Page 42 of No More Heartbreakers

I shook my head to dislodge the unwanted thoughts. If I couldn’t go back and fix anything, I didn’t want to go back to that time at all.

As we pulled up to the football stadium I studied our printed agenda. “So you’re doing a feature on some competition squad? What kind of squad?”

Aric answered in a no-nonsense tone. “I believe they’re called the Dance Dawgs.”

I let out a shocked gasp. “Dancing girls? You needed me to come with you to shoot dancing girls? How is this even a sports story?”

“You make it sound like they’re adult entertainers or something. This is a very competitive squad. They practice twelve hours a week. They’re preparing for a national competition, and they’re favored to win.”

Aric laid out his case like an attorney defending a guilty client. He’d known I wouldn’t like this story.

“Well, excuse me, Mr. Dance Team Expert. Theyalsohappen to be beautiful girls in teensy outfits.”

“And? I like beautiful girls—I’m a healthy adult male—and so are most of the viewers of our sportscast.”

“You see? This is exactly why I object to the story.”

And exactly why I will never fall for a guy like you again.

“Well, take it up with Dennis,” he said. “He’s the sports director, and he told me to do the story. We’re supposed to be all ‘hyper-local,’ you know. He doesn’t want the same old stuff over and over again, so he thought this feature was a good idea.”

“I’ll bet he did.” According to Dennis’ reputation,heliked beautiful girls, too.

“You don’t have to shoot it. Stay in the car and start writing your story if you want,” Aric offered.

“No, I’ll come,” I grumbled.

I got out of the car and followed him into the stadium. He’d come along on my story, which hadn’t exactly been a barrel of laughs. I’d look like a bad sport, or worse, jealous, if I didn’t shoot this one for him.

The squad was waiting for us, lined up at the fifty-yard line, a dazzling display of long, tanned limbs and gleaming straight hair.

“Just following orders, huh?” I said to Aric.

He turned to me with a rascally grin. “Somebody’s gotta do it. Guess I’ll have to suck it up, take one for the team.”

“Poor you—I can tell you’re really suffering.”

The squad performed a flawless routine for us, their sequined uniforms flashing in the sun. I had to admit they were fantastic. So athletic and disciplined, it was hard to hate them for also being impossibly cute.

We interviewed the head coach about preparation for the upcoming competition. On top of practicing twelve hours a week, the dancers also met every morning for team workouts and gave several performances every week, and that was just during football season.

During the six-week winter break leading up to Nationals in January, they would practice six hours a day while other students were lounging at home or going off on vacations.

Next, Aric interviewed a couple of the senior team members, both Barbie-blonde and sweet as Southern Pecan Pie. Both highly trained and dedicated dancers.

Both obviously fascinated by Aric.

By the end of the shoot, I’d come over to the dark side and agreed with Dennis about the merits of the story.

But I wasn’t going to tell Aric that. He was enjoying himself quite enough already. In fact he was literally surrounded by sparkling rah-rah joy.

He’d planned his stand-up so the camera started in tight, showing only shimmering red and black pom-poms as he spoke, then I zoomed the shot out wider and wider to include the entire squad, all leaning in and holding their poms toward the middle.

On cue, they pulled the poms away to reveal Aric in the midst of them. He smiled widely and tagged-out, looking right at home surrounded by giggling, adoring girls who responded on cue.

Bionic pheromones.

After we got the shot, I broke down the equipment, stuffing the battery pack and camera inside the duffel bag and folding up the tripod.

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