6. Dom

CHAPTER 6

DOM

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

Dwayne shakes his head and gestures to Cameron. “Wasn’t my idea.”

“Is this a punishment for something?”

“Oh, come on. You’re seriously not excited about this? Sports Unleashed wants to do a story about you. That’s huge.”

“But I have to do a photo shoot. Naked .”

“There will be a modesty cover or something. I don’t know how it works. But it’s a huge deal. The artist they hired to do the portraits is a friend of my cousin’s and they’re super famous or something. It’s a great opportunity. I think you should do it.”

“But why naked?”

“His whole series is about body positivity and highlighting the wonder of the human body. Athletes accomplishing the impossible because they push themselves beyond normal limitations.”

“If that’s the case, you should get your portrait done.”

Cameron blushes but shakes his head. “I’m not a famous athlete.”

“Yet.”

“You’re deflecting. Please consider doing this. If not for you, then for me, because my cousin is pushy and won’t let it go. If you don’t agree to it, he’ll just show up and bully you into it.”

“He’s not exaggerating,” Dwayne says with an amused expression.

“Fine,” I groan. And if agreeing to this isn’t a sign that I’m in over my head, then I don’t know what is. Because the one and only reason I’m even considering it is because Cameron wants me to. “How long do I have to find a way out of it?”

“A few weeks,” Cameron says, beaming. “But good luck with that.”

There's more hype for this "small exhibition match" than Dwayne let on. The venue is already at capacity when we arrive. I eye Dwayne, clenching my jaw at the line of people hoping to get in.

"Don't worry, we'll go in through the back," Dwayne assures me, but once we drive around, there are fans and cameras waiting for our arrival. "Fucking Bruce," Dwayne mutters under his breath as he comes to a stop as close to the door as he can get without hitting anyone.

Thankfully, there are some ropes set up to provide a walkway, but I'll have to sign autographs and smile for pictures if I don't want to look like a total asshole. Most fighters could get away with the tough guy act and just bulldoze through the crowd, and I could do that too, but I'm not that kind of guy. Considering the shit that's being spread about me, I'd rather keep my reputation of being not an asshole outside of the ring if only to avoid further drama.

It takes over twenty minutes to get through the small crowd, and by the time the doors shut behind us, the owner of the club is there to welcome us with a wide smile. He throws his arms around my brother, patting his shoulders enthusiastically.

"You said you'd keep this low-key, Bruce," my brother admonishes.

"And I did!" The older man says, laughing. "Believe me, if I could have upgraded this fight to the arena, I would have. Even letting a hint slip sold out tickets overnight, and people are clamoring to get inside. And don't even get me started on the betting?—"

"Nope. Don't want to hear about it," my brother says, cutting Bruce off. "Anyway, Oscar Bruce, meet my brother Domenick Connor. Dom, Bruce is the owner of the Capital-A Boxing Club. Despite his enthusiasm, he actually runs a great establishment. Used to be a boxer himself."

"Once a fighter, always a fighter, amirite, Mr. Connor?" He takes my hand and shakes it eagerly. He can't disguise the dollar signs in his eyes any more than a personal injury lawyer watching a multi-car pileup."The gentle giant himself. I'm a big, big fan."

"Thanks. Would you mind if we had a few minutes to warm up and center before the fight?" I'm ready to get this show on the road.

"Yes, of course, right this way," he says, ushering us through the back halls to a locker room. "We don't have private rooms here, but only fighters and their trainers are allowed inside, so you won't be bothered."

"That's perfect, thanks," I say, giving him one last handshake and heading inside the locker room, leaving my brother to talk to the club owner.

As soon as I walk inside, all chatter and conversation stops. The other three fighters in the room, all in various states of readiness for the fights ahead, turn to look at me. I give them a friendly up-nod in greeting and walk over to a bench in front of a row of lockers that has my name on a banner across the front. After setting my bag down, I turn to assess the other fighters, who are still staring at me. Two of the guys have their hands wrapped, faces shiny with petroleum jelly. I'm assuming they're the ones fighting the first match before my headlining match with local champ Ray Nichols.

