Chapter 8 We’re Not in Rehearsal Anymore, Toto
WE’RE NOT IN REHEARSAL ANYMORE, TOTO
Holly
“Was it hot? Sure. So is a dumpster fire.”
The second they cleared the wings, Holly exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for a week.
The stage lights were gone, but her skin still hummed with leftover heat, like the floor had branded her and sent her off sizzling.
Her pulse pounded in her ears and her Latin heels clicked on the concrete backstage.
And fucking Nate was too close behind her, all hulking and radiating.
Don’t think about it. Don’t feel it.
But Jesus, the way he’d looked at her on that last beat? The foreheads-touching, chest-heaving, full-body ache of it? She wasn’t a romantic, but fuck, that had felt like something. Like more than cameras. Like more than fake.
Now they were being herded toward the press line like sleek show ponies in expensive sweat-soaked outfits. Holly grabbed a tissue from a passing intern and blotted her face, trying to ignore the very real fact that her legs were shaking… and not just from exertion.
The hallway ahead was full of branded backdrops, ring lights, and reporters holding laminated cards out like bait. She pasted on her professional smile, the one that didn’t reach her eyes but always got her through.
“Ready?” Nate asked under his breath.
“No,” she muttered, “but I’m not getting paid to half-ass this.”
He snorted. “You’re getting paid?”
She almost laughed. Almost.
The first mic came fast.
“You two sizzled out there,” the reporter gushed, practically bouncing. “What was going through your heads during that final pose?”
Nate’s voice was gravel and honey. “Don’t drop her.” He flashed that cocky grin, and the reporter giggled like a groupie.
Holly rolled her eyes, but the heat crept back up her neck. “He thinks it’s all about the pose,” she said, dry. “Meanwhile I’m doing emotional calculus and praying he remembers the difference between a sliding door and a banana split.”
Another mic shoved toward them.
“Seriously, that routine was rude. You two looked like you were seconds from tearing each other’s clothes off.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard that,” Nate said smoothly, and fuck him for being good at this. For letting charm drip from his mouth like it didn’t cost him a damn thing.
Holly held her smile, trying to look as effortless as he did and feeling like she came up way short. “Well,” she said, playing into it the way production wanted them to. “We rehearse every beat.”
A beat passed. Nate glanced sideways at her. “Sure. Rehearsal.”
She didn’t look at him. Didn’t dare. Not with her body still high off the way his arms felt beneath her hands.
“Stan called it ‘rough but filthy,’” the next reporter added, laughing. “How do you feel about that?”
“Honestly?” Holly said, tipping her head. “If we’ve already got the audience thinking about sex after one dance? I’m calling that a win.”
Nate made a noise under his breath, almost a groan. She ignored it.
More cameras. More fake banter. They posed together, his hand low on her back. Holly tried to arch away from the heat of his hand without it being obvious to anyone but him, and he smirked at her. The press ate it up like porn-star style foreplay in a fucking Disney movie.
By the time they made it back to the main studio floor, her cheek muscles hurt and her head was spinning.
They stood off to the side, watching the monitors as the final couples danced.
Applause. Flash. Glitter. Holly folded her arms and counted her heartbeats.
One, two, don’t look at him, three, don’t remember how his hands felt on your ribs four…
“Scores incoming!” someone called. “All couples to their marks!”
Everyone gathered. The stage screen behind them lit up in gold and white, flickering with names. Holly and Nate were in the upper end of the pack according to the judges’ scores, but the difference would come down to the viewers. Holly held her breath.
“The couple with the lowest number of audience votes will be leaving us tonight,” Indie announced, suddenly serious. “And that couple is… Yvonne and Jeremy!”
Two sweet kids with zero chemistry and even less rhythm. They looked gutted, clung to each other, and whispered something about second chances. The audience clapped politely. Holly felt a pang, but it was distant. She’d been too close to elimination before to waste tears on strangers.
“And this week’s winners…” Indie declared all drama and pause, “with the highest combined score and audience vote… Nate and Holly!”
The crowd erupted. Holly blinked, disbelief flooding her.
She knew they’d worked hard. Had seen a massive improvement in Nate, even though she hadn’t wanted to tell him that and inflate his ego any further.
Nate whooped behind her, hands shooting into the air like he’d scored a game-winning goal.
He spun her on instinct, and she almost resisted before she gave in and laughed despite herself as the cameras zoomed in.
“Didn’t drop you,” he said, eyes glittering.
“No,” she breathed, too aware of every inch of contact. “You didn’t.”
After the show wrapped, Martin had approached her about her episode bonus and asked for ‘more of that, please’. She felt Nate’s arm slide around her waist like he belonged there, as they chatted briefly with other couples. She didn’t shove it off.
Not yet.
Because the truth? The part that chilled her blood and thrilled her gut in equal measure? She wanted more of that, too. And that was going to be an issue.
@EntertainmentBuzz on Instagram:
Nate Eriksson and Holly Martinez are not messing around.
After that filthy-perfect Rumba, they just won Week One by audience vote.
Is this a comeback arc or a public HR violation?
#takethefloor #nateandholly
@ruintgirl23 on TikTok:
nate: wouldn’t be the first time
me: WHAT DOES THAT MEAN
holly: we rehearse every beat
me: DO YOU
#ttf12 #sendhelp #rumbamagic
@Strictly Scandal on Threads:
We all thought Nate Eriksson was Season 12’s wild card but after that rumba? He might just be the secret weapon Holly Martinez needs to finally win the damn thing.
The real question is:
Is the chemistry real or just for the cameras?
Because that offstage heat looks a lot like the real thing…