Page 177 of The Dixon Rule

Seeing the two women together, Diana is all glamour while Lynsey is pure elegance. They couldn’t be more different.

“Just wanted to come over and say good luck,” my ex-girlfriend says. She acknowledges Diana with a nod, but those dark eyes are focused only on me.

“Thanks,” I answer. “Right back at you.”

The awkward interaction is cut short when a NUABC official announces that the Duo and Solo competitors need to take their seats in the contestant section. Diana and I return to the ballroom and find ourselves seated next to Confi-Dance, who glare at us. These people need to have sex more often.

In the middle of one section of chairs is the judges’ table. There are six of them, each one stoic-faced with a clipboard in front of them. Classical music reverberates in the room as couple after couple begin to take the stage. Some pairs are pretty good, while others dance in a clunkier manner, like professional athletes lumbering around on celebrity dance shows.

“I think we’re better than most of these pairs,” Diana whispers to me. “This year’s talent isn’t as good as last year’s. That bodes well.”

“Babe,” I whisper back. “We’re not going to win or place. You know that, right?”

My prediction is punctuated when Viktor and Martinique execute a flawless foxtrot that has all the judges nodding to each other. Dickheads. And since all twenty pairs in our category have to perform their first dance before anyone goes twice, Diana and I are forced to follow Confi-Dance, which I hate. I don’t want the last memory in the judges’ heads to be that stupid perfect foxtrot.

Our first dance is the tango because Diana wants to come out strong right out of the gate. I haven’t quite been able to master that damned Viennese waltz.

I’m riddled with nerves as we rise from our seats. I’ve never been nervous before a hockey game, even a championship one, yet I’m sweating from anxiety right now.

Loud yells and hollers blast through the ballroom as we step out onto the floor.

“Yeah, Lindley!”

“GO GET YOURS, LINDLEY!”

Diana gives me a pained look. “Why can’t my friends be here?” she mumbles. Her cheerleaders are at an away game with the football team, which Diana had to get special permission from her coach to miss. And Gigi and the women’s hockey team are playing in Providence.

“At least we’ve got a fan section,” I mumble back, but knowing my teammates are out there only exacerbates my anxious state.

My pulse is racing. Nerves twisting in my gut. What the fuck am I doing here? I’m the most confident man you’ll ever meet. Secure in my masculinity. But these pants are too damn tight, and so is this shirt, and the bow tie is just plain ridiculous—

“You okay?”

The sight of Diana’s face pulls me off the panic ledge. She’s flushed with excitement, and I have to tell myself not to puke. I can’t let her down.

“All good,” I croak out.

A voice comes over the PA system. “Next pair, please get in position.”

God. Kill me.

Diana and I walk to the opposite ends of the polished floor. I swallow hard, rubbing my palms against the front of my obscenely tight pants. Whispers and the rustling of clothing echo around us as everyone waits for us to begin.

“I CAN SEE YOUR BULGE, LINDLEY!”

Jordan Trager’s voice breaks the silence, and I wish murder were legal in Massachusetts because I’d kill him if I could.

As we wait for our music cue, the air is charged with anticipation. Finally, the melody fills the ballroom.

Pray for me.

Diana and I lock eyes. She’s a vision in red and black, silk and lace. Her lips quirk in a smile. I grin back.

Then we both glide forward, marching toward each other in what Diana likes to call “our journey across the floor.”

I extend my hand.

Diana slips hers into it.

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