Page 70 of Tension
Quarterfinals–Adult Latin Division: Samba
Out of seventy original couples, thirty-six made the cut. Yvonne and I are sitting in the middle of the pack at number twenty. It’s a place that neither satisfies nor comforts, and it gnaws at me.
Yvonne reads my face as we warm up on the practice floor. “We’ll move up. Let’s just get through this round.”
Greyson shows up with the schedule in hand. “You’re dancing fifth, and it’s Samba. Let’s see that fire you two keep in your back pocket.”
Then Vaeda appears, standing straighter than she should, one heel slightly raised to relieve the strain on her injured foot. Her expression is unreadable, her eyes blank as she looks from me to Yvonne. I wish I had her talent for disassociation.
“You underperformed today,” she says without preamble. “Your hand changes weren’t sharp enough, and you got ahead of the beat in the jive.”
I hold her gaze, the tension between us vibrating like a wire. “We still made it.”
“You barely made it.” Her words are clipped and clinical. “Stop counting your steps. You should know them inside and out by now. It’s time to command the floor and own it. Show them you belong out there.” Then her gaze cuts to Yvonne. “And you need to match him. Don’t just follow. Engage. There’s no room for hesitation in Samba.”
Yvonne nods, jaw tight.
Greyson’s tone is lighter. “This is your strongest rhythm. Trust your training.”
We leave them behind and disappear into the changing area. I pull on my deep green Samba shirt, the fabric cool against my skin, and adjust the tight cuffs at my wrists. The color pops under the lights, a visual spark to match what I plan to give them on the floor.
Yvonne is already warming up, shoulders rolled back, arms flicking into rhythm like a metronome when I step back to the floor. She doesn’t speak, and I appreciate the silence. It’s the calm before the storm.
When we’re called to the floor, we step out into the chaos of dozens of couples flooding the parquet in a tide of sequins and rhythm. The Samba beat kicks in, bright and unrelenting.We find each other in the mess, and then we move. Voltas, whisk turns, bounce actions. My body sings with the tempo, grounded in the rhythm, riding the syncopation like a second pulse. Yvonne hits every movement with sharp energy, and her expression electric. The skirt of her costume fans out in quick bursts, like a flickering flame.
We circle, pivot, and lock into the final routine sequence. I flick my head and catch a glimpse of Victor Denier again. His eyes are on me, and I give a subtle nod back this time. The last eight counts pass in a blur of rhythm and sweat. We end in a sharp dip, my hand firm at her waist, and her breath hot against my neck.
Applause swells as we bow, and when we rise, I find Vaeda’s face in the crowd. Her arms are crossed, her expression hard to read, but her eyes… her eyes are on me. Grace is beside her, clapping with exhilaration, her face red with excitement.
We walk off the floor in silence, heartbeats still thudding. We won’t know the scores yet. The judges keep them sealed until the final tallies are posted after the semifinals. For now, it’s all anticipation and waiting, but I know this much: we didn’t just survive that round, we showed them we belong.
VAEDA
The air inside the ballroom feels thick, pulsing with music, heat, and the shimmer of sequins still caught in the air. Mateo and Yvonne bow out of their final pose to scattered applause, but all I can hear is the roar of my blood in my ears. They did well, better than I expected. Mateo moved like a storm unleashed,electric, fluid, and commanding. When his eyes lifted to meet mine in that final pose, I felt something inside me unravel.
Greyson claps beside me, his expression cautious. Grace leans in to speak, a smile locked on her face, but the pain in my ankle flares so violently it steals the breath from my lungs. I murmur to her and Greyson about needing a moment and slowly limp from the ballroom, past the swirl of dancers and officials, and into the quieter corridor.
The women’s washroom is mercifully empty as I stagger in, clutching the sink as I brace my weight on one leg. My reflection looks pale, sweat curling at my temples, and my mouth set in a tight line. I reach into my clutch and pull out the small bottle of painkillers, unscrewing the lid with trembling fingers. Just one.
The pill hits the back of my throat and I chase it with a sip of water from the tap, then lean over the sink and press my palms to the porcelain, breathing in deep. My eyes lift once more to the mirror and the pain reflecting back at me isn’t just physical. My heart is destroyed, every beat a protest against my ribs. I’ve never wanted someone so badly in one breath, and then wished I’d never met them in the next.
A groan of hinges cuts through the stillness as the bathroom door opens. I turn, startled when I see Mateo’s form in the mirror. He steps in and closes the door behind him, turning the lock with a deliberateclick. His chest rises and falls in rapid waves, sweat still clinging to his collarbones. There’s a glint in his eyes that makes my stomach pitch, wild and hungry and unbearably raw.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” I whisper, even as my breath catches.
“I’m done with this fucking game we’re playing,” he snarls.
The distance between us shrinks as he stalks forward, his strong legs flexing beneath the fabric of his pants. My spine presses to the counter, my ankle flaring again as I straighten,but I can’t think about pain right now. Not when his eyes are devouring me.
“You were unbelievable out there,” I say, my voice tight.
He stops just in front of me, so close I can feel the heat radiating off him. His scent fills my senses, sweat and cologne and something purely him. “I danced like that because of you. I wanted you to see me. Really see me.”
My pulse slams in my throat as he lifts a hand and brushes a lock of hair behind my ear, his knuckles grazing my cheek. I tremble, heat spreading through me in waves. “I see you, Mateo. I always have.”
His mouth crashes against mine. It’s not gentle. It’s need and frustration and weeks of restrained desire set free. His hands cup my face, my waist, then slide around to my spine to pull me against him. I gasp, feeling every inch of him pressed against me, every sharp breath, every tremble.
I undo the top few buttons of his shirt, just to feel his skin as he kisses me deeper, harder. He groans when my nails skim his chest under the fabric of his shirt, then my hands find the hem, slipping beneath it to feel the hard lines of muscle beneath smooth skin.
