Page 3

Chapter Three

Cam

I’d pulled out as many tricks as I dared with a new-to-me partner for my evaluation dance to impress my smoking hot instructor and make her beg to work with me—or beg for anything.

I hardly slept last night in anticipation of my first private lesson today. She’s everything I could ask for in a dance partner, so this will be both the best lesson ever and complete torture as our bodies brush and jostle in the intimacy of ballroom dancing.

I’ve had dozens of partners in my years of training. After the initial strangeness, we all got used to focusing on form and steps and not on the incidental contact of body parts. Yesterday, I couldn’t find that perspective; I’d fought a boner from the first swish of her hips.

When I walk in, she’s in the vestibule waiting for me to sign in, wearing another leotard and filmy scarf/skirt thing tied around her hips. When she steps around me to lock the door, my cock leaps in eagerness. We have total privacy, and that knot in her skirt looks easy to untie. I turn away and try to refocus on dance, sitting to change my shoes and discussing the most benign topic I can think of. “Phew. I’m guessing you got here early or have this place on a timed thermostat? I was worried I’d come out of one oven into another.”

She snickers. “You must be new to town. You’ll get used to it.”

“They keep telling me that, but it’s hard to believe.”

“Why didn’t you wear shorts then?”

“Track pants are closer to pants that I’d actually dance in, and I wasn’t sure of the studio dress code. But if you’re okay with shorts, I will.”

I’m grateful she didn’t ask for more proper dance clothes. She doesn’t need to know that all my pants have to be tailored or custom made to fit my hockey thighs and glutes. I only have a few suits and a couple pairs of pants with stretch in them for dancing, having been on a tight budget the past two years. While even entry-level minor league salaries are more than many people earn, including my father, they’re not the stuff of bespoke suits, or even extensive tailoring. I made dance clothes and shoes a priority, but I’m glad the rules changed for Austin’s expansion draft, allowing anyone with a year left on their entry-level contract to be eligible.

I’ll make an eye-popping amount if I stay on the roster, ideally as the starting goalie. The team owners and coaches decided to aim for younger players. Our average age runs almost two years below the overall NHL average. Out of the three goalies selected, I have the strongest save percentage so I hope to shine.

Christina asks, “What got you into dance?”

“I wanted a way to maintain flexibility, not just fitness. I enjoy yoga, but this is more fun and gives me a better workout.” I’m oversimplifying, but I prefer not to out myself as a professional athlete yet, much less explain the extreme flexibility that a goalie needs to someone who may not even like the sport. I smile, remembering my old teammates’ freakout whenever I drop into a split or firefly pose.

I lace my second shoe. Men’s ballroom dance shoes don’t come in my size. Most competitive dancers are a lot smaller than me, both in height and bulk. So I had to have my thirteen-and-a-halfs custom made, which is almost as pricey as bespoke suits. Thus, I own one pair at a time. Dance studios require that shoes worn on their floors have only been worn indoors on dance surfaces. Not that most people want to wear suede-soled shoes anywhere else.

“And what are you looking to work on now?”

“The Latin dances provide more stretches for the men, on average. It’s also why I stick with social and showcase style dancing. Well, that and it’s more fun than regulation.”

She laughs. “Yes, competition judges are very strict. People are always surprised it’s not full of lifts and fun props like the reality TV shows.”

Before I can ask if she’s competed, she says, “Why don’t you choose a song, then? We can pick a dance based on the song and your mood. Do you have suitable music on your phone? The stereo we have has phone connectors or I can give you the Wi-Fi. Or you can peruse my phone again.”

“Uh, I don’t want to second guess the expert, but shouldn’t we warm up first?”

“Yes. But I tailor warmups based on the style of dance you pick.” She arches a brow.

“Oh.” I duck my head to scroll through my phone as my cheeks warm. Way to alienate the pretty instructor, dumbass .

“You know what?” she interrupts my perusal. “Many students come in with a specific plan—wanting to learn the tango, or something like that. As you don’t have one, and you know several dances, let’s stick with a general warmup, and we’ll run through a few songs and styles again. I’ll reinforce form today, then together we can plan for the next few lessons. I could also choreograph us something aiming at flexibility, once I have a better knowledge of your abilities.”

As she walks away to get her phone and start some music, I’m laser-focused on her swaying hips and ass. I’d like to show her my abilities beyond dance, and I don’t care who choreographs that demonstration.

Damn . These pants make reactions like that visible.

A Whole New World starts playing. I nod. Disney aside, this song fits my life right now. We flow through some basic stretches, some yoga-based, before she leads me to the barre along the back wall. Facing me, she drops into a squat, one hand on the bar.

I grin. I can hold a squat for two hours—most of my game time is spent in that pose. I widen my feet and drop low.

Standing, she rotates one leg from the hip in a circle, toe pointed and knee straight. Her foot is on par with her head at the top.

I mirror it, my foot also even with my considerably higher head at the top.

Her mouth drops open.

I arch a cocky brow.

A slow smile spreads across her face. “I see what you mean about flexibility. I’ll have to think of some steps and particular dances to take advantage of your limberness.”

