13. Trevor

13

TREVOR

I position Sophie in front of me as we get the judges’ comments on our rumba. I’m semihard, and the dance belt is helping hold my dick down, but it’s a scrap of fabric, not a miracle worker. Sophie feels the burgeoning boner against her back and looks up at me with panic in her blue eyes. We decided we’re not going public with our relationship. Let the audience and media assume what they want, but we’re not confirming anything.

“That hip action!” Carlo is standing and swiveling his hips. “Superb!” He accents that with a chef’s kiss gesture.

Glen nods. “I can tell you two put in a lot of hard work this week. It was a very sensuous rumba without being vulgar. Good job.”

Sophie is wheezing, trying not to laugh at the phrase “hard work.” I perfected the figure-eight hip action most nights this week in bed with Sophie. Miranda and my teammates have figured out we’re sleeping together, but everyone’s being cool about it. Ian’s giving me a narrowed-eye glare. We didn’t tell him about our fling, but it appears we didn’t have to. I pray he doesn’t say anything.

“Wow!” Mary Ann says, flopping back in her chair like she’s boneless and spent. “I think we all need a cigarette after that one! Not that you should smoke. Smoking is bad. But…yeah. That was smoking hot. Like Glen says, it was sensuous without being vulgar, and boy, was it sexy!”

Our scores keep us toward the top of the leaderboard, and the audience votes keep us in the competition.

* * *

“Hey, twinkle toes.” Fessel, the coyote shifter from the Omaha Ogres, faces me at center ice with a nasty gleam in his eyes as we wait for the puck to drop. “Think I’m going to dance next year so I can fuck that hot piece of ass too.” No doubt every single shifter on the ice heard what he said. Bedard and Mac give low warning growls—directed at me. They don’t want me to lose my shit. And to this asshole too. Fighting is expressly forbidden in the PHL because we don’t want people thinking shifters are violent. If we fight, it’s not just two minutes in the penalty box. Punishment includes multiple game suspensions, hefty fines, and the possibility of having your contract canceled. You could even be kicked out of the league. I can’t risk my position on the team. But it’s tempting.

The puck drops, and I fire it back to Bedard, who skates through the neutral zone on a direct line to Fessel. Mac is headed that way too. Oh, no. Bedard shoots the puck directly toward Fessel, and the idiot doesn’t have enough sense to let it go by. He gets the puck on the blade of his stick, grinning like he did something incredible. I grimace at the crunch Fessel makes as he becomes the filling in a Bedard and Mac sandwich. I gotta give him credit, he only lets out a yip and stays on his feet when Mac takes the puck from him.

“Never talk about my sister again, prick, or you won’t be skating for a long time,” Mac says menacingly as he skates off and calmly shoots the puck into the Ogres’ goal as if it’s empty.

We’re playing in Nebraska, so there’s no cheering crowd to celebrate, but the boos that rain down only spur us on to make two more goals. We ultimately win the game three to one, breaking our three-game losing streak. I hate that it was someone talking shit about Sophie that lit the fire. I also hate that I wasn’t the one to stand up for her. That should be my right. As her boyfriend.

That word—boyfriend—brings me up short as I change in the visitors’ locker room after showering. I’m not her boyfriend. I’m her lover, her friend with benefits. Boyfriend is not a role I’m suited to play. I don’t know why that popped into my head. I got slammed against the board a few times and will have new aches and bruises in the morning, but I didn’t hit my head. I don’t have a concussion.

Sophie’s blue eyes are dark with concern when I climb in the back of the SUV taking us to the airport and gingerly sit next to her.

“Trevor! Oh my god, are you okay? You took a lot of hard hits tonight. It’s like they were targeting you. Are they allowed to do that?”

“It’s just part of the game, Sophie. I’m okay.”

She takes my hand and laces our fingers together. “I know, but tonight just seemed more…vicious.”

I shrug, then regret it as pain lances through my shoulder. “That’s just how the game is sometimes. Not a big deal.”

I’m trying to reassure Sophie so she doesn’t worry, but the truth is the Ogres decided to target me in retribution for what Bedard and Mac did to Fessel. He didn’t play in the second or third periods due to an undisclosed injury.