One of the younger guys reaches a gloved fist over for me to bump and introduces himself. I'll never admit that his name goes in one ear and out the other. Not because I'm so full of myself that I don't care, I'm genuinely glad to meet the up-and-comer, but I'm more nervous about this fight than I care to let on. It's the first time I'll be in a ring since the fight that put me in the hospital.

Sure enough, the first two fighters are called to get ready to enter the ring, and I'm left with the man I'll be fighting tonight. By all respects, Ray Nichols is a worthy adversary. His stats and record are reminiscent of the kind of wins I used to pull as a young fighter. He's a big guy. He’d have to be to get paired against me. He's a bit taller, so his muscles have less bulk, which would give him an advantage. He's towards the back of the locker room jumping rope to warm up, but as soon as I'm dressed and ready to start warming up myself, he comes over to shake hands.

"Ray," I say, taking his hand. "It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise," the younger man says. While his tattoos and size might make him look intimidating to others, his smile is friendly and genuine. "Not to be weird or anything, but I'm actually a huge fan. Your match with Evan Fields back in 2004 was actually the first live boxing event my dad ever took me to. I doubt you remember, but you signed my t-shirt."

Well, that doesn't make me feel old at all . Ray must be younger than I initially thought he was, which is another advantage for him.

Thinking back, I try to remember the exact fight. I'd had a streak of first round knock-outs around that time, which was great for my stats, but not great for audiences who came to watch a good show.

That would have been one of the last matches I had my father in the corner with me.

Giving Ray a weak smile and nod, we both continue our warmups. Ray's trainer comes to take him aside, giving me a double take when he sees me stretching my calves with one of the turnout exercises Cameron taught me. Dwayne comes in and holds a pad for me to punch a bit, which helps get out some of my nervous energy, but not too much.

"You alright?" he asks.

I nod and focus on my footwork, not wanting Dwayne to see how nervous I really am. He might see through me, but he allows me my space and sends me to get some water and take a quiet minute before we walk out to the ring. I sit on the bench, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, trying to get my head in the right place.

Boxing is more than a physical sport. It's mental. Going out there afraid is only going to hand whatever advantages I have to the other guy. There would be no shame in losing to a fighter like Ray Nichols, who by all means has the advantage here, but it wouldn't do to go down without putting up a worthy fight. A win is what I need to prove that I'm ready to take on Bo Hoyt again. To myself as well as the rest of the world.

My phone buzzes inside my gym bag. I pull it out and find a text from Cameron.

Tiny Dancer: Kick ass tonight. You've got this, big guy.

Me: Thanks. You, too.

I stare at the text for too long, wondering if he got the flowers I had delivered to his dressing room anonymously, or if he figured out who they were from. I haven't been able to stop thinking about the moment we had in the studio yesterday. I'm so stupid.

I jumped at the chance to help Dwayne surprise Cameron with the studio space. Not only because I thought it was an amazing gesture on my brother's part, but I liked the idea of taking the dance lessons off the main gym floor. I don't really care what anyone thinks about a man of my size and stature doing the moves he teaches me, even when they sometimes feel ridiculous. But I liked the idea of privacy. Of being alone with him.

Alone was a bad idea.

We weren't in there for a full fifteen minutes before I completely zoned out on him. Standing in the middle of the floor that I'd installed and waxed myself, holding his waist, or arms, or soft hands while he danced in circles around me was intoxicating.

I'd been so stressed yesterday, thinking about this match today, and then having the argument with my agent over the most recent publicity stunts my ex and public rival have been getting so much attention for. But everything melted away watching Cameron dance, and before I knew it, we were so close I could have kissed him. His face was so close to mine, I could feel his breath on my cheek and across my mouth. My lips parted, and I gripped him tighter…

If Dwayne hadn't walked in when he did, would I have done it? If another second had passed between us, would I have kissed him? Tasted him?

