Page 14 of The Way We Dance

Giselle

"Tyson Black is still struggling this preseason. He seems distracted, almost cursed. If you are the Atlanta Jets, you have to be asking yourself if Black is worth his impending contract extension. At this rate, I am not even sure he is worth a spot on the bench this season."

I turned off the sports news and sighed. It was Sunday and while I normally didn't spend my Sundays watching sports, I considered watching videos of Tyson Black to be research.

There were a million different ballet moves and forms that I could teach him but it dawned on me that unless I knew what he was really struggling with, I wouldn't know where to start. There was no way I would keep his attention if I started from the beginning.

As much as I wanted to treat him as though he was a first time ballerina, fresh into a beginners class, it felt somewhat wrong. He was an athlete, after all, not to mention an adult. I knew I could spend this coming week going over basics that he would need to know but then I would be stuck at a crossroads and would need to have a better idea of what type of things we could work on.

Unfortunately, the news didn't give me much. They showed him dropping two balls and the rest was just video of his stupid perfect face while they talked about how awful he was.

I didn't follow sports but I knew Ty wasn’t awful. Mr. Peyton had told me as much. He said something was off, something was getting to him, but that he was one of the best. He was hoping that focusing on something outside of his realm, but also something toward his overall athletic concepts, would help him.

Working with someone like Ty Black really would boost my reputation but he made it abundantly clear that he didn't want anyone knowing he was learning ballet. He was the type that would give poor Sam a hard time for being a man in what is considered a "girl" sport.

Yes, I considered dancing a sport. It was an activity involving physical exertion and skill. It also involved people competing against one another for entertainment. The only difference was, the competition took place behind the scenes and the winners were the ones that got to entertain the viewers. Still, it was a sport.

Despite Ty not wanting to let me put this on my website. Despite the fact that I was kind of using him to not be alone in the studio. Despite the fact that he was incredibly annoying.

Mr. Peyton was offering me enough money to pay the rent on Brisé for half a year and that was an offer I couldn't refuse. I had made some money as a dancer, but it was going to run out.

Brisé did well as far as a steady clientele. But we had yet to do a performance and if I didn't get that arranged for the parents, things would start going downhill.

I made a mental note to call a few theaters first thing Monday morning. There were sure to be a few small theaters with something available for November or December. It would be a quick turn around but I was confident the kids would be able to put on a show for Christmas.

As far as Sunday went, I was done thinking about the studio and Ty. I needed to take a little time for myself and I usually did that by working out in the gym of my building. I was on my feet at the studio every day, but nothing beat the hard sweat of weights and cardio.

The gym was in the basement of the building and was always empty on Sundays. A few people would straggle in and out but for the most part, I knew I would have most of the equipment to myself on Sunday. The isolation added to its appeal for me.

Unfortunately, as I approached the doors, I could hear someone inside very loudly explaining that they weren't going to put up with that shit anymore. I sighed out my frustration but hoped that when I got in there, they would take their conversation elsewhere.

I opened the doors to the state of the art gym and locked in on the person disturbing my normally silent Sunday.

Mr. Peyton.

Shit, that meant not only would I have to deal with other people, but I would have to be on my 'A' game as well. I couldn't let a man that was paying me to help him see any part of me that didn't exude poise. It was how I worked, how I made my living.

It was all I knew how to be.

I pulled my slouched shoulders back and held my chin up and I walked by the treadmill that Mr. Peyton was on. He hadn't noticed me yet, so I took a minute to try and figure him out.

He was a nice enough guy to me, the one time we spoke, but I had seen him on TV and he was always yelling. According to the sports channels, he had a lot to prove because he was a fairly young coach. Despite winning a few Super Bowls since he arrived in Atlanta, everyone gave the credit to the quarterback, Cam Nichols, and no one gave Mr. Peyton his due diligence.

As he continued yelling into the phone, he never missed a beat on his run. You would think he would have trouble yelling while also running but he was doing ok for himself. His light brown hair was slick with sweat, his calves looked cut, his arms were perfect.

I wondered for a minute why he wasn't playing. Or did he? He looked like he was in better shape than some of the guys I saw on TV and if he knew all there was to know, he probably played before.

I had started a small warm up on the elliptical behind him and was lost in thought over his calf muscles when I heard, "Ahem."

I shot my eyes up to his face and flushed a little. Luckily he was too distracted to notice.

"I am so incredibly sorry, but I forgot your name," he started.

"Um, Giselle."

"Shit of course," he said. "Fancy seeing you here, Giselle. Sorry for the yelling, I thought I was alone."

"You were, I just got here. I come in every Sunday. So I should say fancy seeing you here."

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