The chirps I’m getting are nastier and more plentiful with each week. If it’s this bad after three weeks, how much worse is it going to get? I wouldn’t care if they were just ragging on me, but the vile things some of them are saying about Sophie make me see red.

And the hits. No one’s going to go after my teammates—they’re huge—so I’m the next best target. I’m not small, but I’m smaller than either of them. I also have the puck a lot, which makes me fair game. I’ve never been targeted like I am now. As a hockey player, I’m used to getting banged up and playing through pain, but usually I have days off and time to rest and heal.

I don’t have that now. We’re dancing every day. It’s not as punishing as getting smashed into the boards by a 220-pound steamroller, but it’s difficult. I’m using different muscles and doing the same thing over and over. It’s mentally taxing too. Trying to remember the moves, focus on making sure I’m in the right spot so Sophie doesn’t get hurt, not thinking about what I’m missing by not being on the ice for practice. I’m exhausted. I don’t want to be benched from a game, even though my body would welcome the rest. The show is too important to Sophie for me to not give it my best shot at keeping us in. This isn’t forever. I only need to be strong for a few more weeks. It’ll get better. But dancing tomorrow night is going to be a bitch.

Sophie and I are flying commercial to New York tonight and sleeping the best we can in first class before spending the day in costume fittings, dress rehearsal, and the live show. The team is flying to Colorado tomorrow, and we’ll meet them there courtesy of another red-eye flight after tomorrow night’s show. I can’t wait to sleep in a bed—my bed—again.

We’ve been staying in the pool house, but I need a nice long soak in my gigantic tub followed by at least eight solid hours of unconsciousness on my mattress. Sophie’s bed is comfy, especially because she’s in it with me, but my mattress at home is the exact firmness that supports and cradles me the best. I wonder if Sophie would be okay staying in my apartment with me or if she’d feel awkward with her brother and Miranda there too. Would Mac be cool with it? By the time we’re back in New Jersey, I’m not sure I’ll even have the energy to get a boner, let alone fool around with Sophie, so I don’t see what he could take issue with.

* * *

It’s the fourth week of live shows, and we’ve just performed our salsa. The Omaha Ogres spent all night smashing me into the boards last night, and my ribs ache, so I’m struggling to catch my breath. I have a slight groin strain and a tweaked shoulder to go with the bruised ribs. I hurt everywhere. I know in a day or two, I’ll be all healed up thanks to my shifter metabolism, but it’s going to suck until then. And I have a game tomorrow.

“Are you okay?” Sophie whispers. I nod. I didn’t tell her about my ribs. She’s learning about hockey but doesn’t always recognize the hits for what they are, and I don’t want to worry her. I can handle this.

“I’m fine,” I say, squeezing her waist out of reflex. When she slips her arm around my waist and squeezes in return, I hiss out a breath.

“Are you hurt?” She goes to unbutton my shirt right there on camera while we’re waiting for feedback from the judges.

I give the most convincing smile I’m capable of and grab her hands, giving them a gentle squeeze. “I’m fine, physical game last night. Not a big deal. Really.” I turn her so her back is against my front and wrap my arms around her. The judges watch our exchange. Everyone has seen this. Crap. I’d sigh but taking that deep of a breath would hurt too much.

Mary Ann’s brow creases with concern. “Are you okay, Trevor?”

“I’m fine.”

Carlo gives his charming but lecherous grin. “You certainly are fine! That was one spicy salsa. Technically, it was wonderful, and there’s an obvious connection between the two of you, but I’m concerned. You don’t look like you’re having fun anymore. You’re doing everything right, but the spark of joy is gone.”

I shrug. I can’t answer. I’m not having fun. I’m stressed, I’m exhausted, I’m guilty that I’m letting down my team by having this show as a distraction. I can’t give my team my all and give dancing with Sophie my all. I don’t have that much. But the last thing I’m going to do is complain about it. A handful of weeks are all I have with Sophie and the show. That’s assuming we make it to the finals. The way the Devil Birds have dropped in the standings because of our losses, the playoffs aren’t guaranteed. My hockey season could be over soon too. I’ll suck it up for a few more weeks and cherish every moment I have doing things people only dream of.

