Chapter 26 The Time I Choreographed My Own Downfall
THE TIME I CHOREOGRAPHED MY OWN DOWNFALL
Holly
“I built this routine to sell a fantasy. Didn’t expect to fucking believe it myself.”
The studio was empty, thank God. No producers.
No crew. Just them, and the endless stretch of polished floor under unforgiving lights.
Nate stood across from her, loose-limbed and focused, T-shirt damp at the collar, hair pushed back like he’d been running a hand through it every ten seconds.
He looked like sin. He moved like someone trying to avoid starting a fire.
Neither of them mentioned the night before.
They hadn’t spoken about it. Not once. Not the bed.
Not the crying. Not the way she’d fit herself into his chest like her body had known it would be safe there.
Holly hadn’t meant to let herself go soft.
She hadn’t meant to reach for him. She told herself she’d just…
been tired. And tired people made mistakes.
“Again?” she asked, before her thoughts could wander anywhere dangerous. Nate nodded.
The first time the track had filled the rehearsal space, Holly’d felt it in her bones.
It’d rolled out slow and heavy, dragging truth through the dirt.
The song wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t romantic.
It was a confession dressed up as a threat.
Every lyric sounded like something she’d swallowed instead of saying…
about wanting, about damage, about loving someone you were actively preparing to lose.
She cued the track, and they took up hold.
God, his frame had improved so much. It was almost perfect now, even though she could feel the way he still strained under the weight of maintaining it.
But there, beneath the hockey bravado and the swagger and the shockingly appealing way his gaze followed her like she was a dream, the truth was there for everyone to see.
Nate was a dancer now.
The beat demanded closeness. The phrasing begged for surrender. And somewhere between the rise of the strings and the way Nate instinctively adjusted his hand on her, Holly realized with cold, sick clarity that she hadn’t choreographed a dance. She’d choreographed a warning. A slow goodbye.
They circled the floor of the rehearsal studio with sweat-soaked competence like they’d been doing it for years.
He guided her through the rise and fall with quiet precision, not overcorrecting, not rushing.
His touch at her back was steady and he gazed straight ahead, navigating the floor.
She didn’t speak, but her muscles knew the cues.
The choreography wasn’t flashy. No lifts, no stunts.
Just clean technique and chemistry tight as a thread.
She hated how much she liked dancing it with him, and the worst part wasn’t even that her feelings were growing.
It was that she’d choreographed them into the routine without even fucking realizing it.
She’d built the dance to sell a lie. A beautiful, strategic lie designed to feed the fantasy of their fake relationship, to drive fan cams and build narrative arcs and convince the world they were falling for each other on cue.
And now, somewhere between a closed hold and a soft turn, she wasn’t sure it was a lie anymore.
As the music swelled into the second verse, he twirled her effortlessly under his arm before spinning her back into hold again, and something sparked between them.
Not desire or longing, which at least would have been easy to reconcile with.
It was familiarity. It was the look in his eyes that said I see you, and the part of her that whispered God, I wish you didn’t.
They finished the run in silence, breathing hard into every swooped glide. When they finished they just stood together, chests heaving with effort, the depth of unspoken words between them resting like concrete on an ocean bed.
He eventually let go of her, hands lingering a half-second longer than they needed to. Holly took it as her cue and stepped back, wiping her palms on her thighs.
“Well,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “It’s clean.”
Nate nodded, slow. “It’s more than that.”
She didn’t answer. The silence stretched. He looked at her, then away, then back again. Like he was deciding whether to speak.
“What if we don’t win?” he asked quietly.
Holly’s throat tightened. For her, not winning meant going home with nothing. It meant another season of clawing for cash and praying her mom’s treatment stayed covered. It meant every bruise, every humiliation, every second spent training a golden retriever on skates would’ve been for nothing.
She crossed her arms, eyes sharp. “Then it’ll be a waste.”
Nate tilted his head. “You think?”
“Do you know how much this show pays if you lose? Nothing. You get your base rate. A pat on the head. Maybe a hundred thousand new Instagram followers if you’re lucky.” Her voice was flat, brutal. “I don’t need followers. I need money. I need time. I need my mom not to die.”
She didn’t mean to say it like that. Not so bare.
Nate stilled. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” she shrugged.
“No,” he said. “But I wish I could fix it.”
That broke something in her chest. Not the kind of break that screamed. The kind that quietly gave up. She turned her face away, back to the mirror, and forced her spine straight.
“What about you?” she asked. “What happens if we lose?”
He let out a low breath. “Honestly? Doesn’t matter.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I was sent here to fix my reputation. That’s it. My contract renewal’s not based on scores. It’s based on whether I finish without giving someone a concussion or saying ‘fuck’ on live TV.” He shrugged. “If I make it through without turning into a negative headline, I win.”
Holly stared at him, her stomach twisting. “So all this? Every rehearsal, every press line, every dance… you’ve just been coasting?”
“No.” His voice was firm now. “I’ve been trying. For you.”
She looked at him, startled.
He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “I didn’t give a shit when I got here. I was pissed off. Wanted to do the minimum. Smile for the cameras, stay out of trouble, get back to hockey.” He paused. “And then you happened.”
Holly’s chest went tight again. This was too much. Too close.
“Don’t,” she said, before he could get dangerous.
He didn’t argue. Just nodded once.
They stood there in the silence, both of them facing the mirror now, their reflections looking a lot more like partners than she’d ever meant for them to.
Finally, she exhaled. “We’ve done everything we can.”
“Yeah,” Nate said. “We’ve done the work.”
And it was true. The routine was locked. The technique was solid. The emotion was… whatever the hell it was. Unspoken. Undefinable. All they could do now was show up and hope it was enough.
Holly grabbed her bag. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before we start getting sentimental.”
Nate followed. “Too late.”
She didn’t respond, but his fingers brushed his as they reached for their bags. And this time? She didn’t pull away.