Page 4

DECLAN

T he next morning, I wake up early and head to Sweet Sensations, a bakery I found with great reviews. The bell chimes as I enter, and the scent of fresh bread and cinnamon makes my stomach growl so loudly the elderly woman browsing muffins gives me a startled look. I offer an apologetic smile. Not my fault I burn calories like a furnace on full blast.

“Good morning!” a cheerful voice calls out. A young woman stands behind the counter, her blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. “What can I get for you today?”

“I’ll take a half dozen peach danishes,” I say, scanning the display case. “And maybe a couple of those chocolate croissants too? They look amazing.”

As she boxes up the pastries, I find myself thinking about what I know of Victoria. She comes from a small town, like me. I grew up in a tiny place in Minnesota where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Moving to Sugar City was a huge adjustment—the anonymity, the pace, the distance from family. I wonder if she feels the same way.

“Anything else?” the clerk asks.

“Actually, could you add a couple of those cinnamon rolls, too? And maybe a couple of coffees? Just a splash of cream, no sugar.”

I’m not sure how she takes her coffee, but I figure someone who moves with such precision and control might prefer their coffee straightforward. I grab a couple packs of sugar though, just in case I’m wrong.

With the pastry box in one hand and a coffee carrier in the other, I head to our session, feeling surprisingly nervous. It’s just pastries, I tell myself. A simple thank you for her time. Nothing more.

But even as I think it, I know it’s not true. I want so much more. I want to see Victoria smile, yes, but I also want to see her naked, her curves spread out beneath me as I worship every inch of her body. My cock twitches just imagining her breasts freed from that oversized top, how her thighs would feel wrapped around my waist. Every time she demonstrated a movement, all I could think about was how that flexibility would translate in my bed. When she effortlessly lifted her leg into some impossible position, my brain short-circuited like I just took a slap shot to the helmet. Since she agreed to these extra sessions, she probably thought I was concentrating on proper technique. But really, I was trying not to dive face first into that sweet pussy.

It’s already driving me crazy, this constant state of arousal. Just the thought of her correcting my form has me wanting to pull her against me and show her exactly what she does to me. I’m desperate to know if she feels this electric current between us too, or if I’m just torturing myself with impossible fantasies.

“What’s all this?” Victoria asks when I arrive at the training room, eyeing the bakery box and coffees in my hands.

“A thank you,” I explain, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “For taking the time to help me.”

Her eyebrows lift in surprise. “That’s... thoughtful of you.”

I set everything down on a small table by the wall. “I got peach danishes. I read online that your friend Shelby makes amazing ones back in Peach Springs. These probably aren’t as good, but I thought you might like a taste of home.”

Victoria’s expression softens, then turns curious. “You googled me?”

“Just a little,” I admit with a shrug. “I wanted to bring something you’d like.”

She approaches the table cautiously, like she’s not sure what to make of me. “That’s very sweet, but you know I’m still going to charge you a bomb for the lesson, right?”

I laugh, relieved by her joke. “I’d be happy to pay double if it helps my game.”

“Let’s see how you do today before you make that offer,” she says with a small smile, reaching for one of the coffees. “Is this for me, too?”

“Yeah. Just a splash of cream, no sugar. Hope that’s OK.”

She takes a sip, and her eyes widen slightly. “That’s exactly how I take it. Lucky guess?”

“Something like that,” I reply with a grin.

Victoria studies me for a moment, seeming to reassess me. “Well, thank you. Should we get started with your lesson?”

The next hour flies by. Victoria is a tough teacher, making me repeat moves until my muscles hurt. But she also encourages me, noticing when I get better. I love watching her show the steps—she moves so smoothly that even simple moves look beautiful.

“You’re actually not bad at this,” she says as I hold a position without shaking. “You have good balance.”

“Must be from all those years on skates.”

“Maybe. But it’s more than that.” She steps around me, adjusting my arm slightly. “You actually pay attention to your body. A lot of athletes just force their way through movements. You think about how each part works together.”

