Chapter 70 Cha Cha No. 5 （A Little Bit of Eriksson）
Nate
“I probably should’ve stretched first.”
The lights dropped and the live studio shifted into that strange, electric quiet that only ever existed in places built for spectacle.
Nate stood alone at center stage, spine straight.
He was wearing a blue training jacket with the zip pulled high, and had a clipboard tucked under his arm like he’d been born carrying authority.
He checked his watch once, slow and pointed, then let his expression settle into long-suffering frustration as he scanned the wings, a hand shielding his eyes.
The audience laughed before the joke even landed.
The opening staccato beats of Training Season pulsed through the speakers all upbeat, confident, and unapologetically modern. A ripple of energy rolled through the crowd, until people in the audience were looking, too.
Holly didn’t glide into the light. She barreled in from stage left like a problem, dropping her water bottle and one hockey skate on her way in.
She skidded to a stop in front of him, and then straightened like a soldier, a breathless grin firmly in place.
And then for a split second Nate’s brain failed to process a single goddamn thing.
Because she was wearing his jersey.
Not a costume approximation. Not some rhinestone parody.
Eriksson. #5. Stitched across her back like a declaration of independence in the filthiest way possible.
The sleeves had been trimmed, somehow… and the worst part was that she’d cut it into a crop-top that showed off her taut belly and the pair of tiny navy micro shorts with white athletic stripes up the side that barely covered her ass.
She’d left her hair in its natural curls that made her look even cheekier, held back from her face by a backwards baseball cap that actually belonged to him.
The crowd detonated, and Nate found himself in the deeply inconvenient position of having a rock-hard boner on live national television.
Because a woman in your jersey did something primal to a hockey player’s nervous system.
It bypassed logic completely and went straight to instinct.
And here Holly was, smiling like she had no idea she’d just triggered it.
Thank fuck for black dance pants and his old faithful hockey jockstrap.
He tapped the clipboard once, sharply, and pointed at his watch. Holly pressed her hands together in exaggerated apology, mouthing sorry, coach with zero remorse in her eyes. By the end of the second eight-count, the music slid cleanly into the first verse.
Nate circled her in character, posture rigid, expression unimpressed, inspecting his so-called rookie like he wasn’t acutely aware of every inch of exposed skin.
She bounced on the balls of her feet, barely containing her grin, then snapped her arms up into a practice hold with a precision that wiped the mockery straight off the floor.
He pretended to be critiquing her through the first sequence, even though her hips hit the beat like she’d been born hearing it in her bloodstream.
Every lockstep landed with bite. Every flick of her wrist carried just enough defiance to make the audience howl.
Holly wasn’t pretending to be reckless; she was playing at being underestimated and showing him up in the bargain.
When she did a sharp turn and left her right arm out, Nate took it and spun her into him as though the coach’s patience had finally run out. Just like in rehearsal, he felt the familiar click of alignment the second their frames connected.
This wasn’t chaos, it was an orchestrated conversation.
He guided, she resisted. He corrected, she exaggerated the mistake and then over-delivered on the fix to make the audience laugh.
The choreography leaned into the coach-versus-rookie dynamic, but beneath the performance there was something steadier humming between them.
A current that had nothing to do with acting.
She stole his clipboard mid-routine and flung it aside with a flourish that drew another wave of cheers.
He caught her around the waist and pulled her back into hold, the movement seamless, controlled.
The distance between them shrank by degrees, the teasing edges of the choreography tightening into something hotter and more deliberate.
He could feel her breathing change as she focused on him.
The cheekier the routine got and the closer it pulled them, the less it felt like a joke.
Her hands traced up his chest in a move that was technically part of the choreography, but the way her fingers lingered at his collarbone wasn’t.
Her eyes met his and didn’t slide away, and he felt his breath catch when he realized there was no ice in them tonight. No guarded distance.
This wasn’t heartbreak choreographed.
This was a fucking test.
