Page 29 of Off Balance

"What kind of question is this, Cameron? Why do you need to know?"

"I just want to know, okay?!"

His eyes are wide and wild. I get the sense that he’s standing at the edge of panic, and that the right—or wrong—words could push him over the edge. But I also sense he needs a truthful answer, however strange it might be, and not placating words and redirection.

"Unless she was very good at faking it, yes. I believe she enjoyed our sex life." Maybe more than I did, is what I don’t say. I never had issues getting hard, and it’s not that sex didn’t feel good, but I struggle to climax with other people. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.

"So, why did she leave you for the other guy?"

I let out a deep sigh and look up at the rafters, contemplating how to best hang the punching bag instead of thinking too much about what he’s asking.

“Why, Dom?” he demands. “You’re rich and famous, and good in bed if you’re to be believed. Why would she leave you to fuck some redneck and allow pictures of it to get leaked to the tabloids?”

"Because she never actually cared for me,” I spit out. “She cared about being a pretty trophy on a famous person's arm, and I no longer cared about the limelight."

I enjoyed commentating, but I hated the parties and commercials and spending all weekend getting spotted in the right places with the right people. I let her drag me around for two years, because it’s what she wanted. She knew she couldn’t maintain the lifestyle she wanted without pushing me. Which is why she egged me on when Hoyt first challenged me, aggressively encouraging me to get back in the ring, even thoughI was perfectly happy outside of it. Even though she knew the risks.

Cameron's brow furrows. His eyes reflect the pain of my reality. It's not something I've talked about, because I haven't been ready to process those feelings. It's easier to brush it off and focus on the task at hand, to pretend she never existed. It's not like I was planning on getting married anytime soon, and I think on some level I knew the relationship was superficial, but I trusted her. I never imagined she would betray me like she did. Not just by sleeping around, but by doing it publicly and purposefully to get media attention. And then to compound the betrayal by making up lies about me and our relationship to get more press.

"You need to win that fight."

His adamant tone makes me smile. He understands that it’s not just about backing down from a public challenge. It’s about reclaiming who I am.

I wonder if he’d be as understanding if he knew all the stakes.

"Keep your hips straight. Use the barre as balance without putting your weight on it. Now lean forward, lifting that back leg straight behind you. Don't strain, just go as far as you can until you feel the stretch. Now hold."

Cameron's fingers barely touch my chest, reminding me to keep my shoulders back and chest out. His other hand supports my thigh, helping keep my leg elevated. I hold the pose for almostdouble the time I did the first time I tried it. Remembering to point my toes seems to help, as does keeping my core tight.

For the past week, Cameron has been giving me a run for my money. He comes over during any break he has between rehearsals and mandatory studio workouts. He's been joining me for my morning runs after his first daily workout, then busting my balls with a circuit routine he put together. He lets me take a short break after that, then watches me shadowbox for half an hour or more, studying my every move. By the time we make it to the studio upstairs, I'm exhausted. Still, we move through the various foot positions, doing a variety of convoluted squats until my limbs are jelly.

He leaves in the afternoons to rehearse or get ready for a show. The last performance ofGloire Du Matinis this weekend. Dwayne, Cora, and I have tickets for the final show, including passes for the afterparty. My suit fits much better than it did the last time he saw me there. I've dressed more casually for my clandestine visits, but no one needs to know this will be the sixth time I've paid to watch Cameron on stage and then stalked the exit to watch him leave with that douchebag.Just like no one needs to know that I recorded his opening solo, or that I replay it every night before falling asleep.

The best part of my day always comes late at night, when I hear the music start and slip into the studio to watch him dance. Sometimes he practices for the next production, perfecting the choreography and movements or practicing superhuman leaps where he's doing the splits a good ten feet off the ground. I don't understand when he gets upset with himself, because whatever mistakes or imperfections aren't at all obvious to me.

My favorite nights are when he works on his own choreography. It’s a mix of the traditional ballet he does on stage, and a less rigid, more fluid style that fits the haunting, emotional music.

Yesterday, while I was taking a water break, he was practicing a ridiculously complicated looking spin that I’ve seen him practice at night. Like those wicked jump-splits, he’s constantly disappointed, but I don’t understand why.

“It has to be perfect,” he stressed, shaking out his limbs in frustration. “The women can do this in pointe shoes. I should be nailing it easily.”

“It looks perfect to me,” I said.

The small smile he gave me made my stomach feel queasy. It was both sad and thankful, and a little like pity because I don’t know any better.

“I bet you’d rock it in pointy shoes, too,” I said, to change the subject.

It had the desired effect. He laughed out loud and admitted that he’s always wanted to try, but that it isn’t something male dancers do in mainstream professional ballet. It seems dumb, especially because I can see the desire in his eyes, and I can now understand the reason he looks at his feet and tries to get higher on his toes sometimes when he’s practicing his own dance.

Last night he didn’t come to the studio. The nights that he doesn't come, I know he's withhim. Cameron—Cam—admitted that he doesn't enjoy going to the after parties or other events with Alistar. They make him feel invisible, but he sees them as part of his job. I wanted to ask if fucking Alistar was part of his job, too, but I sense that it's a sensitive topic and it's really noneof my business, even if he grilled me about my sex life with my ex.

I like hanging out with him, and I like that he pushes me to do more, be better, go further. I won't do anything to jeopardize that, even if I have a lot of concerns about his relationship with the French douchebag.

It's getting both harder and easier to spend time with Cam. The more I get to know him, the more he's in my physical space, the more I want from him. Amazingly, I've kept my attention professional and friendly, and have managed to keep my boners to myself. I almost always jerk off in the morning before our workouts begin, and after I’ve snuck out of the studio after watching him from the shadows. I’d probably have chaffed by now if not for good lube.

I still dream about him. About the softness of his skin under my hands and what his plump lips would taste like. I overthink every moment between us, whether a comment made was him flirting or just joking around. If his hand lingers on my waist or leg, or if he looks up at me from his knees the way he sometimes does, it fuels my dreams and my discomfort.

I don't dare make a move, even when it sometimes feels like he's daring me to.

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