As she speaks, she moves in closer, placing her hands on my waist to fix my posture. Her touch burns through my t-shirt, and it takes everything in me not to groan. She smells sweet, and I’m two seconds away from tackling her to the ground and showing her exactly how my body moves.

“Stand tall,” she says softly, snapping me out of my filthy thoughts. “Engage your core. Feel how your muscles respond, Declan.”

“Right. Core. Got it.” I adjust my stance, doing my best to focus. But it’s hard when she’s this close.

“A little straighter,” she murmurs.

She steps in, so close I catch the faint scent of vanilla and sweat, which together is unexpectedly intoxicating. Her hands adjust at my waist, firm and sure, but then they linger. A beat too long. My skin prickles under her touch.

Suddenly, we’re face to face. Her breath brushes my lips. Her fingers tighten like she’s forgotten herself, and I swear her gaze drops to my mouth. Just for a second.

Heat flashes through me. I want to close the distance. Taste her. Hear the sound she’d make if I did.

But just as fast, she jerks back like she touched a live wire. Her hands fall away, and she clears her throat, eyes skittering to the floor. “That’s better,” she says, but her voice betrays her, her tone soft, uneven. Wrecked.

I nod, jaw tight, not trusting myself to speak. The air crackles. My body’s humming. I don’t know what just passed between us, but it’s still here, stretching tight between us like a wire about to snap.

“Right.” I pause, needing to clear my throat so my words don’t come out rough. “The spin move I mentioned. Can we work on that?”

She nods, the quick movement of her head just a little too sharp, like she’s trying to shake something off. “Show me what you’ve been doing.”

I demonstrate my current spin-o-rama, mimicking how I’d do it on the ice but without the skates. Victoria watches, arms folded, but her gaze flickers, eyes moving from my shoulders, to my hips, my feet. Her professional mask is back on, but I notice the faint flush still clinging to her throat.

“I see the issue,” she says, stepping in. “You’re losing your axis halfway through. The power is good, but your core isn’t stabilized.” She spins. It’s clean, precise, gorgeous. Her skirt flares just enough to tease a glimpse of stockinged thigh.

I try again, focusing hard on keeping my core tight, and spotting like she showed me. It feels different. Sharper. More deliberate.

“Better!” she says, a grin breaking across her face. And damn if it doesn’t knock the wind out of me. “Try again, but this time, initiate from your center, not your shoulders.”

We repeat the drill, her fingers occasionally grazing my arm or waist as she adjusts my position. Each touch is brief, but my body records every one like a tally mark.

“This is amazing,” I admit after a particularly smooth spin. “I can feel the difference.”

Her smile is wide, genuine. It softens her whole face, makes her look younger. “That’s ballet for you. It’s all about understanding the mechanics of movement.”

We go through a few more drills, focusing on quick direction changes and balance. The tension fades, or at least goes dormant, as we fall into rhythm. But I’m still acutely aware of her. Every brush of her hand. Every shift in her scent when she moves.

“Well,” she says when we finally stop, a little breathless. “I think we’ve earned those pastries.”

I blow out a slow breath and nod. I’m soaked with sweat and my legs feel weak, but in the best way. Like I’ve worked for something that matters. Victoria still looks perfect, barely winded—except for that pink flush in her cheeks that only makes me want to rewind to the moment where her hands were on me.

We sit on the floor, the bakery box between us. When she takes a bite of a peach Danish and closes her eyes, making this soft sound in the back of her throat, it does something to me.

“Mmm. Not bad. Not as good as Shelby’s, but pretty close.”

“Tell me about Peach Springs,” I say, reaching for a croissant and trying not to stare at her mouth. “What’s it like growing up there?”

Victoria wipes a crumb from her lip, and the tip of my tongue tingles like it wants to follow the path. I take a bigger bite of croissant to distract myself. “Small. Everyone knows everyone’s business. The kind of place where if you sneeze at the grocery store, your mother hears about it before you get home.”

