Page 5

Chapter Five

Cam

I might need to start wearing compression shorts under my dance clothes. I leave every lesson with a hard-on, and the lift in the last session, as simple as it was, made it worse.

My fingers tingled knowing how close they were to her pussy. I can’t decide if I hope we’re going to repeat that or not. The dance steps have enough groin rubbing to make me crazy already. This might put me over the edge.

I’ve never been a fan of casual sex, indulging only when I needed a release and didn’t have a girlfriend. And being single happened more often than I’d like, given how brutal a professional hockey player’s schedule is.

And that’s part of the problem. The few glimpses I have of her—her professionalism, her poise, her humor—make me want more than her body. I’d much prefer to take Christina out, get to know her brain first and then her body, but she shot me down after I asked her for coffee. That’s all right, I didn’t make it to the NHL by giving up at the first sign of resistance. So yeah, hard-on or not, lifts need to continue, cuz I swear she twitched when my thumb came to rest on her inner thigh.

After our warmup today, Christina puts music on. We tried the lift with music at the end of yesterday’s hour, so I’m ready.

I spin her out then in. When I place my right palm on her belly, I feel as much as hear a small gasp. My heart begins to pound and my cock is already coming to life. Hopefully, my touch made her catch her breath, so I’m not alone in my reaction.

She swings her arm over me and her left breast is close enough for me to bend my head and bite. Aanndd that thought did not help the rising issue in my pants, dammit.

We do one turn and I set her down as we did yesterday, finishing the dance.

“Great. You remembered all the details,” she says with a smile.

Yesterday, the set down was a little harder than it should have been at first. I was so distracted, I’d lost my perspective on the length of her legs. But it’s fixed now. “Cool. Can we add to it or try something new? Please?”

“Let’s adjust it a little and add to it,” Christina replies, stopping the music. She brings up a short video that shows a male dancer sliding his arm under his partner’s leg to lift her using the crook of his elbow. “I figured since you can squat so low and were lifting me without any effort, you’d be comfortable trying this. What’dya think?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” The guy pliés, sliding his left leg out wide and then side lunging into it. The woman in his arms tilts down, holding one arm in front of her and the outside arm along her body in a flight pose, her lower knee still bent.

Christina stops the video there, though. “Let’s try the different hand positions first.”

“It looked like his hand on her core was a little higher, his arm wrapped around her more?”

“Yes, to use more arm and back muscles as I can’t help with the lift, and to keep my body out of the way of your leg bends. It goes here”—she gestures—“but we’ll get into it by raising our hands together then I’ll keep mine up as you slide yours down to position.”

We’re facing the mirror, with her in front of me. She holds my hand at her waist as though she’s just spun back into this position, and raises our arms overhead. Releasing my hand, she keeps hers there and with her other hand, lowers mine to where it should be.

My hand is over her left ribcage, her breast in that space between my thumb and forefinger. I gulp at the simultaneous impact of the proximity of her soft mound to my digits, visible in the mirror, and the feel of her ribs under my hand. My knees bend into a squat.

“I probably don’t need to say this, but keep your head up so I don’t hit you when you raise me,” she says, watching us in the mirror.

I force myself to keep my gaze on hers in the mirror. Holy shit this is hot, and not just physically. She competed, sure. But not everyone can then find a way to teach it to a wide variety of students in an understandable way. With a nod, I slide my arm under her raised leg, bending my elbow against her taut adductors along her inner thigh.

“Remember, don’t squeeze, just lift. You’re using your arms to lift so your hands can be gentle.”

I do it.

She daintily points her toe as her standing leg leaves the floor and then bends her knee to touch her other leg with the tip of her shoe.

We run through it a few more times before I hold her mid-air and ask, “What about the next step? The side lunge?”

“Okay—”

Excited, I step out and bend my knee, keeping my hold on her. Her weight shifts and my position angles her more steeply toward the floor.

She shrieks and grabs my arm under ribs.

There is zero possibility of me dropping her, so I’m confused, but I quickly straighten both of us and let her down. “I’m sorry, Christina. Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

“No, but you scared me. Let me talk you through moves before you try them. There are micro-adjustments that are important, and I really don’t want to break my face.”

“There was no threat of that. I promised I wouldn’t drop you. I’d sooner take the fall myself.”

“You can’t promise that,” she starts.

Yes I can, and I do. Hockey players have incredibly fast reflexes, and none more so than a goalie.

“Besides, you can still injure one or both of us not knowing how to adjust a hold, or scare the crap out of your partner.” She steps away and takes a few breaths.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. What did I do wrong? Can I see the video again please?”

She plays it and points out where my right elbow needs to raise to keep her horizontal. When she lets it play further, he makes a three-step turn then lifts her to lie face up on his shoulder. She swings her bent leg up and out in front of them both in a straight-legged fan.

Christina continues playing the video, but all I notice is the position of the man’s face at that point. Holy crap, my face will be in the crook of her waist staring at her pussy as she makes that fan. Fuck yeah . Except then I might have to excuse myself from the rest of the lesson. My voice is hoarse when I ask, “Do you want to do that whole sequence?”

“Not right now. Let’s get the first swing right without me feeling as though I’m going to faceplant, then we’ll move on.”

I wince. “Fair.”

We go through it a few times. On the last, I warn her, having learned my lesson, “I’m going to try the three-step turn, okay?”

“Okay.” She apparently feels secure up there.

Her vanilla and coconut scent tantalizes me. Hoping my cock doesn’t block her path down to the floor, I step around before lowering her carefully.

