Page 23 of I Got You

“How old are you?” he asks bluntly.

Ready or not, here we go. “You’re never supposed to ask a lady how old she is?”

“Given why we’re here, it’s entirely appropriate.”

Our waitress drops off glasses of water and takes our drink order.

“I’m twenty-five,” I say once the waitress leaves.

“You’re young to be teaching at the college level.” I shrug. “Is this where you went to school?”

I shake my head, wiping at the condensation on my glass with my finger; glad he’s keeping it light for now. It’s weird. It does kind of feel like a date, although I’ve never been on one that’s felt this intense before. Shane is all business.

“No, Juilliard.”

He pauses with his beer halfway to his lips. “Really?”

“You want the long or short version?”

“Long.”

He says it in his soooo serious tone, and I wonder if he ever cracks a joke or if there’s a sense of humor lying desolate in that big body. I’m a smart-ass, so this could be reeeealllly interesting.

“I danced before I could walk. My mom was a ballerina and then opened her own dance studio. I was in every dance class I could fit in, but ballet stole my heart. When she died, I think it’s where I felt the closest to her.”

Shane’s eyes are set on me, acute but not hard. He’s attentive and interested.

I rub the corner of my napkin between my fingers. “When I was fifteen, I set my sights on Juilliard. I wanted to be the best. It kind of runs in the family.” One side of my mouth tugs upward, releasing some nerves. “Every second I wasn’t in school was spent in the studio. At sixteen, my dad flew with me to New York. I auditioned, and by some miracle, I got in.”

“I took every dance class that I could fit into my schedule, mostly ballet, but some others. Dad came to visit, but by then, he’d married Monica and had Hank. When I graduated, I was in a few Broadway productions, no ballets, but at that point, it didn’t matter. It was Broadway, and I was being paid to do what I love even if it wasn’t my dream.”

He nods like he gets it.

“The last time my dad came to see me, I knew something was wrong. Monica had left, and he didn’t look well. He told me he was diagnosed with CTE.” Almost every football player understands the risk of repeated head trauma.

“I think he’d been having symptoms for a long time, but I was so far away. I’d been cast in my dream role as the lead ballerina, but before rehearsals even began, I broke my ankle, so I was out. Instead of sitting around feeling sorry for myself, I came home to help my dad with the kids, and it ended up that this is where I needed to be.”

“I’m sorry you never got to fulfill your dream.” There’s understanding in his tone, and I know he gets it.

“It’s ok. Really. I had a little time with my dad before he moved to a facility, and the kids needed me. Their mom had disappeared, and my dad was fading away mentally.”

“I’m sorry about your dad. It’s a terrible disease.”

“He was meant to be on a field, not a prisoner in his own body. He’s free now.” I inhale, ready to keep pushing us forward and my grief tucked away. “I want to know about you. All the things I can’t find on the internet.”

One dark eyebrow raises just a fraction of an inch.

“You seriously think I didn’t internet stalk you coming into this dinner? If we’re going to talk about the big ‘M’ word, then I need to know who you are. Not the made-up guy the articles knit together.”

He twists his beer between his fingers. “I’m certain you’ve already gathered my age and stats. You know I shattered my knee toward the end of last season, ending my professional career. My agent called me about this open coaching position, and I took it.”

I don’t know what my face shows, but my insides say, ‘Oh, hell no.’ “Shane, come on. You aren’t giving me anything I don’t already know. What about your family? Do you have a girlfriend or any floaters I need to know about? What happens when this season is over? I can go on.”

Shane stiffens and tries to settle back in his chair when we’re interrupted by the waitress. I can tell I’ve set him a little bit on edge, so when the waitress leaves, I wait.

When he doesn’t speak, I lean forward. “Listen, I know enough about you from what I’ve found online to know that you’re a private person, but these four kids are my responsibility, and right now, they’re my life, so I’m going to be straight up with you. I don’t know why you’d do this or what’s in it for you, but I’m not interested in discussing this further unless you understand a few things.”

This man just flipped my ‘on’ switch, and I’m not messing around. We’re talking about marrying each other, for crying out loud. Why would he suggest this if he won’t open up even the tiniest bit?

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