Page 328 of Blackwood

Josh and I both pant-laugh, adrenaline still pounding. “We’ll take that,” I grin, grabbing the sheer robe and wrapping it around my chest. “Felt good out there.”

Javi nods, still glowing. “Felt legendary.”

But as he walks off toward the music director, I catch a glimpse of the monitors backstage. Another trio’s out there, all red fringe and hair flips. Latin number. Again. The choreography is sharp, but the energy in the judges’ box?

Flat.

The female judge leans back with her arms crossed, not even writing. Santibañez has his elbow on the table, jaw in hand, eyes glazed like a dad forced to watch dance recitals for six hours straight.

I scan the floor backstage. Dancers are everywhere stretching, braiding, icing knees. I spot Javi near the wings and weave through the chaos.

“Javi!”

He turns just as I reach him, eyebrows up.

“We have a problem,” I say, breathless but firm. “Trio’s up in less than twenty and we’re about to blend.”

Javi tilts his head. “What do you mean blend?”

I point to the monitor. “They’re over it, Javi. The judges. The Latin routines.”

He turns and watches. The dancers on stage are good—great, even—but the energy just isn’t there. One judge yawns into their hand. Another taps their pen against their scorecard with the bored rhythm of someone counting ceiling tiles.

“They’re tired,” I say, low. “Every team is doing the same thing. The same look, the same footwork, the same damn hip circles.”

Javi frowns, arms folding across his chest. “But our trio is solid. You’ve rehearsed it for weeks.”

“I know.” I look at him, eyes steady. “But solid isn’t going to get us to Worlds. Not if they stop watching halfway through.”

He studies the screen again. Silent. We both watch as the guest judge leans back and actually mouths something to the lead judge, something that makes the man shake his head and shrug.

“I’m not trying to undermine you,” I say quickly. “But we’re running out of chances. You put me in the center for a reason, right?”

He doesn’t answer at first. But his jaw tightens.

“I’m saying,” I continue, “trust me. Let me fix this.”

“You want to change the routine, mija?” he asks, quiet, incredulous.

“Full scrap,” I say, breath still sharp but steady. “New music. New outfit. Start fresh. But with a dance we already know is solid, Javi. One of ours. One that we know already hits hard.” I step closer, eyes locked on his. “We can beat every one of those Latin routines with our own fire, you know we can. You taught us how.”

Javi watches the stage again, then the judges. “You think you can pull that off in under twenty minutes?” he asks, one brow arching.

I lift my chin. “I know I can. With Rico on costumes and Knox on audio? Please. That’s dream team energy. Just give me the green light.”

He stares at me for a long second, arms crossed, foot tapping, like he’s debating whether to hug me or throttle me. Then he exhales slow and dramatic, like he’s in a telenovela.

“Madre de Dios, you remind me of me when I was twenty-one,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Bossy. Bold. Ridiculous. And, unfortunately, probably right.”

“So that’s a yes?”

He sighs, tosses his hands in the air. “Fine. Go. Get your tech wizard. I’ll find Rico and warn the stage manager we’re throwing the whole damn script out the window.”

“Thank you,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Seriously. You won’t regret this.”

“Oh, I better not,” he calls after me, already spinning on his heel like he’s halfway down a runway. “Because if this crashes and burns, Bella Blackwood—” he points at me, eyes wide, “—I swear on every rhinestone in Rico’s closet—” he clutches his chest, like he’s invoking a saint, “—I will make you choreograph all of Legacy’s Christmas pieces next year.”

He starts pacing dramatically, counting on his fingers. “And I mean all of them. Elementary schools. Retirement homes. Random street corners in Times Square. I will personally glue a reindeer hat to your head and make you teach a routine called ‘Jingle Bell Rock: The Remix.’With tap shoes. In the snow.”