Chapter 5 The Dance of Sex （and Other Bad Ideas）
THE DANCE OF SEX (AND OTHER BAD IDEAS)
Nate
“The way she moves? It’s not choreography. It’s foreplay. And I’m losing.”
Holly didn’t even look up at the cameras or crew as she flicked through the playlist on her phone, tone maddeningly casual. “So. Our first dance is the Rumba.”
He’d made it through the meet and greet gauntlet and landed in Rehearsal Studio 4. This was where Holly’d be whipping him into shape over the next few months, assuming he didn’t crash and burn before he showed her he could actually move. He didn’t hate the idea of the whipping, either.
“You’re starting me off with the dance of love?” He smirked. “You really are a glutton for punishment, Martinez.”
The look she gave him was stacked with skepticism and expectation. He wasn’t sure he really knew what to do with either of them.
“People like to call it the dance of love,” she huffed, “but that’s bullshit. It’s not about romance.”
Holly looked him up and down, a sudden heat in her gaze like she was sizing him up for something unholy. And then she moved, heels striking the parquetry as though she’d never missed a step in her entire life. She circled slowly, and Nate felt the hairs on the back of his neck prick up.
“What’s it about, then?” he asked, fighting the instinct to look over his shoulder at her. Why was his throat so fucking dry? Were the cameras getting this? Of course they fucking were.
“It’s about want,” she purred from somewhere in the space behind him. “Restraint. The game between seduction and surrender.”
Holly finally made a full revolution, coming to a stop in front of him. Her expression was light again, like she’d never moved. Like he’d just hallucinated the part where he was certain she was about to be deeply inappropriate with his body, and he’d thank her for every single caress.
“It’s the dance of sex, Eriksson.” She blinked as if she were explaining Rumba 101 to a 220-pound toddler. “Keep up.”
She said it like a threat, not a suggestion.
As though she’d broken better men with a swivel of her hip and a well-timed breath.
She wasn’t just warning him. She was daring him.
And all he could think, as her gaze dragged over him like a silk noose, was that he hadn’t come here to lose.
But for the first time in his life, he didn’t know if winning meant resisting her… or letting her ruin him completely.
For once, Nate chose obedience.
“Show me.”
Holly didn’t hesitate. She took a slow step toward him, body language all sharp lines draped with simmering grace.
“Rumba’s slow,” she said, voice soft but certain.
“Controlled. Every step has to stretch, like you’re pulling time apart.
You lead, but only because I let you. The rhythm is four beats.
You start on count two, replace on three, breathe on four.
” Her warm brown gaze snapped up to him. “Tease on one.”
She moved while she spoke, cycling through the timing she’d just given him. “Two, three, four, one.” She pivoted, letting her hip roll through the silence like punctuation until it reached an impossible end range he wasn’t sure he could hit with all the hip-flexor warmups in the world.
“It’s all about resistance. You don’t lunge. You melt,” she instructed, letting her body collapse toward him like she wanted to physically wrap herself around him and never unwind. Nate caught a hint of whatever perfume she wore. Warm, like amber and trouble.
“You never rush the touch. You drag it out until the tension hurts. Every look, every hand on skin is a promise you don’t keep.
Not yet. Maybe not ever,” she said, throwing him a sultry look that vanished as soon as she stood upright like a normal human being not bent on destroying him with aggressively redirected blood flow.
She locked eyes with him then. Clinical, just like Sully would. “That’s why it’s the sexiest dance on the floor,” she said, calm as anything. “It’s not about taking. It’s about waiting.”
And just like that, Nate understood why dancers were dangerous. Because she hadn't even touched him yet, and he was already leaking in his fucking boxers.
Nate had faced down huge goons with murder in their eyes and fists like cinder blocks.
He’d bled on the ice, shattered a tooth mid-shift, taken a puck to the jaw and kept skating.
He’d once broken his pinky, yanked it back into place, and scored a goal from the point line fifteen seconds later. But this? This was how he died.
They settled into learning the Rumba basic, with the production crew lingering just long enough to get the b-roll footage they needed before heading out to film the next couple.
Nate tried to follow her lead. He really did.
But every step felt out of time, and the second she twisted her hips ever so slightly into his space, he completely blanked.
His palm was supposed to rest lightly on her back, but it hovered awkwardly in the air like he was afraid he might scald himself if he touched her. Which, to be fair, was a legitimate concern.
“Okay, stop,” Holly said sharply, stepping back with a clip of heels. Her mouth was set in a line that didn’t match the slow seduction of the music still bleeding from the speaker. “What are you doing?”
Nate rubbed the back of his neck, heat rising under his collar. “Trying not to step on you?”
“Congratulations,” she told him with a roll of her eyes. “Mission accomplished. But could you try looking less like you'd rather be getting a dental exam? We need to sell this like you want to sleep with me.”
Sweet, merciful Gretsky.
He looked at her, willing his smart mouth to kick in. Everything in his body was misfiring. His brain was scrambled from the way she moved, the way her voice dropped when she said control. And all he could think about was how perfectly pink her lips were.
“Maybe if you acted like you wanted to be here,” she said at last, “you'd be able to pick up a basic rhythm.”
