‘I’d be happy to swap for a day so you can experience it first-hand.’
‘As much as I’d love to see you in here, trying to wrangle a bunch of toddlers, you couldn’t handle my job.’ She held the door open for him, and offered another saccharine smile. ‘Besides, I have the most annoying student to teach.’
Grant couldn’t help it—a hearty laugh burst free. She was prickly, all right, but hot damn if he didn’t enjoy it. ‘Sucks to be you?’
He waited while she locked up, and then they walked to their respective cars. The lights on his Mercedes flashed as he pressed the unlock button. Inside the car was chilly, and the windows took a moment to clear.
By then Jasmine was gone. Within minutes Grant was zipping along the freeway, the street lights blurring orange outside his window as the car tore down the open road. It was late and the city had long cleared its peak hour congestion. He massaged his injured hamstring, the muscle aching under the pressure of his fingers.
Who would have thought something as prissy as ballet would be such a workout? Not that he would dare admit it to Jasmine or any of his team-mates.
His phone buzzed in the mobile-phone holder attached to his windscreen. The goofy face of fellow Victoria Harbour Jaguars player Dennis Porter flashed up. He swiped the answer button.
‘Den.’
‘How are the ballet lessons going?’ Even through the phone line Dennis’s mischievous tone was obvious. ‘I wanted to see if your masculinity is slipping away by the minute.’
Ballet lessons were far from Grant’s idea of fun, but a persistent hamstring injury meant the need for increased flexibility training, and who better to help with that than a ballerina? His physiotherapist had made it sound good in theory, but the reality was proving to be much more irritating—especially since it gave his team-mates more than enough fodder for locker room jokes.
‘Ha!’ Grant scoffed. ‘Even if it was you wouldn’t be in with a chance. You’re not my type.’
‘Yeah, yeah. That’s what all the ladies say. So tell me that at least your teacher is hot?’
‘Hot doesn’t even begin to cover it.’
He’d been expecting someone older, more severe...maybe with a Russian accent. He’d had to keep his mouth firmly shut when a willowy beauty with a long black ponytail and porcelain skin greeted him at the studio.
‘Maybe I’ll have to pop in to one of your lessons.’
A surprising jolt of emotion raced through Grant’s veins at the thought of letting Den anywhere near Jasmine. He shook off the strange protective urge and forced his mind back to the present. ‘I know you want to see me in action.’
‘The whole country wants to see you in action. It’s going to be a good season. I can feel it.’
‘Me too.’
A drawn-out pause made Grant hold his breath.
‘Do you think all that other stuff is behind you now?’ Den asked.
Part of him wanted to answer truthfully. He didn’t know if it would ever be behind him. How could you forget the moment you almost flushed your life’s work down the toilet? Considering football was all he had, it was a damn scary thought. But Den was only a buddy, a mate...and as one of the more junior guys in the team he was not someone to whom Grant could show weakness.
‘Of course. You know me—I’m practically invincible.’
He hung up the phone and allowed his mind to drift back to Jasmine. She was a curious case, seemingly unaffected by him in the way other women were. How much did she know about his past? Was that why she eyed him with such wariness?
Regret coiled in his stomach. Gritting his teeth, Grant turned up the stereo and shook his head. The beat thundered in his chest and made his eardrums ache, yet he couldn’t drown out the thoughts swimming like sharks in his head. Around and around they circled, occupying the space—scaring off any semblance of peace.
He slammed his palm against the sturdy leather-covered steering wheel. He wasn’t looking forward to the rest of his ballet lessons, even with a teacher who was a walking fantasy. He had better things to do with his time...like figuring out how he was going to get his team to victory.
Given his not-too-distant fall from grace, he had a lot to prove and a reputation to rebuild. In particular he had to convince his coach, his team and the fans that he was at the top of his game again. The last thing he needed was to be distracted by a woman. If it were any other girl he’d simply scratch the itch and move on, but that wasn’t going to be possible given the ongoing nature of their lessons.
Groaning, he pressed his head back against the headrest. He had a bad feeling about her; there was something about her that set his body alight in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time. And the way she’d been staring at him after the lesson...talk about an invitation to sin. Warning bells were going off left, right and centre.
He couldn’t do it—not now that he was finally making progress in clearing the mud from his name. This was going to be his season. Nothing was going to distract him; nothing was going to stand in his way.
* * *
‘No!’
Grant sat bolt upright, rigid as though a steel rod had replaced his spine. Perspiration dripped down the side of his neck, his face, along the length of his spine. He felt around in the dark. The sweat-drenched sheets were bunched in his fists as he held on for dear life.
He was alone.
His breath shook; each gasp was fire in his lungs. His chest heaved as he sucked the air in greedily. More. More.
His eyes adjusted to the dark and he could make out the lines of the furniture around him. City light filtered through the slats of his blinds, creating a pattern on his bed. The apartment was silent; the rest of the world was sleeping while he shook.
Slowly his heartbeat resumed its normal rhythm. The tremors would take a while longer to go away—he knew that from experience. It was only a dream. The dream. The one he had over and over and over—the one that woke him with a fright every single time.
