The Way We Dance by Katie Rae

3

Ty

Practice was a bitch. I dropped three passes and tripped over air. I jammed my finger on my teammate’s helmet and I may or may not have threatened to kill the number one quarterback in the league, Cam Nichols.

My quarterback. The one I was supposed to support and praise. The one I was supposed to catch the passes from. I could possibly look back later and say that his passes were gold and my hands were shit, but I wasn't there yet.

I was still blaming everyone else but me.

My brother included.

He still refused to leave my damn apartment and I was thinking I may have to get the cops involved. Or I could get up and move everything while he was off doing whatever he did while here in Atlanta.

Option B sounded more plausible since I hated cops.

"Black," I heard as I unwrapped my fists in the locker room after practice.

I looked up and saw our assistant coach standing in the doorway. "Coach wants to talk to you."

I nodded and groaned, knowing he was going to threaten to trade me or bench me for the preseason or whatever else he deemed reasonable for my failures. I finished getting the wrap from my hands and changed quickly into sweats and a t-shirt. I didn't bother with a shower, not yet at least. I knew after my chat with Coach, I'd be hitting the track for a run to blow off steam.

I knocked on the door frame as I walked into the coach's office. He was in his wind suit and his hair was a mess from throwing his hat around all day in frustration at practice. His head was down toward the desk and he was writing something down quickly as I entered.

"Sit," he huffed but never looked up at me.

I sat down and spread my legs, cool as a cucumber. I leaned back and acted as though I didn't have a care in the world. Maybe if I acted like I was fine, Coach would believe it.

"Here," he pushed a piece of paper to my hands and I read the foreign word written in his chicken scratch. There was also an address and a name.

"What's this?" I asked, trying to say the word silently.

"That is where I want you to start heading every Tuesday and Thursday until the end of preseason."

"Excuse me? What the hell is this?"

"That," he pointed, "Is your ticket to the starting roster.”

I squinted my eyes and snarled my lip. Coach didn't usually talk in riddles. He was more of a "I said what I said" type of guy.

"I’m going to need more context here."

He leaned back in his chair and threaded his fingers together, preparing himself for battle. "That is my neighbor. She runs a dance studio. You, Ty, are going to go two times a week and exercise with her."

My smile couldn't have gotten any bigger or disbelieving. "Coach, with all due respect, you already told me dancing will help my game and I spent a lot of time at The 678 Club dancing my ass off this summer. Didn't work."

"For fucks sake, Ty. I didn't mean grinding your dick in-between the ass cheeks of women in short skirts."

I took my arms and stretched them wide, "What did you mean then? Cause that’s all I know to do."

Coach was an ex-player himself, big and well built. He was only 40 years old and stayed in the gym as much as the players did. I had no doubt he could kick my ass if he set his mind to it.

He was stern and demanded respect. You had to when you coached at this level with guys getting paid millions of dollars and their heads as big as Jupiter.

So when his eyes turned into slits and he crossed his arms, I lowered my attitude and took a step back. "The card has the address, be there next Tuesday at 9pm. I have already arranged the exercises you’ll need to do."

I bit my lip and thought about his words for a minute. Not only was Coach a man that demanded respect, he was smart. Fucking smart.

He'd led us to plenty of super bowls and coached some of the best players in the world. Maybe his little game was legit. Maybe he was onto something—the key to getting me out of this slump.

"What about camp?" I asked. We were supposed to be in camp for two weeks before the first preseason game. That started Monday and once we were checked in, we didn't leave.

"You will be excused from anything after 8pm to give yourself time to get showered and to the dance studio."

I curled my face in disbelief. This was extreme. No one ever got excused from camp.

"Look," Coach said, lowering his eyes to his desk while he thought about his words. "This is something I think you need. You're hardened, heavy. It’s making your game suffer. Try my method without giving me shit."

I nodded and started to turn around. Coach always got his way and I guess he earned that right. I wanted to do better and be a part of this team. I wanted to make him proud. If I could do that by whatever exercises he had planned, I could handle it.

* * *

"You have gotto be fucking kidding me," I mumbled Tuesday evening outside of Brisé. Little girls in tutus and pink tights were leaving with their parents, one after the other.

A quick google search on my phone had told me Brisé meant: a jump in which the dancer sweeps one leg into the air to the side while jumping off the other, brings both legs together in the air and beats them before landing.

What the fuck?

I know Coach did not send me to be a ballerina. He didn't, he wouldn't. No way in hell.

I swiped a hand down my face and moaned, the motion making me cringe because I was so damn tired from practicing all day in the Atlanta heat. This explained why Coach insisted I shower, though. I was sure my football sweat wouldn't be very kosher on the floor of this prim studio.

When I felt like the coast was clear, I walked across the street and opened the door to Brisé. The smell of perfume and froufrou immediately hit my senses and made me scrunch my nose. And I wasn’t even in the dance room. This was just the lobby.

There were chairs to the right, lined up along a huge window that looked onto a dance floor. To the left, there was a reception desk and little pink chairs lining a huge mirror. My guess was that was where the kids got themselves ready for class.

I waited by the door, unsure if I should move in further or wait for someone to appear. I was way out of my element here and quite frankly, I was tempted to turn around and tell Coach I would ride the bench. No complaints either, I would keep it nice and warm for whoever was starting in my place. Fuck, anything would beat being a damn ballerina two nights a week.

Then the thought of exercise hit me. Coach used the word, exercise.

Exercise.

He didn’t say a damn thing about dancing. Sure, he had mentioned that dancing kept players loose and flexible, but he didn’t mean ballet. Not a chance.

