Page 22 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)
“You’re not spotting, your foot is sickled, and you need to engage your core more,” my dance teacher, Ms. Carmine, harps, circling me with a stern look written on her face.
I fall out of my octuple fouetté with pinched breath, blinking away the dizziness that thuds my head in like a kick drum.
I don’t know why I’m so off today. I asked Ms. Carmine for a private dance lesson since we don’t get a lot of one-on-one time during class, and I’m wondering if I made the wrong decision.
Not to mention that it’s Sunday and I still have a full lab report to finish for Biology.
“I can do it,” I pant, trying to shake off the migraine skewering my brain. “Let me try again.”
Ms. Carmine puts her hand on my shoulder, sighing out her frustration. Even though she can be scary with her slicked-back bun and drill sergeant voice, she’s a huge softie underneath.
“Sweetheart, you need to let your body rest. You’ve been at this for an hour now.”
Indignation wars inside me. “If I can just land?—”
“Take a break and hydrate. We can continue this next week,” she decides firmly.
My overtaxed muscles cry in relief, but I’m so hyperfixated on getting the sequence perfect that I want to keep practicing despite her warning.
It’s like I can never be happy with any sort of improvement because I’m always trying to be better.
I’m always comparing myself to the other girls in my class, as if it’s some sort of competition.
I didn’t used to be this competitive, but after my incident, I think I’m convinced that I need to prove myself to people who don’t matter.
I’m not open about my heart condition. The limited few that I have told looked at me strange when I disclosed I was a dancer, like they couldn’t believe I was capable because I had a disability.
I don’t want people to pity me. I just want to… exist .
Turns have never been my strong suit, but I thought I was getting better.
Defeated, I amble over to my duffel bag, pulling out my water bottle and taking a long drag. The coolness extinguishes both the physical and figurative fire inside me as my heart slows to a metronomic pace. For the first time in an hour, I let go of the control tightly hugged against my chest.
I just need to be kind to myself. It’s such a ridiculous reminder. I don’t even realize I’m being so cruel until the tears well on my lash line.
Ms. Carmine slugs her bag over her shoulder. “I have to run and pick up my daughter. You can lock up after me, right?”
I nod and wave goodbye, watching as she fumbles for her car keys and sprints out of the studio. Ms. Carmine is a single mother. I have no idea how she does it, but there’s something comforting in knowing that she’s managed to balance her love for dance and her family.
Just one more time , I think to myself. Get the choreography right, and you can go home.
It’s not our dance class’s choreography that I’m practicing. It’s the one from UDA Nationals.
The one I was in the middle of before my whole life fell apart.
With a centering exhale, I unlock my phone and scroll to my music, hitting play on “flatline” by Sam Short.
Just let go, Merit. Stop trying to meet impossible expectations. Dance because you want to, not because you have something to prove.
The song starts out slow, coupled with the singer’s harmonious voice and the light strum of an acoustic guitar in the background. I let the music dictate my movement; I let all my suppressed emotions trickle out of me, diluted of the poison that’s given me nothing but hell these past few days.
I start in a plié, rolling my head in time with the rhythm, contorting my limbs in sharp, jagged shapes.
And when the bridge starts to build, I pretend to clutch my chest, propelling off my feet to jump in place before running into a switch leap across the floor.
The chorus echoes in the empty studio, and I arabesque for a moment, still, a direct contrast to the frenetic movements I executed before.
A facsimile of perfection, suspended in time.
I turn over my left shoulder, performing a calypso that ultimately sends me to the floor as I use the outside of my thigh to swing myself a few feet across the space.
Relying on my left hand to support my body weight, I arch my spine into another twisted shape, pushing my pelvis up with the help of my feet planted firmly into the ground.
Then I lower back down, straddling in my middle splits, before rolling back up to a stance.
I try that octuple fouetté again—with Ms. Carmine’s voice in the back of my head—and focus on a spot on the far wall so I can whip around without getting dizzy. And somehow, without falling out of it, I land the spin, finishing it off with a side tilt so my leg is completely extended over my head.
As the song dwindles, I shift my weight to my right foot, letting the momentum spin me around so I can replicate the same position I was in when I started—knees bent, head lowered, spine curved.
The turbulent choreography ends. Everything is still. I’m one with my head, heart, and body. I’ve never been able to perfect that turning portion. I wasn’t given the chance to on stage before I collapsed. But this…this is a fresh start for me. Things are going to be different.