Flashbulbs disorientated him, microphones were shoved in his face.
‘Grant! Grant! Is it true you put a man in hospital? Is it true you beat him to a pulp?’
Shaking his head, he disentangled himself from the bedsheets and strode out to the living room. Starlight streamed in through the window and the city twinkled a silent tune. It was a surreal feeling to be in close proximity to thousands of people and yet be completely and utterly alone.
Opening the lid of his laptop, he settled onto the couch. His personal email showed the same sad scene it did every day: zero new messages. Even Dennis, the closest thing he had to a friend, hadn’t sent him anything...not even a stupid Lolcats photo. He clicked on the folder marked ‘family’ and sighed at the measly three emails that he couldn’t bear to delete. The last one was dated over six months ago.
He checked the spam folder, wondering if—hoping that—maybe a message had got caught in the filter, that maybe someone had reached out to him. No luck. The folder was empty.
He’d never regretted leaving the small country town where he’d grown up to pursue football and success in the big smoke, despite the verbal smack-down he’d got from his father. He could remember with clarity the vein bulging in his father’s forehead as his voice boomed through their modest country property. Those three little words: How could you? How could he desert them? How could he abandon the family business? How could he put a pipe dream before his father and sister?
Those wounds had only started healing, with the tentative phone calls and texts increasing between him and his sister. The old bonds had been there, frayed and worn but not completely broken. Not completely beyond repair. Even his father had provided a gruff enquiry as to Grant’s life in the city.
But all that was gone now. Those fragile threads of reconciliation had been ripped apart when he’d brought shame to the fa
mily name. They were his father’s words but he couldn’t dispute them. He didn’t have the right to be mad. He was alone because of his own actions, because of the mess he’d made. And, knowing his father, he wouldn’t get a second chance.
All the more reason to make sure the Jaguars were on top this year. If his career was all he had left he’d give it everything. He would not fail.
Slamming the lid of the laptop shut, he abandoned the couch to grab a drink from the fridge. If sleep was going to be elusive he might as well do something to pass the time.
TWO
‘Dammit,’ Jasmine muttered as she battled with her large pink umbrella. The blustery weather meant it was virtually useless to ward off the sideways rain as it pelted her in the face and soaked her jeans.
Her hair streaked around her, the dark strands blocking her vision as she wrestled it into submission. She dashed across the busy street, feet sliding on the slick pavement. Panting, she hitched her bag up higher on her shoulder and ducked under the shelter of the doctor’s clinic. She shook the umbrella, flicking droplets of water all around her, and walked through the automatic doors to the clinic’s reception.
‘Hi, Jasmine.’ The receptionist greeted her with a familiar smile. ‘Dr Wilson will be with you momentarily.’
Jasmine sank into a chair and wound her rain-drenched ponytail into a bun. Water dripped down the back of her neck and her ankle throbbed inside her boot, a constant reminder that the accident was not yet behind her.
Another one of the staff members gave her a friendly wave as they walked through the reception area. She was practically part of the furniture here.
After a brief check-up and lecture from her doctor Jasmine left, a fresh prescription in her hand since she’d fed the last one to her shredder. She hated taking the painkillers he’d prescribed; along with her inability to heal, they felt like another sign of weakness.
The doctor had again broached the topic of her seeing a psychologist...as though her problems were all in her head. But they weren’t—they were real. Her ankle would never again be strong enough to sustain her en pointe, and without ballet she had nothing...was nothing. She wrapped her arms around herself as she made her way to the reception desk.
God she missed it—the glitter of stage lights reflecting off sequins, the thunder of the audience’s applause, the thrill of mastering a new part. What could she do with her life now that all those things were gone? Every time she tried to think about it her mind went blank. There was nothing else in her heart except ballet, nothing else she was passionate about. It was ballet or bust...and she was definitely going bust.
Rain thundered outside the clinic and a bright flash lit up the windows, signalling that the storm was raging on. She regretted catching public transport; there was no way she’d get home dry. Stupidly, she’d come without the car she sometimes borrowed from Elise’s mother, thinking perhaps she could save money if she stuck to buses and trams. In hindsight it was a doomed plan, given that Melbourne’s public transport system was prone to failure when the weather turned. But without the cash for her own set of wheels she’d be rocking the drowned rat look on a more frequent basis.
Cursing, she signed the appointment form and paid with the notes from the envelope in her bag. It had her name scrawled across the front in Grant’s chicken-scratch handwriting.
‘Jasmine?’
A familiar voice demanded her attention. Speak of the devil.
Grant stood in the centre of the waiting room, dressed in his training gear. He looked infinitely more relaxed than the last time she’d seen him, his face open, though he hadn’t lost any of the arrogance in his swagger. People in the clinic—mainly women—admired him openly and whispered to one another behind their hands.
‘Fancy seeing you here.’ She kept her voice professional, pushing aside the prickle of irritation left over from their first lesson together.
‘The club gets remedial massage here.’ He signed his own form with a scrawl. ‘These tight calves are giving me hell.’