She spun out of his arms and snapped back in on the next count, close enough that her mouth brushed the line of his jaw as she leaned in under the cover of a turn.
“I’m done running,” she said, the words barely louder than the rustle of fabric.
The stage lights were blinding. The crowd was screaming and the cameras were everywhere.
And somehow he still heard her perfectly, like she’d opened up his chest and whispered those words straight to his heart.
The same instinct that let him read a play before it unfolded told him this wasn’t improvisation.
She wasn’t performing like she’d chosen him. She’d decided.
His hand tightened at her hip as the routine accelerated toward the final eight-count, footwork crisp and unapologetic, their bodies moving in sync without the slightest hitch. The mock coach facade dissolved somewhere between one turn and the next. There was no clipboard now. Just them.
When the music drove into its final beats, he drew her in and she came without resistance, chest to chest, breaths mingling, her jersey fisted lightly in his hand.
She looked up at him in his own backwards cap, eyes bright and unguarded, and for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel like he was chasing her shadow.
The music cut clean, the last beat snapping into a silence so sharp it felt manufactured.
For half a second, the entire studio seemed suspended, a thousand people collectively holding their breath while Holly stood in his arms, chest rising against his, her fingers still curled lightly in the front of his jacket like she hadn’t fully decided to let go.
Then everyone went crazy with a roar that rolled over the stage in waves.
There were whistles, cheers, and someone shouting something unhinged about marriage from somewhere in the upper tiers, but Nate barely heard any of it.
He was still looking down at Holly, still aware of the heat of her through the thin cotton of his shirt, as he processed the fact that she hadn’t stepped away the second the music stopped.
When she finally did shift, it wasn’t to create distance.
It was to turn toward the judges, her hand sliding into his as though that part had never been choreography at all.
Indie swept in from the wings like she’d been waiting for the exact decibel level of chaos to justify her entrance. Sequins flashing, smile weaponized, she took one look at Holly’s jersey and then at Nate’s face and made a soft, scandalized noise into her mic.
“Weeeell,” she breathed, dragging the word out as the crowd continued to buzz, “I don’t know if that was a Cha Cha or a very public declaration of emotionally charged intent, but I am going to need a moment!”
Laughter rippled through the audience.
“Nate,” Indie continued, turning toward him with open delight, “how does it feel to be professionally objectified in your own jersey?”
He could still feel the imprint of Holly’s body against his. “I’ve had worse road games,” he replied, dry enough that it didn’t betray how hard his pulse was still hammering.
The crowd loved it.
Indie swung her attention to Holly. “And you. The crop. The cap. The audacity. Was this strategy, or are you just out here committing felonies against hockey players for sport?”
Holly smiled, bright and unrepentant. “Just one hockey player in particular.”
Nate felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck before he could stop it, his grip tightening instinctively around her hand.
Of course she said it like brightly, shamelessly, and completely unbothered by the fact the entire country had just heard her claim him in real time.
And the worst part was how quickly his chest answered it, like his heart had been waiting weeks to hear those exact words out loud.
“Oh,” Indie said, hand flying to her chest. “Not her specifying the target. Nate, sweetheart, you’ve just been publicly identified as the sole victim of this crime.”
The audience howled.
Indie leaned closer, comically lowering her voice like she was sharing state secrets. “And judging by his face, I’d say he’s not pressing charges.” She pivoted toward the judges’ table, eyes gleaming. “Let’s hear from Chantreuse Devayne before she spontaneously combusts!”
Chantreuse was already fanning herself with her scorecard, expression poised somewhere between appraisal and delight.
When she spoke, her tone was measured, but there was heat underneath it.
She didn’t speak immediately, removing her glasses with deliberate dramatic flair as the audience prepped for her truth bomb.
“Well,” she purred at last, voice rolling out like velvet dipped in gasoline, “first of all… how dare you.”
The crowd screamed.
