18. Sophie

18

SOPHIE

I watch Trevor and Miranda dance through my choreography. We have the jive for our quarterfinal, and Trevor hasn’t been able to get it right, no matter how many times we’ve practiced the steps. It’s not even one consistent step that I can change to make it easier. He does something different incorrectly each time. It’s impossible to know what to fix. But here he is, dancing it perfectly with Miranda. Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I’m not a good enough partner for him. I wasn’t a good enough partner for Ian. I’ve never been able to keep a partner—in dance or in life.

I back away before they notice me, but I guess I wasn’t fast enough because Trevor calls out my name and rushes after me. Hurriedly brushing the tears off my cheeks, I keep my back to him. Damn. When did I start crying?

“Sophie, what’s wrong?”

When I don’t turn around, he scoots around in front of me. I keep my head lowered because I don’t want him to see the streaks of my tears or my red-rimmed eyes.

“Hey,” he says softly, putting a finger under my chin to gently raise my face to his. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

Jerking my head away, I take a step back. He suddenly feels way too close. “All the times we practice that dance, and you can’t get it right. Now you’re dancing with Miranda and suddenly, you’re perfect? Why can you dance with her and not with me? Do you hate dancing with me that much?” I know I sound angry. I’m glad for it. Anger is a trusty costume, hiding how I really feel. It’s my default, so people don’t know my vulnerabilities.

A beautiful smile spreads across his face, and it makes my heart ache. “I was doing it right? Really?”

I give a single stiff nod. “Yes, you had all the steps. You were perfectly in rhythm. Your form was great, and you looked like you were having fun. Fun you don’t have when we dance together. I’m a horrible teacher and a horrible partner, and I’m sorry you’re stuck with me.”

My attempt to step around him is thwarted when he gently grabs me by my arms and pulls me in for a hug. I stand stiff in his embrace as long as I can, but I eventually relax and rest against him, hooking my fingers on the belt loops of the jeans resting on his trim hips. His usual scent of pine and man, mixed with the slightest tinge of sweat earned dancing, is intoxicating. It takes so much strength to not go up on tiptoe and kiss the base of his throat.

He presses a kiss to the top of my head and tightens his arms around me. His sigh as he rests his cheek on my hair is so deep, I can feel his chest rise and fall.

“Sophie, it’s…it’s easy to dance with Miranda. I know exactly how she’s going to move, and her body just feels right in my arms because we’ve worked together for years . But I was thinking of you. I’m always thinking of you.”

Of course, perfect Miranda is doing perfect Miranda things again. I try to pull out of his embrace, but he just tightens his hold—not in a restrictive way, but more in a please don’t leave me way that stops my flight.

“Stop, just listen to me,” he pleads, leaning back to see my face. “Miranda is easy to dance with because she’s comfortable. She’s like old ratty sweatpants.”

“Hey!” I hear from the studio, and it makes me giggle.

“Turn off your ears or turn up the music, Randi! This is private!” Trevor calls back. Suddenly an old song from the Irish band The Corrs plays at a high volume. I haven’t heard it in years, and it makes me sad. I love that song.

Trevor looks back down at me. “As I was saying, dancing with Miranda is comfortable. You make me nervous. I want to be perfect for you, and it’s extremely hard to concentrate on the steps and the rhythm and everything else that goes into it when I’m too distracted to learn.”

My shoulders sag. I knew it. I’m a horrible teacher.

“I can’t focus on learning the dance because I’m trying so hard not to kiss you. I can’t count the steps because I’m counting the freckles on your adorable nose. When you’re in my arms, everything I know flies out the window. Dancing with Miranda is easy. I’m not attracted to her. With you, I’m so busy fighting my attraction that I can’t relax enough to perform. I’m a horrible student. I’m sorry.”

Oh, my heart. This man. I wish I was a different person so I could try to keep him as my own. But I need to be true to myself or else I’ll only hurt both of us.

