative choreography, bold musicality, and strong work ethic. Fiercely competitive. Intensely private. The Ice Queen of the Ballroom.
She was mid-dance in the photo, all sharp angles and unapologetic presence, her face a masterclass in don’t-fuck-with-me. Eyeliner like a threat. Legs like violence. A body built from pain and Pilates. She looked like she took no prisoners and liked her coffee just this side of demonic possession.
Nate felt something low and hot twist in his gut. Not good.
He’d thought he’d come to LA, fuck a hot dancer until he was eliminated in week two, and then mosey on back to Connecticut. Now he’d actually seen her, was he worried she was going to gracefully orchestrate his ruin and leave him in a puddle at her tiny, heel-clad feet?
Mildly.
He normally dated girls who were easily impressed by his on-ice presence. Cute and sweet, with ‘just grateful to be here’ energy. Holly Martinez looked like a war crime wrapped in caution tape, waving a red flag above her own damn revolution.
And that was a problem.
Nate dragged a hand over his face. This wasn’t a dancer. This was a woman who would eat him alive, spit out his bones, and choreograph a paso doble to his emotional destruction. He took a long sip of beer.
“Fuck.”
Holly
Holly stared at the photo of her Season 12 partner loading in hi-def cruelty.
Nate Eriksson
NHL defenseman for the New Haven Hammerheads. Former Olympic Team Denmark. Known for his on-ice presence, aggressive playing style, and explosive attitude.
The pic was offensive. He was leaning against a wall somewhere between Heaven and Hell, all icy blue eyes beneath a mop of curly black hair.
It was like he’d heard the phrase ‘reputational management’ and interpreted it as ‘thirst trap, but make it court-ordered’.
She clocked the curve of his biceps in the dark gray compression shirt that looked like it’d been painted over his chest.
He looked like a man who thought therapy was for the weak, and that the only thing cooler than drinking Hennessy on a Friday night was drinking his coffee black the following morning while hiding behind dark sunglasses and a backwards cap.
The tattoos. The hands. The quiet, simmering fuck around and find out energy. She hated that her body had a strong opinion. Traitor.
She exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fuck.”