My brother walked in at the exact worst moment. Or maybe the best. Lord knows what could have happened if he hadn't unknowingly interrupted, bursting the bubbleof atmosphere that was stifling all my brain function and allowing my better sense to return to me like a hit to the head.

What am I doing even thinking about this?

Maybe a hit to the head is exactly what it's going to take to shake me out of this obsession I have with my brother's stepson.

The door to the locker room opens, and Dwayne pokes his head inside."You ready?"

Not really. But I nod and follow him out, with Cameron's tantalizing vanilla scent wrapping around my memory like a comfort blanket. Maybe my head isn't in the right space to fight, but the active effort of keeping Cameron's long limbs and teasing smile out of my thoughts is at least enough to distract me from my fear of entering the ring. It blots out the swell of the crowd, the loud cheering and jeers. I miss the quick pep talk Dwayne gives me right before I head into the middle of the ring to tap gloves with Ray. I don't even hear the sound of the first bell.

Before I know it, the ref is waving me back to my corner, and Dwayne is in front of me with water and a towel.

He dabs at the sweat on my face, and the little bit of blood that trickles through my nose."Where are you, Dom? Get your head in the fight!"

Blinking across the ring, I notice Ray in his corner. He's not looking any worse for wear, nodding to something his trainer is saying in his ear.

"What time is it?" I ask Dwayne.

"What?"

"The time? What time is it?"

"Just past eight-thirty," he says, incredulously. "Why?"

I shake him off, mentally calculating how long it'll take me to get out of here and across town to the theater.

When the next bell rings, I find my footing quickly. We dance around each other for a while, and I realize that he's probably trying to tire me out. I move in more aggressively, and Ray puts up a good fight, but I quickly get under his guard and get him against the ropes. I get a rough uppercut in that leaves Ray wobbly, and the ref gets between us. He stops the bout, and I back off.

A medic and trainer run to Ray's side, and the ref comes over to where I'm standing. He lifts my arm in the air, declaring me the winner. For the first time tonight, the roar of the crowd breaks through my fog.

By the time I make it across town, the theater looks mostly empty. I think I've missed him, but then I see Alistar's town car pull up. The driver gets out and holds open the door while Cameron and hisboyfriend climb in, and then they’re gone. I rushed all this way just for a glimpse of him leaving with another man. It’s for the best, though. I needed the reminder.

Cameron cancels our ballet training on Monday, and again on Tuesday. He said in his texts that he's tired. I believe that he's tired. He'd have to be with the rigorous training and performance schedule he maintains. But I don't believe it's why he's been canceling.

I royally screwed things up. I’ve probably made him uncomfortable, and now he doesn’t want to see me anymore. Maybe he thinks that since I won the fight this weekend, I don’t need him after all. But I’m not convinced it wasn’t a fluke, and neither is Dwayne.

What am I doing?

I'm not thinking, that's for sure. I can't, not where Cameron is concerned. He's infiltrated my every waking moment, and now even my dreams are haunted by flashes of long, slender limbs and puffy lips. I've taken more than one fair shot to the face because I'm not paying attention in training, and I broke a speed bag this afternoon because it's the only thing I can take out all of this frustration and energy on.

Dwayne is set on holding me back from any fights for a while, but I need to find something to do with this buzzing need taking over me.

Christ. It's probably a good thing Cameron is pulling away. Because even if I could get past all the reasons why getting close to him is wrong, how could I ever touch him without losing control?

I sit up in bed, another dream of Cameron buzzing just behind my consciousness. All I can remember of the dream is him dancing in a darkened room. He was looking up, reaching towards a light and spinning. Some kind of gauzy fabric weaved between his arms and around his torso, hiding his naked body from my desperate gaze.

The shadow of the dream presses against me. I lay back again, staring at the way the lights from the city and passing cars cast a dim glow across the high ceiling. My hand pushes against my cock, hard and aching from the dream. Whenever I'm alone, a series of images plays on a loop, and I'm sure this dream will make the list.