“Never said I wanted to be here,” he glared back at her.
She didn’t answer right away.
“Be that as it may, you’ll need to act like it.
” Holly crossed her arms and gave him the kind of stare that could knock a lesser man flat.
“It's not just your career on the line here. You might not give a shit about looking like an idiot on national TV, but I have a reputation to uphold.” She was breathing harder. Eyes set on him.
And Nate didn’t know what to say to that. So he didn’t say anything.
“Okay,” she said at last, taking his lack of response for what it was: compliance. “From the top.”
He dragged himself to his mark, close enough to feel her presence like a brand against his skin.
Holly was all clean lines and cold fire, spine straight, arms folded tight against her body.
Her expression was that of a woman who’d seen every masculine failure and had compiled a fucking catalog. Unfortunately, it did something to him.
“Two, three, four, one—”
The beat dropped and he moved on instinct, only to immediately fuck it up.
His feet tangled, his balance went sideways, and he stumbled out of rhythm so hard it felt personal.
He was half a beat behind, too heavy, too slow, a wall of muscle trying to move like a feather.
To say the sheer disconnect between what he wanted his body to do and the movement he was trying to achieve frustrated him would be an understatement.
“Stop, stop.” Her voice cracked like a whip, slicing through the music. “Jesus, Eriksson.”
“Didn’t realize you were auditioning for Drill Sergeant Barbie,” he snapped back before he could stop himself.
She tilted her head. “I’m sorry! Do you want me to sprinkle some glitter on your participation trophy?”
Oh fuck, she could chirp him too?
Hardness level: catastrophic.
“Actually, yeah,” he tossed back, refusing to acknowledge his uncomfortably tight pants. “Maybe bedazzle my kneecaps while you’re at it.”
Their eyes locked, electricity sizzling in the charged space between them. Nate could swear the air tasted like blood and glitter. She looked away first, but not before he caught the barest flicker of something. Frustration? Fury? Or was it something much more dangerous… like curiosity?
“Take five,” she muttered, already turning away as if dismissing him was the highlight of her day.
He dropped onto one of the two chairs at the table in the corner, dragging the hem of his t-shirt up to mop the sweat off his face. His chest heaved, his legs burned, and his pride had taken more hits in the last twenty minutes than during his entire rookie season.
This was supposed to be easy. Smile for the cameras, flirt with the pro, nail a few sexy spins, and claw his way back into the league’s good graces. Not whatever this was. Not rage, rhythm, and the horrifying realization that he might actually be bad at something sports-related.
He was saved from an existential spiral when his phone buzzed next to him, and he snatched it up like it might offer him a lifeline.
FROM ENFORCER TO ENTERTAINER?
New Haven Hammerhead Nate Eriksson’s Rep-Rescue Raises Eyebrows and Ratings…
He stared at the headline, a snarl curling beneath his ribs. The attached still from the promo shoot caught him mid-grimace. Holly posed like a goddess in front of him, jaw sharp and eyes narrowed. He looked like a man being punished. She looked like the woman doing the punishing.
Not inaccurate.
He scrolled past the headline with a muttered, “Fuck off,” and rubbed a hand down his face.
When he looked up again, he caught something shift in the mirror’s reflection.
Holly had one heel-clad foot up on the barre.
She was mid-stretch, phone in hand, brow furrowed.
Her lips were parted slightly, frozen as her hand clenched tighter around the screen.
Whatever she was looking at on that phone had gutted her. He didn’t know what it was, but it hit hard.
She didn’t cry. Didn’t make a sound. She just reclaimed her leg like a fucking gymnast, locked her phone, dropped it into her bag with ruthless finality, and rolled her shoulders like the weight of it didn’t matter.
Like it hadn’t just knocked something loose behind her eyes.
And that rattled him more than the headline.
He wanted to ask, but he didn’t. Couldn’t.
They didn’t speak for the rest of rehearsal.
Not because they were being professional, but because it was easier than admitting how close they were to erupting.
Their movement was metered out in jagged, uncoordinated lines, out of sync and entirely at odds.
She threw counts like knives. He missed steps like landmines.
By the time she called it a day, they were both slick with sweat, vibrating with frustration, and one wrong word away from starting a war.
He didn’t thank her. She didn’t look at him.
They gathered their things and walked in opposite directions, their silence thick with everything they weren’t saying.
Same studio. Same broken rhythm. Same goddamn storm brewing in both their chests.
@DancingQueensUnite on TikTok:
that moment when nate eriksson tries to lead and holly martinez is like “sweetie no, this is my show now” #ttf12 #powertopenergy
@TheEnforcerReport on X:
brEAKING: Nate Eriksson attempts the Rumba
It goes about as well as you'd expect when a brick wall tries to do ballet in a blackout. Enjoy 14 seconds of pain and one very well-timed ass shot
#hammerheads #takethefloor
TTF Crew Slack:
CHANNEL: #s12-production-snaps
? Nate looks like he’s bracing for a body check instead of a body roll
? Holly has “I’m gonna choke him with a shoelace” energy
? Sexual tension? 11/10
clip incoming