“That was your most disciplined Latin performance to date. The footwork? Sharp. The timing? Tight. The transitions? Clean enough to eat off.” She fanned herself lazily with her scorecard. “You understood the assignment, darling. You brought the syllabus.”
She leaned forward, eyes glittering. “But what gagged me wasn’t the mechanics.”
She tapped her chest once.
“It was the moment you stopped playing.”
The room quieted.
“You began in parody. Coach. Rookie. Very cute, very memorable. But when that energy stopped being camp and started being commitment, you didn’t flinch.” Her gaze locked onto Nate like she was about to cast a spell. “You stepped into it.”
She let the silence stretch. “And baby… that’s growth.”
The audience roared again.
“I’m giving you an eight,” she announced, lifting her paddle like she was knighting them. “Because I won’t reward blatant seduction with perfection. This is still a competition, not a honeymoon suite, but I will always reward command.”
Indie gasped theatrically. “An eight from Chantreuse is basically a standing ovation delivered in six-inch heels.”
She turned to Muffy, who was clutching her pearls like they were under active threat.
“I just—” she started, blinking rapidly, voice wobbling with emotional whiplash.
“I feel like I just watched a man get emotionally claimed on live television and I did not sign a waiver. The jersey?” she continued, shaking her head in awe.
“Iconic. Criminal. Honestly I need one immediately and I don’t even know what sport he plays.
” She waved vaguely at Nate while the audience laughed.
“The commitment to the bit? Delicious. But that moment when it stopped being a bit? Oh, honey.”
She leaned forward conspiratorially.
“You two made a choice out there,” she went on, pointing between them with exaggerated seriousness, like she was delivering a court ruling.
“And it was so clear, like watching someone decide to text back and actually mean it. I’m giving you a nine,” Muffy declared, lifting her paddle with dramatic flourish.
“Because if you’re going to fall in love, at least have the decency to stay on rhythm. ”
Another wave of applause crashed over the stage, and Muffy sat back looking emotionally spent, as though she’d just personally officiated something.
Stan leaned forward last, elbows on the desk, studying them like he was evaluating tape.
“You know what I liked?” he said finally. “You didn’t overcook it.”
The studio quieted almost immediately.
“You started with a bit,” Stan continued.
“Coach and rookie. Cute, fun. But when it got real, you didn’t bail.
You didn’t rush the ending. You stayed in it.
” His gaze flicked to Nate. “And you led clean. That’s the difference between showing off and showing up,” Stan said.
“I’m giving you a nine. Because that wasn’t just performance. That was real partnership.”
Nate glanced up at the scoreboard as their total flashed behind them. Twenty-five. The applause felt different now. More earned.
Indie stepped in again, eyes bright. “Well done, guys! I have to ask. Was that just performance, or did we all just witness something slightly more permanent?”
The mic hovered between them.
Nate felt the familiar instinct to deflect, to joke, to protect whatever this was from public consumption. But when he glanced at Holly, she didn’t flinch. There was no hesitation in her eyes now. No test.
“She didn’t wear my jersey by accident,” he said, calm enough that it surprised even him while the crowd lost its collective mind.
Holly’s grip on his hand tightened as they walked off the floor together. Not for the cameras. Not for the audience. Just because she wanted to. And to Nate? That was absolutely everything.
@ballroombrainrot on X:
HOLLY MARTINEZ SAID “JUST ONE HOCKEY PLAYER” AND NATE ERIKSSON SAID “SHE DIDN’T WEAR MY JERSEY BY ACCIDENT” ON LIVE TV?????
I need oxygen. I need therapy. I need season tickets. #takethefloor #hammerheads #trainingSeason
Strictly Scandal Online:
Chemistry Redefined on Take The Floor
During last night’s Cha Cha, Martinez appeared in a cropped Hammerheads jersey bearing Eriksson’s name and number, prompting the NHL defenseman to respond on live television: “She didn’t wear my jersey by accident.”
The moment has already racked up over 12 million views across platforms, with fans speculating that the couple’s dynamic has shifted to permanence… READ MORE →