I don't allow myself to pretend, to imagine what it would be like to have Cameron. On his knees, on top of me, below me. My mind berates itself for even considering pushing myself inside him and making him mine. It feels too violent, when all my feelings about Cameron are softer than that. I don't know how to make love to someone. That’s what he deserves.

What I do allow myself to imagine is what it might be like to touch him. Softly running my hands up his shapely legs, cupping his ass, kissing every inch of his lithe, perfect body. Combing my hands through his silky hair. Licking the sweat from his skin.

My mind goes over images of things I've never done before, again and again, so many times that I looked up porn videos for the express purpose of seeing how accurate my imagination might be. I even pressed a thick carrot into the back of my throat just to see how far back I could go.

Right now, all it takes is to replay the dream. The sheer fabric moving across his skin, hinting at every curve and dip of his ass, the bulge that I'm so curious about. My hand pushes into my boxer briefs and pulls my cock out, my grip tightening at the end of each long stroke as I remember the curve of his spine when he bent backwards to better see the light. I squeeze at the slight bend in my cock, forcing it straight with each stroke. I pull up on my balls and imagine I can feel his breath across my lips again. I want so badly to touch my lips against his, just barely enough to feel more than heat. To rub them back and forth against his. To steal his softness and make it my own.

Dream Cameron turns his head to look at me, and my cock explodes the moment we make eye contact. Cum splashes over my abs and drips down my fist. I grip myself tighter, punishing myself for being so weak. With a firm grasp, I pump myself until I'm well past the pain of overstimulation. I keep going, violently shuttling my fist up and down my shaft, harshly pushing back the foreskin with each stroke until the bare head of my cock is deep purple and weeping. My grunts echo in the cavernous room as I bring myself as close as possible to another orgasm, then stop with a choked, "No!"

I'm closer to tears than I've been since our mother died, just out of sheer exhaustion and overstimulation. My brain is too full, my body wants things it can't handle, and I'm so close to the edge of emotionally unhinged that I want to scream.

Instead, I listen to the soft beat of music playing somewhere nearby. I can't make out the song, only a familiar slow thumping base. My heart rate slows, trying to imitate the soft beat. The song stops, and I wait for another one to take its place, but it sounds like the same song being played over again.

Scrambling off the bed, I run to my front door and crack it open. Sure enough, the music is coming from inside the building. The studio.

I’m halfway through the door before I remember I'm wearing nothing but boxer briefs and the evidence of my shameful thoughts. After running to the bathroom and hastily wiping myself down, I pull on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top. Opening the door again, I step in to the hallway and tip toe towards the studio. I knock softly, but it’s not heard over the music. Without even contemplating if Cameron might prefer his privacy, I try the handle. It turns, and I push the door open enough to look inside. The overhead lights aren't on, only a floor lamp near the shelves with the music system.

Cameron is near the back of the studio, facing away from me. He moves with a grace and sensuality that only he could master. He's wearing a pair of black leggings, the top folded down below his hipbones. His chest and feet are bare, hair wet with sweat and flopping over his forehead. This isn't a dance from the show that I've now secretly seen four times. It's less structured and more passionate.

The song is slow and haunting, a cover of a song I've heard before. The lyrics hit me deep in my gut and pull me further into the spell Cameron weaves with his dance. Keeping to the outside of the room where the lamplight doesn't reach, I hide in a corner next to a punching bag that wasn’t here the other day. Crouching next to it, I lean with my back against the brick wall and watch with rapt attention as the instrumentals behind the lyrics build. Cameron's emotions pour from him as he leaps, spins, and then falls to the floor as the singer cries about how they don't want to fall in love.

My heart is beating so fast and so loud, I'm surprised he doesn’t hear it. I watch him restart the song, retry positions and complicated dance moves, going through multiple passes of each part of the music over and over again.

I stay, watching him from the shadows, until the early hours of the morning. As he packs up his things, I wonder how to explain my presence. Should I lie about how long I’ve been here, hiding, watching him?