“Trevor, you’re not! You’re wonderful. I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone but you. I’m just sorry there’s so much stress on you. The playoffs, the hockey semifinals, and finals of the show.” Us. “It’s a lot. And I know I’m demanding, which adds to your stress. You love to dance, and I’m ruining it for you.”

He lowers his lips to mine and gives me the sweetest, tenderest kiss. I love our passionate kisses, full of fire and heat. But these kisses are precious to me and what I’ll remember and cherish forever.

“Sophie, you aren’t ruining anything for me. You make things better. These weeks with you have been wonderful. We just need to get through two more shows, and then you’ll have the pro career you’ve been dreaming of. I can tough it out for a week and a half. I know the dance, so now I’ll focus on smiling and engaging. We can do this, Soph, I know it.”

I want to believe him.

* * *

Second to last dress rehearsal. I hate that I’m not measuring time by how many more dances I get with Trevor. The Devil Birds had their first game of the wild card round last night and lost. It’s a round of five games total, and the first team to win three games advances to the playoffs for the Dickinson Cup. I know Trevor is kicking himself because he whiffed on a slapshot that would’ve tied the game and sent them to overtime. Instead, the New York team took control of the puck and got a goal past Brick, cementing their lead. He refuses to listen to anyone who says it wasn’t his fault. As much as it’s his job to make goals, it’s Brick’s job to stop them. If he’s not blaming her, then he can’t blame himself. But of course, the silly man doesn’t see it that way.

We’re dancing the jive to the theme song from an 80s movie full of dancing high school students. Growing up in Ireland and Scotland, I didn’t experience proms and homecoming games like they do here in America. I’m in a flirty dress dripping with gold fringe, and Trevor looks like the All-American football quarterback in blue jeans, a white T-shirt, black high-top sneakers, and a letterman jacket. I bet he broke a lot of hearts in high school and college. Mine is breaking now, but it’s my own fault.

He squeezes my hand and smiles down at me. “Ready?”

Nodding, we take our place on the stage for our dress rehearsal. We’ve already gone through notes for blocking, so we just need to do a full run-through of our routine and prepare for the live show. I love this routine. It shows off Trevor’s athleticism and lets him use some of his skills from when he was a cheerleader. I know the crowd is going to go wild when they see him do a backflip off the judges’ table to join me back on the dance floor before our last moves. We’re in sync throughout, and Trevor’s having fun. If the show tonight goes as well as the rehearsal is going, we’re going to win. His flip goes perfectly, and we stand back-to-back and link arms for our final trick. Trevor leans forward at the waist so I’m resting on his back, and I flip over and land on my feet then immediately sit so I can slide through his legs to hit my final pose. We’ve done this dozens of times with no problem. This time, however, my left ankle twists, and it’s less a graceful sit on the floor and more of a flop. I hiss, “Keep dancing!” and Trevor blessedly does. We hit our final poses and I’m smiling, but Trevor is looking at me with concern.

My ankle is slightly tweaked. A bit of ice and some painkillers, and I’ll be right as rain for tonight. I believe that, I truly do. Until I go to stand and crumple to the floor, crying out from the pain shooting up my leg.

“Sophie!” both Ian and Trevor shout, rushing to my side. Ian immediately goes to my ankle, recognizing my injury in a flash. He gently grasps my foot.

“Oh, Soph,” he says sadly. I see what he sees—my ankle is already swelling around the strap of my gold high-heeled dance shoe.

“It’s fine,” I say desperately as the medical team arrives. Trevor has taken my hand and refuses to move out of the way. “Just wrap it up good and tight, put some ice on it, and give me painkillers. I can do it.”

An involuntary yelp slips out when Marvin, the show’s medical officer, takes my foot in a gentle, yet firm grasp and unbuckles my shoe.

He shakes his head sadly. “Sophie, we’ve got to get this x-rayed. Best-case scenario, it’s just a sprain, but there’s no way you’re dancing tonight.”