Hockey media loves to speculate if the show, and by extension, Sophie, is the reason my points production has dropped off and why the Devil Birds are losing more games. I know my teammates and management don’t think that. Hockey is a team sport, and everyone says it’s not all on my shoulders to make the goals and win the games. But it’s hard not to internalize the chatter and let it screw with me. I’m doing everything possible to play the best I can while also dedicating every moment not taken up by hockey to learning new dances each week and performing them. And my best isn’t good enough. We’re losing hockey games, and our standings for the playoffs are dropping. We’re falling each week on the leaderboard as dancers too. Our scores are holding steady, but that’s not good enough when everyone is improving and raising their scores.

If this wasn’t so important to Sophie’s dreams, I’d be wishing for elimination so I’d only have to focus on hockey. But when the show is done, so is my time with Sophie, and I can’t wish away time with her. We spend every night together, even if it’s just sleeping in each other’s arms. I’ve never had that before. If I spent the night in a woman’s bed, it’s because we fell asleep after sex, and I was gone by dawn.

Glen rests his elbows on the judges’ desk and steeples his fingers. “At this stage, it’s not enough that you get the steps correct. Performance is a major component of the scores. If two dancers are on the same level in terms of skill, performance is going to tip the scale in favor of one over the other. If you’re still here next week, I hope you can find that spark again because you’re too good of a dancer to lose because of this.” He uses his index finger to point at his own face with a glum expression and rotates his wrist to draw a circular frame to emphasize his point.

Sophie gasps, and I want to, but it hurts. This is the first time our position in the competition feels in jeopardy. She tilts her head back and her worried eyes make my heart clench. I know how badly she wants this, and I feel like a loser, putting her dreams at risk because I’m overwhelmed. My instinct is to bend down and give her a reassuring kiss, but we’ve already revealed too much. Instead, I pull her flush against my body and give her another squeeze. She raises her hands and rests them on my forearms crossed over her torso, giving them a squeeze too. I think her touch is more about holding on tight out of anxiety though. I hate that.

We end up getting all eights, same as last week. But other teams are getting nines and even a ten. Staying the same isn’t good enough. We aren’t in the bottom two teams, so we avoid the stress of wondering if we’re the team to go home. I’m grateful for that. More for Sophie than for me. This is all for her.

I’m so exhausted, I fall asleep before takeoff on the red-eye to Denver. Sophie’s gentle nudge wakes me as we descend. We have a car waiting to drive us into Colorado Springs to meet the team. With the difference in time zones, it’s around one in the morning. I think. To be honest, I’m not entirely certain what day it is.

“Are you okay?” Sophie gently squeezes my hand as we walk through the jetway into the airport. “I can get us a room in Denver for tonight. The driver too. And then we can drive down to meet the team in the morning.”

I shake my head in answer to her question and to get my few working brain cells rubbing together again. “I’m fine. Don’t worry. Let’s just get to the team hotel and sleep for a while.”

We get in the car and travel the hour or so south to Colorado Springs. I doze off, so we could’ve taken a side trip to Mars and I wouldn’t have known it.

“Are you staying tonight?” Sophie asks as we get to her room. Her question is unexpected. Why wouldn’t I stay with her? We’ve been together every night for weeks.

“That was my plan. Is that okay?”

She unlocks the door, and I follow her in.

“Of course it’s okay.” After I close the door behind me and lock it, she wraps her arms around my waist, gently, and rests her head on my chest. “I’m worried about you. If you need to sleep alone to get better rest or to be more comfortable, I want you to do that.”

I run the back of my fingers down her cheek before embracing her. “I want to be here with you, Sophie. Nowhere else.”

Tears shine in her eyes but don’t fall. I’m grateful for that. She steps out of our embrace and takes my hand, turning toward the bed. We don’t have sex in deference to my ribs and exhaustion. But even without intercourse, lying together with Sophie’s hair splayed across my chest and her fingertips resting over my heart feels like the greatest intimacy I could have with a woman.