“Nice. Let’s do it at speed with music a few times.”

Her body sliding against mine again might kill me. I turn away, but this studio has way too many mirrors. I fake a need to walk around and shake my arms, just to surreptitiously adjust the steel rod in my pants. At least dance clothes have stretch.

“Am I too heavy?” she calls. “Do you want a break?”

Shit. Shaking my arms sent her the wrong signal. Well, at least she’ll be looking at them and not my dick. I turn and smile, shaking my head. “I’m fine. Let’s do this.”

I’m for sure going to have to rub one out after this, though.

* * * *

I haven’t skated in over a week and am itching to be on blade and ice. The email indicating the main arena and training facility are open encouraged us to try any and all aspects of the complex. The coaches won’t be there until closer to training camp, but they want us to test things and we’re happy to play guinea pigs. The note also reminds of the dates we received in our original welcome/move packages, and I check I have all the dates in my phone calendar. There’s a Fan Day and charity ball coming up on Labor Day weekend, followed by an extended training camp to get us ready as a new team, then into pre-season. The attached map of the facility shows a separate fieldhouse on the property that houses a practice rink and physical therapy rooms, and of course the main ice in the arena. Both buildings have gyms and showers, although the fieldhouse gym is more extensive, according to the email.

Jack and I grab our bags and head over to check out our new team digs—a place that will be home more than any rental house could be. We go to the main building to test out the arena equipment and rink as we’ll spend most of our time in the fieldhouse when training camp and official practices start.

The dressing room is as fancy as any of the league’s. Built-in fans at every player’s spot, carpet, dimmable lighting, and a giant screen at the end of the “U” of seats for game prep all will make it comfortable long after we’ve stunk it up. Overhead, our backlit logo, a purple “TX” split by a stylized gray tornado keeps us centered. I can’t wait to dirty it up with pads and tape balls.

Buzz and a few other guys arrive as we’re unpacking at our assigned lockers, and I recognize Gabriel St. John. He’s been a top performer in the league at right wing and has taken two teams to the Stanley Cup Final, but never won. He was injured on and off most of the past two years and is thirty, which is the only reason the Tornadoes got an opportunity to sign him. Someone like St. John, who has been that close to the Cup and has a limited number of years left to win it, is going to be hungry. I shake his hand eagerly, trying to minimize my fanboying. He’s truly one of the greats.

Buzz and I finish stowing our bags and head to the gym, the others trickling in behind us, still getting to know one another. Like the dressing room, this is state of the art. Top of the line equipment, racks of dumbbells at four spots throughout so no one has to wait, and two rows of bikes for warmups. The carpet is purple and the ceiling is white for better light. Our logo is painted on the ceiling, probably so there’s no bad luck with someone walking over it on the floor. There is a stereo system, but every cardio machine also has a USB port to play your own audio or video. This is a far cry from the stinky, decades old gym in Peoria that was more worn than a chain gym. After wandering around and trying to act cool while silently oohing and aahing, I start my stretch routine. Others get on treadmills or bikes to warm up.

I always stretch because I never know what rotation I’ll be on in net. Even though there aren’t any coaches today, these guys are probably as eager as I am to shoot a puck around again and possibly scrimmage.

My ass almost touches the floor on each side lunge, and my quads bulge with how low I go. I move to pigeon pose to open my hips, lying flush along my bent leg, then rocking back into a calf stretch. Finally, I get to splits.

Gabriel looks over and asks, “Man, I took two weeks off to grab some beach time and get my stuff here and I’m tight. How the hell do you stay so limber?”

Jack jumps in before I can. “Ballroom dancing. He’s gone every day since I arrived. Can you believe it?”

“What the hell?” Gabe looks befuddled.

This won’t be the first or the last time I’ll need to defend my choice. I’m not bothered by it. Hell, I’m proud I chose this way to keep my mother’s memory near and dear. I grin. “Hey, don’t knock it until you try it.”

“Is it to meet chicks?”

“Nah. Most are twice my age, other than the instructors, and they have no-frat rules. It’s to maintain my flexibility and strength with a little fun added in.”

He nods as I switch legs on my forward split. “It worked. You won’t get any flack from me…” he trails off and looks around to catch the others’ eyes, and the next word emerges at a much higher volume. “Prancer.”

They all crack up. I shake my head with a one-sided grin, conceding the point. Apparently, I’ve already earned a team nickname. I suppose it could have been worse.

Eager to test out our home ice, we head out to the rink after warmups. This will likely be our only time to free skate here without coaches yelling at us rinkside. The TX tornado logo is emblazoned at center ice, and the goals are already in place. I pause for a moment and inhale. Nothing beats the smell of a hockey rink.

We start with speed drills and some shots on goal. I don’t usually participate, and I’m terrible. I spend too long imagining where the goalie would be and how he’d react to aim properly. But after the summer, I need to limber up before training camp.

Buzz calls, “I hope you don’t think that shooting is what you’ll have to defend against, Prancer. This ain’t the AHL.”

“Ha ha. You want to take shots on a protected goal? I’m happy to show you what I got.”

“Let’s do it.”

I’m certain either Buzz or Gabe will be our Captain, and I want to impress them. I tug on my protective pads and switch sticks. As I do, I sneak a glance up at the suites. A couple are lit, and I can only hope members of management or even one of the owners—preferably the guy, Greg Donovan, who seems to be the face of the Donovan family owners—are watching, so I can impress them too. I’m determined to have the starting goalie position by the end of training camp.