I relish the silence, listening to the heave-ho of my breaths while my success whets that hardworking appetite of mine.
And just as I’m about to run the sequence again, the distinct noise of someone clapping yanks me from my heavenly reverie.
Turning around—too flustered to tell them off—I’m in a complete state of shock when my eyes land on Crew of all people.
There he is, still clapping, staring in awe at my performance. I’ve never been shy when it comes to dancing, but to dance in front of him ? I feel like he just jammed his thumb into a lockbox of all my secrets and wrenched it open.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, doing my best to cover up my crop top, though I’m not sure why because it’s not like we haven’t already seen each other naked.
“I came here to deliver a message,” Crew explains, bowing like an idiot, and I hate that the beginning of a smile even tempts my lips.
“Your dad approved the hockey team’s involvement in your fundraiser.”
Don’t squeal. Don’t squeal. Don’t squeal. Act cool. It’s not a big deal. I’m not giving Crew the benefit of being my savior…even though he is.
Keeping it prim and proper, I utter a simple “thank you,” hoping that my apathy dissuades him from encroaching on Merit-only territory.
I appreciate him going out of his way to tell me, but that doesn’t mean we need to start a conversation.
He’s off-limits. And annoying. And a hockey player. What more convincing do I need?
But he has a big ? —
Merit!
Heart. He has a big heart.
And penis.
Something is seriously wrong with you.
I walk over to retrieve my bag—you know, the universal sign that I’m about to leave—but Crew must’ve missed social etiquette class because he continues to yap my ear off.
“I didn’t know you could dance like that,” he says, thoroughly impressed, eyes all big and glossy like he’s a kid in a candy store .
I try to hide how much I love the praise. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I reply, furling my hand around the strap of my duffel.
I’m ready to put a pin in this conversation, but leave it to Crew to prolong my torture in the most unmenacing way possible. Before I can beeline for the door, he implores me with that sensual voice of his, and it drips down my spine like honey straight from the comb.
“I want to learn more.”
His—seemingly unequivocal—declaration sets off the alarm bells in my head, piquing my interest despite my father’s warning. I have no idea why he’d want to get to know me when all I’ve done is give him hell.
“Why?”
He doesn’t hesitate, and my belly fizzles with a foreign warmth.
“Because you seem like someone worth knowing. Plus, we’re going to be working together for an entire semester.”
I tip my head up at him, hyperaware of the fact that I’m tightroping on a knife’s edge, destined to plummet to my death if I so much as move an inch off target.
My words are brittle, and it feels like there’s a fishing line caught in my throat, tugging on the delicate tissue. “If you think we’re going to be friends, we aren’t.”
Crew inches closer to me, hooking his index finger under my jaw and forcing me to look into the irresistible, blue quarries of his eyes. “Merit, I don’t want to be your friend.”
Dear God. His touch should repulse me—he’s a hockey player for Christ’s sake—but it doesn’t. It never has. I’ve never been putty in a man’s hands before. It’s terrifying and exhilarating and I’m not in the right headspace to consider the consequences.
Eschew eye contact, girl! Push him away! Don’t give in.
But it feels so nice to be seen .
Oddly, Crew is the one to realize the gravity of a skin-to-skin situation because he withdraws his hand a moment later, blood welling under his cheeks. “Let me treat you to lunch. All I’m asking for is an hour, and if you really don’t want to talk to me after that, I promise I’ll leave you alone.”
Crew? Leave me alone? That’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one.
“And what if someone sees us together?” I prod, still not entirely convinced.
“We’re sharing a meal together, not sucking face.”
Come on, Merit. Nothing is going to happen. Aren’t you tired of being such a Goody Two-shoes? Your parents already cross your boundaries. Are you really going to let them dictate who you hang out with too?
I just don’t want to upset anyone.
You always put everyone else first. When are you going to start prioritizing what you want?
And what? I want Crew Calloway? Please.
No, you want to be cared for. Out of genuine interest, not obligation.
Crew’s voice reels me back to the present. “You’re seriously going to turn down free food?”
I’m about to do just that when my traitorous stomach gurgles in resentment, and I slap a hand over my belly.
His eyebrow hikes up. “That’s what I thought.”
Ugh, I am starving. And if Crew’s insistent on paying, I should be grateful and accept his invitation, right?
While I mentally weigh the pros and cons of this “friendly” arrangement, Crew doesn’t give me much of a say before dragging me toward the exit, practically vibrating with excitement. “Come on. I know the best burger joint in town.”