I was still standing with my back against the door when a woman entered the lobby through a back office door. She didn’t see me, and for some reason, I didn’t say anything. I stood there with my hands behind my back, ready to bail out of the door if she so much as breathed the word perriot.

Her back was to me behind the reception counter, fumbling through papers, so I took that time to take stock of my new exercise instructor. Her dark hair was tied up in a tight bun, not a damn hair out of place. She was wearing pink tights and a black ballet outfit—something you would see on TV.

The ballet get-up was doing things to me that I didn’t expect. For some reason, I was into it. I watched on as she lightly moved from one thing to the next, so delicately that she looked like she was floating.

When she was finally satisfied, she turned around with the kind of grace I expected to see and screamed as though she had been attacked. The poise and finesse that I saw in her moments before was gone.

Her face was red and her right hand was stretched out, as if she was a tight end trying to defend the football on a run down the field. Her other hand was over her heart, that was most likely beating out of her chest.

Didn't she expect me? Coach had to have set this up by telling her, right?

"Um, hi?" I asked, unsure what else to say.

"Please leave," she said firmly, trying to hide her fear. "The cops are keeping an eye on this place since last time."

Last time?

"Um, what?" At this point, she was probably scared of how illiterate I sounded. I was giving her the cliche hard-nosed meat head that played football and grunted. I needed to wrap my head around what the hell I did.

"I have a gun," she stressed, trembling in her voice this time.

I finally held my hands up, "Ma'am, my name is Ty Black and I play football but my coach sent me here and I am starting to think I am in the wrong place."

I reached into my pocket and grabbed the paper coach gave me. I started to read it but she had already lowered her hand and her face had settled into a proper poise.

"I am so sorry, Mr. Black," she had turned right back into the graceful and composed woman I had watched dancing around a few minutes before. "I am expecting you, Mr. Peyton arranged everything."

It was as if she hadn't screamed bloody murder and demanded I leave, threatening me with the cops. None of that had happened, apparently. She was dancing toward me, on her tip-toes, no less, with a hand out ready to introduce herself.

Some small part of me wanted to hold up two hands and yell, "What the fuck?" But the better part of me decided to hold off on that. I mean, we had just met. I doubt she would appreciate my hysterics.

But shit.

"Mr. Black, I am Miss Giselle Metrovik," I slowly took her outstretched hand and shook it.

"Ty," I mumbled plainly, still a little confused. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise. Now, let's get those shoes off and into the studio. We can go over what Mr. Peyton asked me to help you with and start slowly."

"So, wait," I tilted my head and backed up a little. "Are we not going to talk about what just happened? I mean, are you ok?"

"Of course, Mr. Black, but surely you can understand how frightening it was to see a large man in the doorway unexpectedly. I apologize if I insulted you, that was not my intention."

She spoke so eloquently and registered every vowel and syllable. Even in fear, her poise and perfection was unmatched. I didn't know where she had come from, but something told me she was bred and groomed from the opposite side of the tracks I grew up on.

"You didn't insult me," I pinched my nose and shook my head. “Never mind."

She clapped her hands twice and got my attention, then she strolled into the studio through a couple of glass doors. "Come now."

I cringed at her hoity demeanor. She was not the type of woman I was used to. Miss Giselle Metrovik probably had more class in her left pinky than most of the women I dated combined. I found it to be both a turn off and a turn on.

The good news was, I wasn't here to try getting her into bed. She had been hired by Coach to help me and even though I had no idea how the fuck her petite and uptight ass could help, I owed it to coach to trust him. At least for a day.

I followed her into the room and she turned quickly, giving me a tsk, "No no, remember? I said lets remove our shoes. Always remove your shoes before stepping onto the floor please. Socks only."

Looking down at my $250 pair of pristine athletic shoes, I started to ask her if that was fucking necessary. How was I supposed to exercise in socks?

Still, I went with it and kept reminding myself it was for Coach. For me, too, but more for Coach. I toed off my shoes and bent down to straighten my socks. When I leaned up, Giselle was eyeing me with her hands on her hips. I thought maybe I had done something wrong by the look on her face but she quickly clapped her hands twice and motioned for me to join her.

"First, Mr. Black…"

"Ty," I interrupted. I was called mister a lot and it never set right with me. It was too formal and I thrived on relationships that were informal, fun, and laid back. Miss Priss was no different.

Without acknowledging me, she kept on. "Come stand next to me and face toward the mirror. Let’s take a look at our poise and stature."

I trudged into the room, sliding my socks on the slick wooden floor, and lined up alongside her, both of us turning toward the longest wall covered in floor to ceiling mirrors. She stayed a few feet away from me and started telling me what she saw.

"Your shoulders are sagging, your feet are facing different directions, and your face has a scowl."

Well o-fucking-k then. I guess we were doing this.

I cleared my throat before I responded. "Giselle," I started.

"Miss Metro, is fine," she interrupted.

"Um, ok," I sighed. This lady was a trip. So put together and professional, yet, when she first spoke to me, when she first saw me, she was undone. I was kind of liking that first version of her better.

"Go on," she pressed, urging me to finish my original thought. It took me a minute because I didn't know what my original thought was. She had me flustered and confused.

"It’s just that, so we are talking about my flaws. I get it. Anymore you wanna add?" I could hear the sneer in my own voice so I was sure she could as well. But, fuck. Was Coach paying her to degrade me for the way I stood still?

"Yes, actually. A few more," she added before turning back to the mirror.