Page 6 of Love On Deck
“Don’t be a smart aleck.”
“Honey, leave him alone. He’s a grown man.”
Casey looks at Will in surprise. He rarely disagrees with her in public, but Connor appreciates the support.
“Yes, I am,” Connor says and stands. That’s his cue to get the heck out of Dodge. He loves Casey, he does. She’s his only living family, but she’s got opinions about everything, and they always seem to be directly opposed to his own. Which is another reason she doesn’t know he’s gay. If she’s going to disapprove of his tats, it seems like a given that she’d find his “perverted” sexuality, as Baba called it, unacceptable as well. Maybe it’s a good thing they don’t see each other that often. This is going to be a long week, and he doesn’t want to be at odds with her, so walking away right now seems like the best option. “And… I need to go. I have my phone, so text me later with the plans for dinner, all right?”
As if she’s realized she’s pushed him almost to his limit, she doesn’t argue, just nods. “But speaking of phones, let’s all exchange numbers so we can always get a hold of someone if something comes up.” She waggles her fingers between Andrew and Connor. “Especially you two. I can get Andrew’s number from Will and Will already has Connor’s, but you two should share.”
Refusing Andrew’s number will raise questions, so he swallows a groan and hands over his phone, taking Andrew’s in exchange. The temptation of contacting Andrew at the swipe and press of a finger is not helpful in his quest to keep his secret. “I’ve got to go.” He maneuvers around the table to kiss Casey’s head and place a hand of thanks to Will’s shoulder. With a nod to Andrew, Connor makes for the exit.
The dining room is on the same deck that they’d boarded the ship, and a half dozen guest service counters line the walls in the center section. The young woman he speaks with can’t give him permission, but she puts him in contact with the manager of the large theater at the bow of the ship. After proving his identity as a professional athlete and explaining his predicament, he secures assent to use the stage each morning at six, and he can have forty-five minutes right now.
Connor jogs up the stairs to the stage and strips down to nothing but the cutoff ballet leggings he almost always wears. He doesn’t have a dance belt on at the moment, so there will be minimal jumping.
The manager sits off to the side with several binders stacked beside him, as well as piles of paper.
“Mr. Sanders,” Connor calls, and the man looks up. “Is there a speaker I can hook my phone up to, for music?”
“Sure, probably, in the wings.” He waves his hand randomly.
“Will my music bother you?” Connor asks. The guy didn’t have to let him in, so he’d rather not alienate him.
“As long as it’s not screamo or rap, we’ll get along just fine, Mr. Kulyk. Thank you for asking.”
Connor chuckles and slips into the wings of the large well-worn stage—exactly what he needed—scanning the cluttered space for some sort of sound board, auxiliary cable, something. His time is ticking away and he’s about to give up and dance to silence when he spots it.
In less than a minute, he’s got his classical music playing from a small personal speaker, his ballet slippers on, and he’s stretching. He’s learned the hard way about not warming up properly, and he takes his time on a good twenty-minute warmup. There’s no barre, but he makes do. There’s no way he’s chancing a pulled muscle or hamstring. It’s bad enough he’ll be benched for another game or two once he gets home. It was one of the stipulations of allowing him to come on the cruise. Returning with any kind of injury because he was being stupid won’t endear him to the coaches at all.
As his body limbers up, his impatience and frustration with Casey dissipates, and he’s finally ready to dance full-out. Since there will be no jumping, foot and leg work will have to suffice. He cues up the correct piece of music and takes position.
He counts in his head with the first deep notes and bounds into motion across the diagonal of the stage. His heart rate picks up, his pulse does too, and the controlled movements, the focus of his body, of his mind, feels good. This is his addiction, and when he goes for too long without a fix, his body starts acting funny. The stress of interactions with his sister doesn’t help.
The warmth of his body, the stretch of his legs, and the drag of air in and out of his lungs stimulate him in all the right ways. The routine utilizes most of the stage at some point. Thoughts of Casey vanish, and it’s just him and his technique, the old familiar routine and the boards. He dances until his thighs burn. Until his calves burn. Until his lungs burn. His knees meet the stage in a controlled drop into the final position. The string of compositions comes to an end, and silence fills the stage and the theater.
He hauls in deep breaths of air to regain his lungs, and then distant clapping brings his attention into focus. Mr. Sanders is standing and applauding. An additional warmth fills Connor. Not many people ever get to see him dance ballet anymore, much less show their appreciation.
“Mr. Kulyk, that was a beautiful performance,” Mr. Sanders says, approaching the stage. “When you said you did ballet as part of your baseball training—I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that.”
Connor smiles as he stretches to cool down. “I was born in the Ukraine, Mr. Sanders. I was put into ballet as a young child for…reasons.”
Mr. Sanders nods in understanding.
“When my family emigrated to America, I stayed in ballet because it was familiar and I was good at it. It’s now an old friend and, surprisingly, it’s great conditioning for baseball.”
An admiring glance washes over Connor. Mr. Sanders is older than Connor by a good ten years, but whether he’s gay or just appreciative of Connor’s physique or of his ink, Connor’s not sure. It doesn’t matter though, because now that his brain has come back online, it’s Andrew’s face and the remembered feel of Andrew’s body that explodes into Connor’s mind like a cracked bat.
Last night he’d had the best sex he’s had in a long time. Of course, it’s the only sex he’s had in a long time. But it was more than that. Andrew is fucking hot, no question about that. The chemistry between the two of them is powerful, for sure, but Andrew’s tenderness and unhurried attentions despite the expectation that their time together was nothing more than a hookup lingers in Connor’s memory the strongest. Andrew’s care and effort touched a place in Connor he thought long buried, and his reaction to Connor’s confession hit the right note between disbelief that he was asking and surprise that it was even an issue. It meant more to Connor than he could articulate, which was pretty sad for a college graduate.
Unfortunately, Andrew turning out to be Will’s best friend means they can’t have anything more than a one-night stand rather than a cruise-long stand because A) Casey doesn’t know Connor is gay and they might give something away, B) if things went pear shaped, their future interactions as in-laws of sorts would be awkward, and C… Well, he has no C, but there’s bound to be at least one more reason that continuing a relationship between them is a bad idea, if not a dozen. It fucking sucks. They’d talked a little for a while afterward and had discovered a few things in common. Connor would have liked to get to know Andrew better still, but it’s definitely a bad idea.
You don’t have a choice…says a small voice in the back of his mind…you still have to spend time together.
Well, fuck.
It’d definitely be awkward and suspicious for him and Andrew not to converse while the four of them are sharing a meal or catching a show. He’s so fucked.
Connor drags on all his clothes and hops lightly off the stage. He shakes Mr. Sanders’s hand. “Thanks for this, Mr. Sanders. I really appreciate you letting me use the stage. More than you know.”