She couldn’t stop the spread of an evil smile across her lips. Her calf exercises were notorious for punishing new students and she felt a small tingle of satisfaction that he was no different.
‘Cry-baby,’ she said, wrapping a fluffy orange scarf around her neck and preparing for the onslaught of the rain.
He chuckled. It was a sound designed to make a woman’s stomach flutter, and hers did...right on cue. She cursed her body for its mindless response.
He walked beside her, and a frosty blast of air hit them as the automatic doors slid open to reveal a wet and miserable winter’s day. ‘What are you here for?’
‘An old injury.’ She paused under the awning of the clinic. She undid the clasp on her umbrella and opened it against the wind, wincing as the material flapped in protest. Turning to walk away from the car park, she waved. ‘Well, I’d better run.’
Grant raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. ‘You didn’t drive?’
She couldn’t blame him for thinking she was mad—even she was thinking she might have gone loopy. Who would choose to give up a car with seat warmers on a day like this? Her bones were already chilled to their core, and a five-minute walk to the bus stop was only going to make things worse.
She shook her head.
‘I’ll give you a lift. You can’t walk in the rain.’
Grant set off towards the car park without waiting for her to accept his offer. She paused, her brows furrowing. Another blast of cold air made her shiver as she followed him. Indignation at his demanding tone wasn’t going to force her to give up a free ride today.
Grant’s long strides made quick work of the car park. He walked with his head bent to the wind, not looking to see if she’d followed him. She quickened her pace, her boots splashing through puddles as she jogged. The car’s lights flashed as it was unlocked and Jasmine scampered around to the passenger side, eager to get out of the wet.
Slamming the door behind her, she shivered. Droplets of water had flicked all over the pristine leather seats, and the windows fogged from their breathing. Grant turned over the engine and flicked on the demister. They waited while the glass returned to its normal transparent state.
His eyes were on her.
* * *
Her pale skin was flushed from the cold. A strawberry colour stained her cheeks and, even as dishevelled and rain-soaked as she was, Jasmine was still the most stunning woman Grant had ever encountered.
‘Where am I taking you?’ He started the engine and let the car idle while it warmed up.
‘To the ballet studio.’ Blowing on her hands, she rubbed them together and shivered in her seat. ‘Please.’
Grant turned up the heater, flicking the centre vent so that it blew in her direction. He could smell the combination of perfume and rain on her skin. Water droplets slid down her neck, disappearing beneath her scarf. For some reason he found that indescribably erotic.
‘So you’re dealing with an injury?’ He forced his mind onto another topic. Injuries were safe, unsexy. ‘From dancing?’
‘Yeah.’ Her voice sounded tight and she didn’t elaborate.
He stole a glance at her profile as he turned to the rear window, easing the car out of its spot. She shot him a rueful smile, a dimple forming in her cheek. His eyes flickered over her small but full-lipped mouth.
‘I bet you get more injuries in football, though—like a broken nose, perhaps?’ Her voice held a slight sense of mischief.
Most girls wouldn’t be so quick to point out that he had a crooked nose. But, then again, he could see she was different in every way from the women he met on the football circuit. She wasn’t fake tanned and bleached to the hilt. She didn’t have that artificial look that was the uniform of the WAGs. She was an authentic beauty—a rarity. Her long black hair was wound into a neat bu
n, and the only skin that showed was on her hands and face. She had a certain primness about her that Grant found appealing—a polished elegance that made her look every bit the perfect prima ballerina. And she gave him attitude left, right and centre.
‘Yes to the broken nose, but it didn’t happen on the footy field,’ Grant said, returning his eyes to the front. ‘I had a fight when I’d barely turned eighteen. It was my first night out drinking and I got into a fight at a bar.’
At one point that memory would have filled Grant with a sense of macho pride, as though it were a rite of passage for a young male. Now it made him queasy, with memories bubbling to the surface. Many women liked the whole ‘bad boy’ thing—hell, he’d used it to his advantage time and time again—but those days were well and truly over. Not that anyone believed him.
‘That was a long time ago.’
He kept the mood light, but Jasmine wasn’t letting him get away that easily.
‘I don’t understand why guys fight.’ She shook her head. ‘You don’t need to beat your chest to attract the ladies, you know.’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘What was it like?’
‘I was young, thought I had to prove something.’ He forced a hand through his hair. ‘I wasn’t always this way.’
‘What do you mean?’
He was at a loss for words. People usually didn’t ask personal questions—well, not those beyond what his bank balance was. They never showed any interest in him as a person, never cared about who he was...where he came from.
He shrugged, grappling for a response. ‘In charge.’
‘I have no doubt that you can take care of yourself,’ she said, a soft smile on her lips. ‘But being macho isn’t the way to go about it.’
Perhaps she’d seen the media fuss that had erupted after the incident. There had been an awful paparazzi shot of him doing the rounds on the internet for months afterwards. Luckily the media moved on quickly. Sports stars behaving badly were a dime a dozen. Grant had experienced a sense of guilt when it died down so quickly, though the story still popped up on gossip sites whenever there was a slow news day.
Only the Brave Try Ballet Page 2