We run through short versions of the samba, tango, salsa, and West Coast swing. My brain is only half-focused and I stumble out of step twice. The other half is cataloging her attributes—silky hair, long legs that could wrap around my large frame easily, high perky tits, and incredibly full lips, the lower one plumping from her chewing on it. Her butt is nicely rounded and my palms itch wanting to test how it would fit them. My lizard brain keeps wanting to lift her and let her slide down my body or tug her up against me on the end of a spin.

She chooses the slow foxtrot for our warm down, putting on a song from years before either of us started dancing, You’re the Boss .

I’m in agony. While a locked arm frame and torso is supposed to lead my partner, the stance for this style requires our hips to be arched toward one another, so our lower abdomens brush with every step. The teasing, light friction tortures my cock. By the end, I’m panting and sweating like I raced our fastest player, who per the stats is our center, Drew Busbee. I only hope Christina doesn’t notice.

As the music ends, I twirl her out and bow, receiving a responding curtsy. When she turns away to power down the stereo and unplug her phone, I surreptitiously adjust myself.

Sitting on a chair along the back wall, I feel ridiculous. I haven’t had an uncontrollable public reaction like this to a woman since my first year of college. Bending over to unlace my shoes, I ask, “Same time tomorrow then? Shall we pick a dance to focus on for a week then switch it up?”

She nods and says, “Swing will give me the most choreography to play to your agility. Shall we start there?”

“Sure. Thank you again.” I nod goodbye and let myself out, already impatient to see what she comes up with.

* * * *

I check my email while my car cools down enough that I can touch the steering wheel. I’m waiting for an all access pass from the Tornadoes Operations Manager, Kayla Morrison. Nothing yet, which likely means the compound hasn’t passed all the required inspections.

As I drive home, my phone buzzes with a text. The display shows it’s from Jack so I play it.

“ETA 30 min. I hope you’re home.”

Gotta love the amount of notice. He’s lucky I wasn’t still at the studio, or my phone would have been on Do Not Disturb.

Ah well, such are the joys of roommates. We’ll figure out how best to work with each other.

Pulling into the driveway, I leave my car outside in case he wants to stage stuff in the garage. Like me, he travels light, but he rented a truck and brought bedroom furniture he owns as well as his hockey stuff and personal belongings. He’s going to buy a car here—he gave his to his younger brother.

I reply to the text with a thumbs up emoji and head inside to stay cool until he needs me to help unload. He’s been living in Las Vegas, so at least he’s used to the heat, if not the humidity. A couple years older than me, he was second line defense there, and he’s hoping to make top six here.

As he’s been making NHL money for a couple years, I’d asked him why he wanted to share a small rental.

He told me he’d just bought his parents’ house and is paying for his brother’s college. As we all get one-year contracts with a new team, he’d rather wait to buy until he knows what his salary—and location—look like beyond this year. He also likes having a built-in friend and wingman.

I’d laughed with him, but I hadn’t understood. I could drop into any environment and get along fine, but I found it hard to make close friends.

The doorbell rings. Weird. No one knows I’m here, except Kayla and the leasing agent bunny.

I check the peephole. That’s a hockey player. If I hadn’t studied the roster sent to us after the draft, I’d know just from the height and build. And this player’s reputation precedes him. Drew Busbee. Why the Tampa Bay Storm gave him up, I don’t know. Well, I can guess. He won a big contract last year, but he’d underperformed—or they didn’t surround him with the right players—and they wanted to reclaim some room under the salary cap. I have high hopes for him, as I’m guessing the owners and coaches do.

I swing the door wide and offer my hand. “Drew. Good to meet you. I’m Cam. When’d you hit town?”

“Uh,” he seems at a loss, and glances down. A large suitcase sits at his feet. “Did Jack not mention I’m crashing here for a few days?”

I raise my brows. “Hmm. Roommate breakdown in communication. Not the first time or the last time. Come on in out of the heat. At least you’re in time to help me unload Jack’s truck. He should be here any minute.”

“This weather isn’t bad. You’ll get used to it.”

I roll my eyes. If one more person tells me that, I might lose my shit. His Florida days must have acclimated him. I’m excited that hockey has finally spread south and west so much in my lifetime.

He looks around the living room and kitchen, then spies the pool through the window in the kitchen door. “Sweet. You guys will be party central.”

“I hope Jack’s dog is friendly, then.”

A car horn sounds outside. I check the front window and Jack is waving at me.

“We’re up.” I gesture to Drew to follow me to the garage, where one bay is clear for us to stage Jack’s belongings as we unload the truck.

The garage door slides up to reveal a six-foot-one hockey player with his blond hair up in a man bun bouncing on his toes holding a leash. A medium-sized mutt with definite shades of Australian shepherd is on the other end panting. “Cam! Buzz! Great to see ya! Hey, give us a minute, it’s been a long last leg with too much iced tea.”

Drew and I exchange smirks as Jack rushes by us to find a bathroom.

“Oh yeah, call me Buzz if you’d like,” Drew comments.

We unlock the back of the moving truck and shove the rear panel up. We groan in unison at the contents. There won’t be a need to find a gym to work out today, this will cover it. Jack’s bedroom furniture is only a third of what’s in there. He owns enough stuff to fill the whole house and then some.