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Chapter Thirty-Eight

Christina

It’s all I can do to maintain the proper dance frame. I want to snuggle against Cam’s chest once more and feel his arms wrap around me to hold me tight. Being this close but so far apart is torture. And the fact that most of our bodies will touch at some point during this dance? Sheer hell.

We fly through the song as the darkness around us helps me forget the onlookers. When he threads his hand through my legs to drape me over his shoulder, I get the same thrill I have every time since that first day in the studio. But now, every move is laden with emotion and history. We’re in a cocoon we’ve created—of movement, respect, admiration, and at least on my part, love. Our feet and hands move seamlessly because we’re so aware of one another. When he leads me through the hockey stick dance steps, we share a secret smile, remembering the first day we met.

I want to continue this layered interaction that is so personal and intimate forever. But the dance ends too soon. He spins me out, then in, then around so I’m behind him as he faces the crowd. While I only see broad shoulders, I can hear the murmurs and tinkles of glassware, and reality rushes in. On the final beat, in what is becoming a signature move in these dances, he drops into a split with my hand on his shoulder in a gender-reversed version of a typical ending pose.

His teammates are yelling and cheering and catcalling as I give him an assist to rise and bow. The lights come up and I swear they’re ready to brush hundred-dollar bills off their palms. Amy is nearly drooling and Greg is giving us a standing ovation.

Cam turns to me with a huge grin, clearly pleased with his success. As he should be. After one last bow, we grab waters from the bar and walk out of the room to catch our breath. Then we’ll walk through the next one while we’re warm.

However, the emotions and connection of our dance added to my need to apologize and see if he’s as interested as I am in continuing our relationship.

Ever the athlete, Cam’s energy is riding high from his “win.” He tugs me into the small room. The minute the door closes, he crowds me into the wall next to it. Nuzzling my neck where it’s exposed by the clip holding my hair back, he whispers, “I missed you, Dancer.”

We need to talk, but right now I savor being in his arms again clutching his shoulders. His muscles shift under my fingers as he slips one arm around my lower back and the other to the back of my neck, careful not to mess up my hair. His deodorant and laundry detergent smell are as familiar as my own perfume, and his strong arms make me feel safe, like everything will work out.

After another deep inhale, I respond, “I missed you, too. I’m sorry for ending things so abruptly at Thanksgiving. I should have talked to you about my concerns rather than shutting down.”

He raises his head and blinks at me, a smile starting to tease his lips upward. “Really?”

The icy fear that I might not be forgiven begins to thaw at that smile. Knowing his history, I’d wondered if he’d even listen. I’m willing to do what I need to earn his forgiveness and give us another chance. Still wrapped in his arms, I nod. “Really. When I was experiencing the worst of the pain all of my emotions got jumbled. Not being able to dance competitively. The surgery. I tied it all to not physically being able to have children and shut the whole subject down. It was all abstract anyway. This past week, my friends—and a call to my therapist—helped me figure that out I considered it a failing and I didn’t want to admit that to anyone or be rejected because of it.”

He tightens his hold around me then loosens to maintain eye contact. “There are always choices.”

“I’m starting to see that. I’d never met someone who made me think about it again. In fact, I actively avoided men who might. Until you, you pushy goalie.”

I poke him in the chest, but he captures my finger and raises it to his lips.

“Dancer, I don’t want to keep doing what we were doing.”

I gasp, pain knifing through me. I tug at my hand in his. I’ve admitted all this and now he doesn’t want to be with me? He’d said he wanted to talk. I thought it was safe. In the next breath, I catch myself. It doesn’t matter if it was safe or if he doesn’t want me. I needed to do this for myself.

“I don’t want to sneak around, and I don’t want casual. You met Dana briefly.”

I stare at him, unsure where he is going with this.

“You left a strong impression. She gave me an earful about different sizes and shapes of families. As did Saint. Just like you had a unilateral view of having children, I had a myopic idea of how a family is formed.”

Hope wars with fear again. I try to pull back, but the wall is behind me. When I drop my hands, he grabs them and holds them, holding my gaze. He looks so earnest but I don’t dare trust that he means he wants more. I need to hear it. “If you don’t want casual, and you do want kids, where does that leave us?”

“I want you to meet Dana and the kids. I want to look at houses with you, and dance with you, and have you manage my money without showing me all those risks you take so one day I can buy you a ring that will be in keeping with these.” He touches my barrettes with a finger before reclaiming my hand, then continues. “I want to sit down and hash out what our family could look like. Because whatever else it looks like, it includes you. You are the first person I’ve thought of as family in nearly a decade.”