Maybe I should step into the light, or make a sound to let him know I’m here? I don’t want to startle him or make him feel uncomfortable. He seems so peaceful. But seeing me hiding in the shadows is absolutely going to creep him out, so what else can I do?

Before I can make up my mind how to get myself out of this mess, Cameron walks right past me and out of the studio. He pulls the door shut behind him, and I hear the slide of the lock. Luckily, it unlocks from the inside, and Dwayne gave me a spare key so I can come back to lock up. No one ever needs to know about my moment of voyeurism. It would be stupid to risk it again.

The next morning, Cameron bangs on my door.

“Get your ass out of bed and into the studio in ten minutes, or I’ll make you wear tights and a tutu!” he shouts.

I chuckle as I answer the door. “Try me, tiny dancer.”

Cameron frowns. “Oh, you’re already dressed.”

“I’ve already been for a run. You’re the one who’s late,” I say, lifting an eyebrow at him.

I’m not surprised he slept in, considering he was here working up a sweat in the studio until close to three in the morning. I couldn’t sleep after he left, only tossed and turned until I dragged myself out of bed and greeted the sunrise with a long, leisurely jog.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come today,” I tell him, following him down the wide hallway to the studio door.

“It’s been a week from hell,” he admits, unlocking the door. “I heard the fight went well.”

“Too well.”

“What does that mean?”

“Hoyt won’t go down easy like that. I need more of a challenge.”

Nichols is a good fighter and should have put up more of a challenge than that. I don’t know if he was having an off night, or I just got a lucky shot in. Either way, it was too easy. I need to go up against someone that’s faster, tougher, harder than a local amateur, no matter how many fights they’ve got under their belt.

“What does Dwayne have to say about it?”

“He doesn’t want me in the ring too much, thinks it’s too risky.”

“Why is that exactly? It seems like the two of you disagree about this a lot.”

“It’s…complicated,” I say, not wanting to get into it. “What about you, though? New production giving you hell?”

“More like the producer,” he mutters.

I’m not sure I heard him right, or even if I was supposed to hear him at all. “What’s that?”

“Nothing. Let’s get warmed up, shall we?”

“Already one step ahead of you,” I remind him, taking my place at the low barre in front of the mirror.

The mirror isn’t my favorite. It reflects everything about myself that I want to change, and everything that I know I can’t have. I have to force myself to watch my movements in the reflection, only stealing furtive glances towards Cameron as we go through stretching and our basic positions routine.

I didn’t miss that Cameron left the studio door wide open. Both of us maintain a professional distance from each other unless absolutely necessary. And I hold my breath when he has to get close to correct or support my movements.

My foot positions are stronger already. Now when Cameron tries to push me over, he only succeeds in making me stumble back half the time. And I have to admit that the workouts are far more grueling than I could have ever expected. Muscles I didn’t know I had are screaming before we’re even half an hour into the routines.

After forty-five minutes, my limbs are trembling. Cameron suggests we take a break to do some yoga, and I scoff. I’ve done yoga with him multiple times now and it’s no break.

“Relax, just some light stuff to help you stretch out the soreness. Then you can hang the bag I asked Dwayne to bring up here.”

I glance to the corner where I hid last night, and my face flushes. “I, uh, didn’t notice it there,” I lie.

Cameron nods, passing me a mat and laying one out for himself. “I thought it would be useful having it up here. We can still go downstairs for a change of scenery, though.”

I manage to keep my lips shut and not tell him he’s all the scenery I need. The first time he bends himself in half and walks his feet out into the downward dog position is enough to remind me just how much a change of scenery might be necessary. I look pointedly away from him, only glancing up to check his movements in the mirror when I don’t remember how to do certain positions.

He does like he says and keeps the workout light, but we’re both feeling the drag of a late night. At the end of the workout, we both lay flat on our backs and stare at the ceiling. I can feel my eyes getting heavy.

“Don’t fall asleep on me, old man.”

“Who are you calling old?”

“Uh, you. The big sweaty guy currently napping on my floor.”