I laugh. “Sounds like my hometown. Pine Creek, Minnesota. Population: barely a thousand. We had one stoplight, and it was always blinking yellow.”

“Peach Springs has three stoplights, and we’re very proud of them,” Victoria says with a smile. “Two were installed when I was in high school. It was big news.”

“I bet. We got a second gas station when I was sixteen, and people talked about it for months.”

She laughs, and the sound curls warm in my chest. I’d do just about anything to hear that again.”What brought you to Sugar City?”

“Hockey, obviously. Got drafted right out of college. This is my fifth season with the Nighthawks.” I take another bite, watching her over the edge of the croissant. “What about you? How’d you end up teaching ballet to a bunch of hockey players?”

Victoria’s smile softens into something more thoughtful. “Dr. Angelo reached out about the program. We met during a medical conference where I was giving a lecture on dance therapy for seniors. She liked my approach. We kept in touch, and eventually, she invited me to help with the Nighthawks.”

I nod, impressed. “So basically, you’re a big deal.”

She rolls her eyes, but her smile says she likes hearing it. “It was too interesting to pass up, even though it meant leaving my studio for a while.”

“Do you miss it? Peach Springs, I mean.”

She nods, and there’s a shadow behind her expression now. “Every day. I miss my students, my little house with the garden out back. I even miss the way old Mr. Patterson complains about my music being too loud, even though his hearing aids are always off and he yells at everyone.”

I chuckle, but it’s a little tight in my throat now. “How long are you staying in Sugar City?”

“Just until the end of the season.” She says it gently, like she’s trying to let me down easy. “I have assistant teachers covering my classes back home, but I need to get back to my studio.”

A pang hits, hard and fast. I cover it with a shrug. “Makes sense. I’m sure Peach Springs can’t function without its star ballet teacher.”

Victoria smiles, but there’s a flicker of something else in her eyes. Regret, maybe. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part. “It’s more that I can’t function without Peach Springs. I built something important there. It’s where I belong.”

There’s a finality to her tone, and it makes my stomach drop. I want to say she could belong here too. With me. But we’re still standing on shaky ground, and I don’t want to push.

So instead, I nod and reach for another pastry. “Well, I’m glad you’re here now. You’re already making a difference with the team.”

“Thank you,” she says, checking her watch. “I should get going. I have another session in thirty minutes.”

My stomach twists. “Another session? You’re two-timing me with other players?” I keep my tone light, but there’s an edge even I can hear. The idea of her giving this kind of attention—the soft voice, the guiding touch—to someone else? Yeah, it’s not my favorite.

Victoria arches a brow. “It’s a children’s class at the community center. Volunteer work.”

“Oh.” I feel instantly stupid, the irrational jealousy evaporating like steam. “Teaching tiny ballerinas, huh?”

“Teaching anyone who wants to learn,” she says, smiling as she tucks a bottle into her bag. “Ballet should be for everyone, regardless of age, gender, or body type.”

She says it with this quiet fire that makes my pulse pick up. I want to ask her more. Like why it matters to her, what dance gave her. But there’s no time.

“That’s pretty cool,” I say instead. “Not everyone gets that invested in what they do.”

She shrugs, but I can tell she likes the compliment. “It’s important. Dance changed my life. Everyone deserves that chance.”

I nod, watching her move with the same grace she teaches. There’s something magnetic about her. Something that makes me want to stay in whatever room she’s in.

“Maybe we could do this again?” I ask. “The extra training, I mean. I really do think it’s helping.”

Victoria hesitates. My chest tightens. But then she nods.

“Same time next week?”

“It’s a date,” I blurt. Then backpedal. “I mean—not a date-date.”

She gives me a soft laugh, eyes twinkling. “I knew what you meant, Declan. See you at team training tomorrow.”

As she walks away, I’m left standing there, grinning like a fool. It was just pastries and conversation. Just a shared hour in a sweaty gym. But it feels like the start of something bigger. Something I want more of.

Want? That’s not strong enough. This isn’t a want. It’s a need.

I need more of her.