I gasp and it comes out as a sob. My knees go weak, and I’m thankful he has me pinned against a wall. Tears leak out as I stare at him, this gorgeous perfect man who somehow wants me and my flaws. I sigh, releasing every hurt from the past. The pain and anxiety from dealing with a hidden chronic illness, Travis’s deprecation of my dreams, and my unconscious mourning of my inability to bear children. All of it. I squeeze Cam’s hands harder to draw on his strength, unable to form words to even check that this is real.

He bends slightly so we’re face to face, an even playing field—rink.

I want to touch his face, but I can’t bring myself to ease my grip on his hands.

He says, “Dancer, I am in love with you, and you are the most important person in the world to me. I’ll never let you fall—in dance or anything else. We can figure out the rest together.”

My breath catches through my tears. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed to hear those words. My knees choose then to give out. When I start to slide down the wall, he catches me and tugs me against him, exemplifying yet another thing I love about him. I’m sobbing, and petting him as he holds me, trying to smile, breathe and talk all at once through my tears.

Not understanding my garbled attempts at words, he looks at me in concern. “Hey, now. Are you all right? I can keep doing casual and secret if you’re worried. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll keep trying to win you over if you’re not ready.”

I nod then shake my head against him.

He barks a laugh. “Sorry, what does that all mean?”

Finally, I pull myself together enough to tilt my head back. “I am completely in love with you, too, Cam. And yes, I won’t let you fall either, and we’ll figure it out together. But aren’t you worried about your contract?”

“Didn’t you just hear me? You’re the most important thing to me. And anyway,” he shrugs with a mischievous smile. “A little bird in the hallway said I was in the clear. Either way, I’m gonna continue to be the best damned goalie he’s seen, so he won’t be able to get rid of me.”

* * * *

After some serious kissing, Cam puts his phone to our next song and we step through the second dance without the full lifts. We contemplate skipping dinner to snog—a word I learned from Cam—in here, but we’ll need energy for the second, sexier dance.

Tearing ourselves away, we return to our separate tables and try to eat, then return here to re-stretch.

In the ballroom, Cam sheds his suit jacket onto a random empty chairback and flings his bow tie over it. Him in an open-necked white dress shirt is like one of those TikToks where you know what muscles are under it, and they’ll show in the next screenshot. I’m going to have a hard time not dirty dancing with him, never mind the room full of people.

At the end of the song currently playing, I signal to the DJ and Amy to clear the floor and announce us. Amy cajoles the crowd for donations per trick, hinting she hears there’s more than one.

Jack calls, “I’m in for a grand for every time Cam’s feet leave the floor.”

I wonder if he has insider knowledge then laugh because it doesn’t matter.

Either way, Amy is ecstatic when other players call out with their own over-the-top conditions.

I’m giddy from my conversation with Cam. My ebullience carries over into silliness, and I make a crying face at her, fists to my eyes, and she turns to the audience. “Wow, us Donovans are hurt. Must it always be about you hockey guys?” After the laughter dies down, she says, “I got you, Sis. A thousand for every trick Christina does.”

I curtsy and nod to the DJ again. The room darkens and the spotlight returns.

The first notes of Senorita roll out. Where the first dance was elegance, this is sex. It’s designed as a reward for the earlier donations and a temptation all at once. Nothing could suit my mood better.

I’m already grinning as we start flowing with the music in a close hold wherever the steps allow.

Cam catches my leg after a small trick and places it on his shoulder, stepping back a few steps as he drags me on one foot across the floor. Wolf whistles sound out and the audience spurs me on again. Being in Cam’s arms and knowing we’ll raise a ton of money for a good cause elevates my mood and I’m floating.

I move into position for our assisted cartwheels and go up and over Cam’s arm. My arms cross to grab his hands, and I cartwheel in front of him using only his arm strength and mine to keep me from falling headfirst.

The applause sounds subdued, as though they know there’s more.

We turn and I stand perpendicular to Cam, in the position he had just been in, and using whatever power I have, hold his hand to help turn him through a one-handed cartwheel in front of me.

His teammates explode. Their cheers fill up the ballroom nearly drowning out the music.

We wrap with a flourish. Cam twirls me out and slides on his knees to my left leg where he hops up. But instead of taking his bow like we practiced, he tugs me in to face him and threads a hand through my hair under my ear.

Wide-eyed I stare at him, my arms coming to his shoulders.

Our breaths mingle and the ballroom fades away. He brings his other hand to my lower back and arches me into him as though he wants to be certain there’s no mistaking his intentions. Leaning in, he tilts his head with a smile and whispers, “I love you, Dancer.”

Our lips meet and I sense a shocked hush in the room. But I don’t care what’s going on out there.

In here, in this bubble where only Cam and I exist, there is mutual love and respect, and him showing me he means what he says—that I come first.