Reluctantly, I sit up, pulling my knees up and letting my arms rest on top of them. “Sorry, I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Me either.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Do you?”

Touche. I can’t decide what would be worse, talking about how stressed out I am about the bad press this fight is getting because of my ex’s drama. Or admitting to Cameron that I can’t stop thinking about him and have basically been low-key stalking his performances, to the point that I wait across the street to watch him leave, sick to my stomach every single time he leaves with Alistar in his fancy town car.

Cameron huffs out a small laugh, at least partially reading my mind. "Your ex seems like a real piece of work."

A chuckle escapes me, and I run a hand over my close-cropped hair. I suppose this is a better subject than how unhinged I’ve become. "Yeah, she's a peach."

It’s silent for a moment and I think that might be the end of it, but Cameron blurts, "Why were you with her?"

I decide I might as well be honest, even though I’m ashamed of how weak it makes me look. "Because she pretended to be what I needed when I needed companionship. And she made it easy to stay with her."

"And because she was hot?"

I snort. "That, too."

"Did it make you feel good to have a pretty thing on your arm?"

That’s an odd question. "I suppose so, yeah. I never really thought of it that way."

"What did you think of it as?"

I shrug. "Support. Someone on my side.”

"Did you like fucking her?"

Whoa.

I'm taken aback by the question. I don't love where the conversation, which feels more like an interrogation now, is going. I sense that same heaviness that I've been seeing since I met him. I don't know if he needs answers to a problem he's trying to work out for himself, or an outlet.

Despite my better judgement, I answer him. "Yes."

"Did you make her feel good?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"I mean, did you make her come? Did you do things she liked and focus on her pleasure, or was she your pretty trophy? Just a hole to use?"

"Jesus, Cameron, why?—"

"Tell me, Dom. Tell me if you cared about her enough to make her feel good, or if she was just another thing you owned."

"I thought our sex life was good."

"You thought?"

"What kind of question is this, Cameron? Why do you need to know?"

"I just want to know, okay?!"

His eyes are wide and wild. I get the sense that he’s standing at the edge of panic, and that the right—or wrong—words could push him over the edge. But I also sense he needs a truthful answer, however strange it might be, and not placating words and redirection.

"Unless she was very good at faking it, yes. I believe she enjoyed our sex life." Maybe more than I did, is what I don’t say. I never had issues getting hard, and it’s not that sex didn’t feel good, but I struggle to climax with other people. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.

"So, why did she leave you for the other guy?"

I let out a deep sigh and look up at the rafters, contemplating how to best hang the punching bag instead of thinking too much about what he’s asking.

“Why, Dom?” he demands. “You’re rich and famous, and good in bed if you’re to be believed. Why would she leave you to fuck some redneck and allow pictures of it to get leaked to the tabloids?”

"Because she never actually cared for me,” I spit out. “She cared about being a pretty trophy on a famous person's arm, and I no longer cared about the limelight."

I enjoyed commentating, but I hated the parties and commercials and spending all weekend getting spotted in the right places with the right people. I let her drag me around for two years, because it’s what she wanted. She knew she couldn’t maintain the lifestyle she wanted without pushing me. Which is why she egged me on when Hoyt first challenged me, aggressively encouraging me to get back in the ring, even though I was perfectly happy outside of it. Even though she knew the risks.

Cameron's brow furrows. His eyes reflect the pain of my reality. It's not something I've talked about, because I haven't been ready to process those feelings. It's easier to brush it off and focus on the task at hand, to pretend she never existed. It's not like I was planning on getting married anytime soon, and I think on some level I knew the relationship was superficial, but I trusted her. I never imagined she would betray me like she did. Not just by sleeping around, but by doing it publicly and purposefully to get media attention. And then to compound the betrayal by making up lies about me and our relationship to get more press.

"You need to win that fight."

His adamant tone makes me smile. He understands that it’s not just about backing down from a public challenge. It’s about reclaiming who I am.

I wonder if he’d be as understanding if he knew all the stakes.

