Page 10

Chapter Ten

Christina

After more than a week of no lessons following the ball, Cam texts on what I now realize is the second-to-last night of training camp.

Cam

I might need one more day before we get back to lessons. Can we do dinner tomorrow to talk about the holiday gig Saylet asked me about? I assume she’s also talked to you.

Yes

I’m typing the rest of my response when his next text comes in.

Cool, where to?

Damn. I meant yes to his assumption. Oh well, it’s just dinner. I evaluate my favorite restaurants on the east side of the city for some place cool to introduce him to.

Salty Sow.

laughing face Seriously?

link to restaurant 7:30?

thumbs up

Reservation under my name.

Damn. Does this mean you’re buying, boss?

...

Too soon? rolling crying laughing face Cya tomorrow Christina

The irritating man is cute even via text, damn him. I squeeze the phone so hard it creaks. I firm my resolve. I need to keep reminding myself of how stilted my interactions with Travis are now. No hanky panky. Aanndd now I sound like a grandmother.

* * * *

The next day I have a scheduled call with my old dance instructor. I contacted her as soon as the ink was dry on the agreement with the NHL, to start designing classes that could be fun and inclusive for my nonprofit.

“Hi Brenda! How have you been?” I ask when she joins the video call.

“Same aches, same pains. You know how dancers age…”

“With arthritis,” we say in unison. I don’t think it’s actually a thing, but she warned every dancer who went on to compete about the increased likelihood of that, so it’s our little joke. That aside, she’s aged well. Her face may have a few more wrinkles and her hair may be gray, but her skin is youthful and her eyes are bright. Each visit with her brings back the joy of dance. I’m excited to carry that joy on to as many new dancers as possible.

“Did you get the revisions I sent over that you suggested during our last call?” I ask.

“Yes. The cadence of learning looks much better for middle schoolers and up, but I’m still concerned if elementary school age dancers are in the class.”

“Me, too. I’m wondering if I only offer it as a junior high and high school program to start with. Otherwise, we’ll need to break the class up for attention spans and muscle strength, not just beginners versus more advanced. I don’t want to get ahead of myself on engaging instructors until I can gage interest.”

“I see. That makes sense. Do you want to have a program ready for younger students in case? It’s been decades since I taught anyone that young, though,” she says doubtfully.

“My thought was to hire a dance instructor who’s taught that age group recently, or get advice closer to when I’m ready for it. Do you know anyone who can help, rather than us trying to figure it out ourselves?”

“Actually, I do, if she’s still at the same phone number. She passed promising students on to me back in the day.” Brenda taps her chin and scribbles a note.

“Great, thank you. Now tell me how you’re doing, and your grandchildren’s latest antics.”

After sharing stories and catching up, we end the call. I check the financial markets and when they appear quiet, I put CNBC on the living room TV and sit at my kitchen table to make progress on the logistics of setting up the charity.

Amy is the family expert so I’ll need her to verify the project plan I’m putting together so she can check the lead times I’ll need. Until I know my path to opening classes, I can’t announce it to schools and start accepting students. But the non-profit sector is a world apart from corporate pacing and I’m stuck.

I call my sister. “It’s me. Do you have a minute please?”

“Of course.”

I quickly set up a screenshare and talk her through the various decisions and actions I need to make. “How long does it take you to hire?”

“Our organizations are really different. You should probably ask Maria that.”

I nod, leaping to the next thing. “I need to balance instructor resources with student interest. So looking ahead, after all the paperwork is filed, if I leave three months to get a couple instructors to help, it seems like this could be up and running by next summer…?”

“Yep.”

“Ok, thank you. I’ll assume two instructors plus me, and two locations for the first round of classes. I flip flop between fear we won’t have enough interest and worry we’ll have to turn kids away.”

“You’re doing the best you can. The first year will be the hardest, and it won’t necessarily all balance out perfectly. But it’s still worth doing.”

“How did you get to be the wise one, younger sister?”

“I didn’t dance my way through my late teens,” she responds with a laugh.

“Ah, but that was training for this, my real career.” I glance at the time and add, “I have to go, but thank you. I’ll work on paperwork for the state and federal filings of organization next, and draft some job postings and letters to schools.”

“Oh, and you should think about buying a list of contacts.”

“Huh?”

“Like from another nonprofit in a similar space—really any after-school program would be a decent fit. You buy their mailing list.”

“I had no idea that was a thing. Okay, I’ll add it. Thank you!”

“Why do you have to go? Don’t say my hermit of a sister is actually venturing out into the world? Or is this one of your girls’ wine nights?”

“No.” I sigh. “I’m meeting with Cam Hill regarding the Holiday Ball dance.”

“Dinner with the hot hockey player slash dance partner. I like.”

“It’s a meeting.”

“So are dates.”

“It’s not a date.”

“Okay.” Her voice holds laughter.

I’m not going to win this so I say my goodbyes and go get ready for my dinner meeting . My insistence that it’s not a date and reminder to myself that there can be no dalliance, casual or otherwise, doesn’t stop me from picking out one of my favorite dresses. A halter top in a fun pattern of hot pinks against white, it shows off my tan and makes the most of my boobs. Knee length with a flared skirt, as almost every dress and skirt I own is. As the charity ball proved, you never know when an opportunity to dance might present itself, and I can’t dance the way I want in a pencil skirt or bodycon dress.

Heeled sandals, dangly earrings, and a brighter lipstick than normal complete the look. I don’t even stop to assess my overall image in the mirror after applying the lip color. If I did that, I’d have to acknowledge that I’ve dressed and primped as though this is a date.

It can’t be a date. I repeat the mantra as I slide behind the wheel of my Prius and roll toward the estate’s gate. It can’t be a date.