The producers are here with camera people shooting every moment of my dream dying. I’m a Mackenzie. I’m a proud and strong female wolf shifter. I’m not going to break down sobbing, asking, “Why me?” even though that’s what I want to do.

“Let’s get you back to the exam room and figure out what we’re working with,” Marvin says. “Ian, can you carry her?”

“Been doing it all my life.” He’s trying to make me laugh, I know that, so I smile weakly in response. Trevor looks like he wants to protest and carry me himself but doesn’t want to delay me getting the treatment I need. It’s just as well. If I was in Trevor’s arms, I’d break down.

Ian places me on the exam table, and Marvin shoos everyone out.

“Can Trevor stay?” I ask, reaching out for his hand. He takes mine and raises it to his lips. He’s been quiet, but I can see the concern shining from his eyes. Or maybe it’s tears? Could be both.

Marvin nods. “Okay with me.”

In my effort to not flinch, I squeeze Trevor’s hand so hard he’s the one flinching as Marvin examines my ankle. After some mmms and hmms and nods, Marvin looks up and gives me a slight smile. “You have a nasty sprain. I know you’re a shifter and should heal quickly, but I can’t medically clear you to dance tonight.”

“I’ll sign waivers. Whatever you want. I must dance tonight.” Tears are streaming down my cheeks now. “Trevor, tell him. We’ve worked too hard. You’ve worked too hard to not dance.”

Trevor brushes away my tears, but more follow their path. “Sophie, you can’t risk injuring yourself worse. We need to let this heal properly so you can dance for the long haul. You can’t throw away your future for one night.”

Before I can protest further, Nancy and other producers come into the room. The smirk she gives me tanks any hope I have.

“Oh, Sophie,” she says, her voice dripping in insincerity. “What a shame you can’t dance tonight. Guess you’ll have to drop out, Trevor.”

Geoffrey, the head producer, gives me a sympathetic smile. I like Geoffrey. “Not necessarily, Nancy. We can have another dancer substitute for you, Sophie. We have your rehearsal recorded, so one of the previously dismissed pros could learn it and dance with Trevor tonight. If Trevor isn’t voted out and makes it to the finals, and you’re medically cleared, then the two of you can compete next week.”

“I don’t want to dance with another pro,” Trevor says.

“Then you can drop out,” Nancy says.

Indecision flits across Trevor’s face. His life would be easier without the stress and commitment of the show hanging over him.

Swallowing hard, I hope my smile is convincing. “It’s okay, Trevor, whatever you decide to do. I know you’re busy with the wild card games. Do what’s best for you.”

“Getting you to the finals is best for me,” he says, running a fingertip down my nose and giving it a teasing bop. Turning to Geoffrey, he says, “I want to dance, but I have a suggestion for my partner. She knows the dance and would be great on the show. She’s here in New York and can be at the studio within the hour.”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding slowly when I realize what he’s suggesting. If I can’t do this with him, there’s no one else I’d rather he dance with.

“Who?” Nancy asks suspiciously.

“Randi Quinn,” Trevor says. “She was my cheerleading stunt partner in college. She’s the only person other than Sophie I’ll dance with tonight. Can we show you what we can do, and you decide? If we don’t meet your standards, then I’ll drop out of the competition.”

Geoffrey shrugs. “If she can get here quickly, we’ll do what we can. Are you sure you don’t want to work with another pro? They’re your best chance, especially if you’re doing this for Sophie’s benefit.”

“I’m sure,” Trevor says confidently while texting. A smile crosses his face. “She’ll be here in half an hour.”

Nodding, I do my best to smile and be happy. He deserves the chance to show off the hard work he’s done, and if he was going to perform any dance with Randi on the show, the jive is the one it should be. It fits the style of dance they do together perfectly, and it’ll show off the trust and connection they’ve built over their years of cheering together. I know they’re doing this to help me, but that doesn’t stem the jealous voice in my head—the one that sounds like Doreen—telling me that, once again, Miranda’s getting what should be mine. Shut the fuck up, Doreen.