"Keep your hips straight. Use the barre as balance without putting your weight on it. Now lean forward, lifting that back leg straight behind you. Don't strain, just go as far as you can until you feel the stretch. Now hold."

Cameron's fingers barely touch my chest, reminding me to keep my shoulders back and chest out. His other hand supports my thigh, helping keep my leg elevated. I hold the pose for almost double the time I did the first time I tried it. Remembering to point my toes seems to help, as does keeping my core tight.

For the past week, Cameron has been giving me a run for my money. He comes over during any break he has between rehearsals and mandatory studio workouts. He's been joining me for my morning runs after his first daily workout, then busting my balls with a circuit routine he put together. He lets me take a short break after that, then watches me shadowbox for half an hour or more, studying my every move. By the time we make it to the studio upstairs, I'm exhausted. Still, we move through the various foot positions, doing a variety of convoluted squats until my limbs are jelly.

He leaves in the afternoons to rehearse or get ready for a show. The last performance of Gloire Du Matin is this weekend. Dwayne, Cora, and I have tickets for the final show, including passes for the afterparty. My suit fits much better than it did the last time he saw me there. I've dressed more casually for my clandestine visits, but no one needs to know this will be the sixth time I've paid to watch Cameron on stage and then stalked the exit to watch him leave with that douchebag.Just like no one needs to know that I recorded his opening solo, or that I replay it every night before falling asleep.

The best part of my day always comes late at night, when I hear the music start and slip into the studio to watch him dance. Sometimes he practices for the next production, perfecting the choreography and movements or practicing superhuman leaps where he's doing the splits a good ten feet off the ground. I don't understand when he gets upset with himself, because whatever mistakes or imperfections aren't at all obvious to me.

My favorite nights are when he works on his own choreography. It’s a mix of the traditional ballet he does on stage, and a less rigid, more fluid style that fits the haunting, emotional music.

Yesterday, while I was taking a water break, he was practicing a ridiculously complicated looking spin that I’ve seen him practice at night. Like those wicked jump-splits, he’s constantly disappointed, but I don’t understand why.

“It has to be perfect,” he stressed, shaking out his limbs in frustration. “The women can do this in pointe shoes. I should be nailing it easily.”

“It looks perfect to me,” I said.

The small smile he gave me made my stomach feel queasy. It was both sad and thankful, and a little like pity because I don’t know any better.

“I bet you’d rock it in pointy shoes, too,” I said, to change the subject.

It had the desired effect. He laughed out loud and admitted that he’s always wanted to try, but that it isn’t something male dancers do in mainstream professional ballet. It seems dumb, especially because I can see the desire in his eyes, and I can now understand the reason he looks at his feet and tries to get higher on his toes sometimes when he’s practicing his own dance.

Last night he didn’t come to the studio. The nights that he doesn't come, I know he's with him . Cameron— Cam —admitted that he doesn't enjoy going to the after parties or other events with Alistar. They make him feel invisible, but he sees them as part of his job. I wanted to ask if fucking Alistar was part of his job, too, but I sense that it's a sensitive topic and it's really none of my business, even if he grilled me about my sex life with my ex.

I like hanging out with him, and I like that he pushes me to do more, be better, go further. I won't do anything to jeopardize that, even if I have a lot of concerns about his relationship with the French douchebag.

It's getting both harder and easier to spend time with Cam. The more I get to know him, the more he's in my physical space, the more I want from him. Amazingly, I've kept my attention professional and friendly, and have managed to keep my boners to myself. I almost always jerk off in the morning before our workouts begin, and after I’ve snuck out of the studio after watching him from the shadows. I’d probably have chaffed by now if not for good lube.

I still dream about him. About the softness of his skin under my hands and what his plump lips would taste like. I overthink every moment between us, whether a comment made was him flirting or just joking around. If his hand lingers on my waist or leg, or if he looks up at me from his knees the way he sometimes does, it fuels my dreams and my discomfort.

I don't dare make a move, even when it sometimes feels like he's daring me to.