Page 14 of Tension
“The space is yours,” I offer, stepping to the side to observe. “What were you going to work on today?”
Mateo straightens, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face before he moves to the center of the floor. “I’ve always been strong in the Latin dances,” he begins as he stretches, bringing his fingers to his toes and making his tank top rise on his back. “So I thought a little extra time on ballroom was needed.” He begins with a basic Waltz sequence, his frame solid but his steps slightly stiff. I cross my arms, watching closely as he transitions into a spin that’s just a beat too slow.
“Stop,” I demand, my voice cutting through the music. He halts mid-step, turning to face me.
“Your spins are sluggish,” I point out, walking toward him. “You’re hesitating, holding back. Why?”
Mateo shrugs, his gaze darting to the floor. “Just warming up.”
“Warming up doesn’t mean holding back,” I counter. “If you’re going to practice, practice like it’s a performance. Otherwise, you’re just reinforcing bad habits.”
He nods, his jaw tightening as he adjusts his stance, then starts again, this time with more intent. The improvement is immediate, but there’s still a stiffness in his shoulders that I can’t ignore. I wasn’t imagining things earlier.
“Relax your shoulders,” I advise, stepping closer. “You’re carrying too much tension. Let the movement flow from your center.”
Mateo exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders before trying again. This time, his movements are smoother, more fluid. I nod in approval but don’t offer praise. He’s good, but good isn’t enough. Not here.
“Better,” I concede finally. “But you still have work to do.”
He steps back, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Thanks,” he mutters, though there’s a flicker of irritation in his tone and frustration shining from his eyes, the sight making me bite back a grin. Good. He should be frustrated. It’ll push him.
“Can I ask you something?” Mateo says after a moment, avoiding my eyes in the mirror.
I raise an eyebrow but nod. “Go ahead.”
“Your injury,” he begins, his gaze meeting mine briefly before shifting away. “Does it still bother you?”
The question catches me off guard, though I mask it quickly. “Why do you ask?”
He hesitates, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “I… I noticed you don’t move as much as Greyson during class. I figured it might have something to do with your injury.”
For a moment, I consider brushing him off, but something in his expression stops me. He’s genuinely curious, not prying for gossip.
“It does,” I admit, keeping my tone neutral. “Achilles tendonitis. It’s manageable, but it ended my competitive career.”
Mateo scratches at his chin slowly, absorbing the information. “That must have been hard.”
His sympathy grates on me, though I know it’s well-intentioned. “It was,” I state simply. “But life goes on.”
He doesn’t press further, sensing the boundary in the way I cross my arms over my chest. Instead, he shifts his weight, his focus returning to the floor. “Do you think I’ll ever compete again?” he asks, the vulnerability in his voice surprising me.
“That depends on you,” I respond, my voice sounding robotic and lacking empathy. My emotional well has run dry, and unfortunately, he’s receiving the brunt of it. “Talent isn’t enough. You know that. It takes discipline, consistency, and a willingness to push past your limits.”
He nods, though his expression remains thoughtful. “Thanks for the feedback,” he murmurs, moving back to his bag.
“Mateo,” I call after him. He pauses, looking over his shoulder. “You have potential. Don’t waste it.”
A flicker of determination lights his eyes, and he nods again before turning back to his things to grab his bottle of water. I watch him for a moment longer, then return to my own stretches. There’s a spark in him, but sparks can burn out just as easily as they ignite. Only time will tell if that spark will transpire into an inferno for Mateo Sanchez.
The quiet is short-lived. A few minutes later, the sound of the studio door opening once more reaches my ears. I glance up tosee Yvonne entering, her energy a stark contrast to the calm of the morning. She flashes Mateo a bright smile as she drops her bag beside his, and it sets my jaw to stone.
“Morning,” she chirps, bending down to swap her sneakers for dance shoes.
“Morning,” Mateo replies, his tone easy but reserved. I don’t know why that reassures me, but it does. Maybe he’s not as interested in her as she is in him. That could also work against them when it’s time to compete. Judges love healthy sexual tension between partners. They want the dance moves to mimic the sensuality of being together between the sheets.
I watch as they move to the center of the room, side by side, stretching in unison. Yvonne chatters away, her voice light and cheerful. Mateo listens, nodding occasionally, his posture more relaxed than before. The ease between them grates on me, though I can’t pinpoint why.
My gaze narrows as Yvonne places a hand on Mateo’s arm to demonstrate a stretch, leaning in a little too close. He doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he does and doesn’t care, but I feel the irritation rising, hot and unwelcome. My teeth crack as I watch her reach out and brush his thick black hair from his forehead and laugh when he shakes it back into place.
