Page 69 of Tension
I spot them as we turn on a syncopated lockstep: Greyson near the back with his arms crossed, and next to him is Grace.
She’s standing between Greyson and Vaeda. Her hands are clasped at her waist, eyes wide with something like awe. Her presence steadies me, roots me in the moment. On the next turn, I glance at Vaeda. She doesn’t blink as she watches us with a stern, concentrated expression. Every time I meet her eyes, something stirs inside me. Longing and regret. She holds my gaze longer than she should, then glances away, arms folded over her chest like a shield.
The routine builds, and we hit our spotlight moment, a check-and-slide into a rondé chassé. My hand grazes Yvonne’s waist, her leg whipping past in a clean flick. The audience claps, and I hear the tail end of a whoop from the balcony, which sounds a lot like Kari. We finish with a staccato side-by-side Cuban motion, so clean, and then freeze in pose. Applause rises once more as the judges scribble.
Breathless, we exit the floor, and Yvonne grips my arm. “We nailed it. Did you feel that?”
I nod, adrenaline still flooding my veins. “Yeah. We did.”
Greyson meets us with water bottles and a huge grin lighting up his face. “That was your cleanest cha-cha yet. Posture stayed strong and the connection looked solid.”
Yvonne beams, but I’m watching Vaeda. She slowly walks over, her expression unreadable as she adjusts her crutch. Her gaze darts to Yvonne, then back to me.
“Good hip rhythm,” she says, voice low. “Your frame was a little tight at the top, but otherwise… impressive.” That almost sounds like a compliment coming from her.
Grace hugs me the moment Vaeda steps away. “Mateo, that was incredible!”
I lean into her warmth. “Thanks for coming again. You don’t know what it means.” She squeezes me tighter. Having someone here from my family keeps my mind grounded. It reminds me of where I’ve been and the people I hurt when I was chasing my own needs. I never want to be in that position again.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Mateo
The ballroom feels different the next morning, more electric and tightly wound. Everyone is quieter and serious. Today, we begin the standard prelims, and our second dance is the Jive. It’s not our strongest, but Yvonne and I have worked hard to polish the routine, to bring the right mixture of energy and technique.
The announcer calls our heat number, and we step out onto the floor alongside five other couples. The parquet beneath my shoes gleams under the overhead lights, and the buzz of the crowd becomes a distant hum. Every dancer is keyed up, legs bouncing with anticipation as we take our marks.
When the fast-paced rhythm kicks in, we launch into the Jive. The kicks and flicks, fast triples, the tight spring and bounce that makes this dance a test of stamina, and the style is on perfect display with some of the best dancers in the world. Yvonne is light on her feet, her skirt flaring with every spin, and her smile locked and ready. She’s quickly becoming a great friend and one of the best dancers I have ever worked with.
My footwork is clean, honed by weeks of training, but about halfway through, as we switch into a series of underarm turns, my gaze flicks toward the judges’ table. It’s a reflex I didn’t mean to follow. That’s when I see him sitting in the third seat from the left. Victor Denier. A name I haven’t thought about in over a year.
He’s older now, a few more lines around his eyes, but unmistakable. He was one of the French adjudicators who used to rave about me when I competed with my former partner. He coached at a training camp in Lyon where we spent two summers prepping for internationals.
His eyes are on me, not just scanning, they’re like lasers on my face. There’s no recognition in his expression, but the scrutiny is there, and it presses into my chest like a thumb against a bruise. Does he know who I am? Has he heard the rumors?
I mess up the next roll off the arm turn. Not a full stumble, just a slight drag, but I feel it, and Yvonne shoots me a confused look as we recover.
“Focus,” she hisses under her breath, lips barely moving.
I force a smile and dive into the next pattern. An American spin, link, and sharp kicks to the beat. The tempo drives us forward, making focus on anything else impossible. All that exists is rhythm and counts and the thunder of movement all around us.
The song ends in a blur of sweat and applause as we strike our final pose and hold it, Yvonne’s breathing hard, her chest rising and falling. My heart is racing for different reasons. I messed up and it was a stupid mistake. We walk off the floor and toward the water station.
“You flinched,” she says, panting. “What was that?”
I wipe my forehead with a towel. “One of the judges. I know him. From before.”
She arches a brow. “Is that good or bad?”
“Could be either.”
She says nothing, just hands me her bottle. I take a long drink, letting the cool water chase down the acid rising in my throat. Back across the floor, Victor Denier is still watching us. His pen moves across the score sheet, then stills as our eyes meet.
His gaze narrows slightly, then he nods, just once, and a chill snakes down my spine. I don’t know if that nod is acknowledgement or warning. I don’t know if he’s heard about my reputation, the partying, and the disappearance from the circuit, or if he remembers the kid with clean footwork and ambition to burn.
This could mean a bias score if he has the same reaction to me as Vaeda did when she first found out who I was. It could mean everything I worked hard for toward my redemption could be for nothing as my past catches up with my present.
After callbacks are posted, the air in the Palais des Congrès thickens with tension. Dancers pace the hallways with clipped strides, brows furrowed, and their words are spoken in hushed tones. Everyone’s holding their breath because now, the real pressure begins.
