Page 175 of The Dixon Rule

“Yes.” I get a wary feeling. “What is it?”

He tips his head, pensive. “Just remembering a conversation I had the other day with my little granddaughter. Morgan. She asked me if I take my guys on field trips.”

“No,” I say with dread.

“And I said, why would I take them on field trips? They’re grown men, and they’re hockey players. They don’t need to go to the fucking zoo. Well, I didn’t say fuck. But I was thinking it,” he grumbles. His expression takes on a gleam that I really, really don’t like. “But talking to you, Lindley, has opened my eyes. Made me reconsider my entire stance on field trips.”

“No,” I repeat, the dread twisting into horror.

In a rare occurrence, much like a total solar eclipse, Coach Jensen smiles at me.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

SHANE

Confi-Dance

“THIS IS INTENSE.”

I glance around the ballroom of the Silverwood Hotel and wonder if it’s too late to run for my life. The cavernous room is bathed in the crystal glow of chandeliers, casting shadows over the rows and rows of white chairs arranged in a square with a raised stage in the middle. Gilded mirrors and ornate crown moldings adorn the walls, and the dance floor we’ll be tangoing and cha-chaing on today is a gleaming, polished wood.

Some pairs are brave enough to warm up in front of their competitors. The faint strains of classical music float through the ballroom as a middle-aged couple glides across the floor in a waltz. Their feet barely touch the ground. Jesus. They’re incredible. But their count is all wrong.

Or maybe…

“Dixon.” I frown, poking her in the ribs. “We’ve made a mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our waltz is too fast!” I accuse. “We’re going to make fools of ourselves. Did you not look up the proper count for—”

“Relax,” she interrupts with a laugh. She pats my arm. “They’re doing a standard waltz. We’re doing the Viennese. Ours is supposed to be faster.”

I relax. Then tense again when I try to take a breath and not enough air gets in. I tug on my too-tight bow tie. Why am I wearing this? Why the hell am I here?

The panic and second-guessing wreak havoc until I notice Diana’s face, flushed with excitement, and that’s when I remember why I’m here. Because she worked hard for this. And because I made a commitment.

“Don’t worry. We’ve got this.” Diana turns away from the floor and lifts her hands to my shoulders, giving them a firm massage, like she’s hyping me to get into the boxing ring. “And if we fail spectacularly, who cares? I didn’t sign up for this thinking we’d win. This was the most fun I’ve ever had.”

“Me too,” I admit. And I’m not lying.

A familiar white-blond head catches my eye. “Babe,” I say under my breath. “Don’t look now, but the enemies have arrived.”

“Who—” She stops. Eyes narrowing. “Confi-Dance.”

“Pricks.”

Viktor and Martinique from Confi-Dance, their uncleverly-named social media channel, saunter toward us with unearned confi-dance. Martinique does look amazing, though, if not a bit over-the-top. Her ensemble is made up of a form-fitting leotard adorned with sequins and rhinestones, which seems like overkill, but it clings to her body and emphasizes her ample boobs. Her skirt is see-through and has more sequins on it in strategic places. I guess the bling is supposed to be eye-catching. Diana did say our outfits need to “dazzle.”

Personally, I prefer Diana’s outfit. Hers is all drama and flair, while Martinique just went for shiny.

Diana’s red leotard, a stretchy fabric with only a hint of adornments, features lacy sleeves with a delicate pattern that goes through her middle fingers to secure them to her wrists. It has a plunging neckline and an open back, and unlike Martinique, she won’t have to worry about her tits bouncing around. Dixon’s are small and perky and contained. She’s wearing a flowy skirt with a high slit, and when we practiced our spins earlier, that material billowed all around her, the slit showcasing her footwork. Apparently, it’s supposed to accentuate her movements. All I know is I can see a lot of thigh, and my dick is happy.

“Don’t you look cute,” Martinique chirps to Diana. She raises a thick, dark eyebrow at me. “Those pants are a bit tight, no?”

They are. Diana dressed me tonight and I complained endlessly. But it’s imperative to show a united front in the face of our enemies.

“Me?” I counter, flicking my gaze toward Viktor. “I can see the outline of your balls, bro. You sure wearing white was a good idea?”

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