Page 39 of Easy Out

“No. I haven’t.” I was the charity growing up. “What was that like? Helping the kids?” Hart fiddles with a pencil. Flipping it around one of his fingers.

“Did I talk to them? That’s what you really want to know.” I shrug. “Yes, brujita. I talked to them. I coached them. They kept me focused. Being around the kids reminded me why I love the game so much. They also kept me humble.”

“How so?”

“Have you ever spent time with kids?” I nod. I grew up with kids all around me. Not to mention hanging out with the kids in my neighborhood. “Ok, well, they think they know everything. They aren’t afraid to speak their mind either. When you do something wrong, or they do it better. They let you know.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you telling me that a bunch of ten-year-olds showed you up on the field?”

“Once or twice.” His admission shocks me. It’s refreshing. “Haven’t your students ever showed you up on the dance floor?”

“No.” That makes him laugh. He really needs to stop doing that. “They think they’re better than me.” In more ways than one. “But no, I can dance circles around them when it comes to technique and execution. They try to convince me otherwise,” I grumble.

“Show me,” he demands.

“Show you what?”

“What you can do that they can’t.”

“No.”

“Scared?”

“What would I have to be scared of?”

“Messing up. Not being good enough… Me.” I scoff.

“I am not scared of you.” Am I scared of how I feel when he touches me or stands close to me? Yes. But him, no.

“If you say so, brujita.” I want to smack that smug smile off his face. He thinks he’s won.

“There isn’t enough room.” There are too many tables and chairs in the way. You can’t leap or spin in here without slamming into a bookcase. I’m not going to get injured proving myself to him.

Hart surveys the room, taps his pencil on the table several times, then pops up out of his chair.

“What are you doing?” I ask in a panic while he pushes a table out of the way dragging two chairs with him.

“Show me,” he repeats, extending his arms to reveal all the space he created for me. He is so infuriating. I can’t believe I’m going to do this. I reluctantly stand from my seat and walk to the far side of the room. Hart moves behind me. He’s out of my way but close enough for a front-row seat.

I bend over to remove my shoes and stretch out my legs. There is no way I can do turns in my sneakers. Then I reach my arms up and stretch out my back.

I’m aware of his eyes watching my every move. I sneak a subtle look at Hart while I stretch. His face is granite, and his arms are crossed over his chest. Why does he look so angry? This is his idea.

Once I feel stretched and ready, I begin to run across the room. I leap into the air and double tap my heels together before landing gracefully. Executing a perfect cabriole.

I turn in the opposite direction, spinning across the floor, using Hart as my spot. My focus is on him. His dark eyes being my center. He holds me steady with every turn of my foot.

He doesn’t take his gaze off me either. Each rotation brings me closer to him. My training fails me when Hart rakes his teeth over his bottom lip. I lose my concentration and trip over my feet, falling into his arms.

My heart beats a mile a minute. I’ve never been this out of breath after doing one pass of turns before. I’m trained to do them for hours at a time.

It’s the way Hart’s body is pressed against mine and how his thumb grazes the tender skin on the inside of my arm. He’s not letting me go and I don’t think I want him to.

He’s silent as he stares at me with curious eyes and something else, I can’t pinpoint. The longer he stares at me the more unstable my breathing becomes.

Inhaling a few shallow breaths, I attempt to get my nervous system back to normal.

“That was incredible. I had no idea you could dance like that.” Most people don’t. They assume I only know how to do hip-hop or street moves, but I’m a trained ballerina.

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