‘Try again.’
She started the music—the same strains he’d listened to over and over that lesson. His feet moved in time, the steps less foreign to him now.
Neither of them spoke while he completed the exercise. She stood stock-still, observing him. There was something strangely sensual about the complete silence except for the whisper of their feet against the floor. The air crackled between them.
Her eyes flicked over his body. Was she assessing or admiring?
‘You need to rotate your turn-out more,’ she said, walking to him. She placed her hands on his upper thighs, smoothing the muscles outwards. ‘Otherwise you’re putting a lot of strain on the knees.’
Her hands lingered on his thighs, all too close to where his body cried out for her touch. He stirred and bit down on his lip. There was no way he’d be able to hide an erection in these damn tights.
At this distance he could see that her eyes were not merely brown but a medley of chocolate shades: milk, caramel and dark cocoa. Her skin was porcelain-white. She lacked the flaws—freckles and scars—that years on the field had given him. Her lips were rosebud-pink, parted and moistened by the gentle swipe of her tongue.
‘If you leave your hands there I take no responsibility for what happens.’ He leant in, closing the gap between them.
Her eyes flickered up to him, her lips pursing. God, he wanted to taste her. Was she game?
‘Lucky for you I have no problem with taking responsibility,’ she said, withdrawing her hands. ‘You should try it some time.’
Damn.
As they cooled down and stretched out she kept her distance, eyeing him as one might a large dog that wasn’t on a lead. He was momentarily distracted by the sharp pull in his hamstring. Stifling a groan, he leant into the stretch but couldn’t get enough from it. This damn injury was affecting his game and it was pissing him off.
‘Do you want a hand with that?’ She pushed up onto her feet and came closer.
He waggled his eyebrows. ‘Yeah, I want a hand—’
‘Finish that sentence and you’ll get nothing,’ she warned.
Jasmine Bell wore the prissy schoolteacher look better than he’d thought possible.
He kept his mouth shut and she knelt down in front of him. ‘Lie flat on your back and put your right leg up. I’ll give you a little push.’
Was it his imagination or did a subtle flush of pink rise up her neck as she instructed him? She leant her shoulder into the back of his thigh and eased forwards. With her body too close to his, he should have been revelling in the fantasy.
Unfortunately the muscle was so resistant he had to blow out a long breath and focus his energy on allowing it to lengthen. For once he couldn’t even voice the innuendo.
Cold fear trickled down the length of his spine. What if his injury couldn’t be fixed? What if he couldn’t lead the Jaguars to victory? He’d bet everything on his career, and if he lost he’d have nothing at all.
* * *
At the time of her next lesson with Grant, Jasmine was in the studio, choreographing a routine for the teachers of the EJ Ballet School. Looking sexy as hell in a leather jacket over his hoodie and jeans, he stood about in the waiting room, watching her through the viewing mirror. He was early...for once.
Instead of heading straight out, Jasmine had the sudden urge to put on a show. She stretched out at the barre, determined to show off the best of her flexibility. Inside, her head sensibly protested that he was not the kind of guy to encourage. But the thought that he might up the ante of their teasing sent a shiver down her spine. Their last lesson had thrown her into a spin. His questions, the genuine concern in his voice, the tenderness of his touch...it was enough to make even the most sensible girl fantasise. And sensible was Jasmine’s middle name.
Her heart fluttered as she stretched, excitement dancing along her nerves. What was wrong with her? She shook her head and forced herself to focus. Abandoning the barre, she set her shoulders straight and drew a deep breath.
Elise got to Grant before Jasmine made it to the waiting room. She was throwing all her charm at him—flipping her wispy blond ponytail and offering him a smile that could power a small city. Something twisted in Jasmine’s gut—a strange pang that she hadn’t experienced in a long time. She pushed it aside and walked out in time to catch the tail-end of their conversation.
‘That would be amazing!’ Elise’s voice was high-pitched. Buoyant. ‘Did you hear that? Grant is going to get us access to the Long Room for Friday’s game. We can watch him in action.’
A warm heat flared in Jasmine’s chest. Access to the Long Room was more than a couple of general admin tickets. It was a sweet gesture, and for some strange reason it made her tummy flutter. Whether that was from the generosity of his act or the thought of seeing him in his element, she didn’t know.
‘Isn’t that exciting?’ Elise nudged Jasmine in the ribs with her elbow, a hint of warning in her voice.
‘That’s extremely generous,’ Jasmine said.
However, as the warm flush of excitement faded she realised what his invitation meant. Access to the Long Room was kind of like an insider event in the art world—filled with people who knew one another, who dressed the same way, who belonged. And she didn’t belong with the other halves of football’s elite.
Her heart sank. ‘Of course I’ll have to make sure I don’t have anything else on.’
‘You don’t have anything else on,’ Elise said pointedly, her elbow once again digging into Jasmine’s ribs. ‘We’ll definitely come and watch.’
Relax, she told herself, it won’t be like the art community. Sport is inclusive, right? Her stomach pitched. Her ex had dragged her around to all manner of gallery openings, VIP exhibitions and artist previews. She’d never fitted in. Everyone at those events had been able to afford the art hanging on the walls. She’d had more in common with the paintings themselves than the people she’d been paraded in front of.
‘Great.’ Grant flashed them both a smile. His eyes lingered for longer than necessary on Jasmine. ‘Elise has given me your number so I’ll text you the details.’
‘Great.’ Jasmine fought to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. Of course Elise had given him her number—why would she expect anything less?
An amused smile played on his lips. The two women watched him walk into the studio, both of them locking on to the way his hips rolled in their lazy, sensual gait.
‘I can’t believe you gave him my number.’ Jasmine glared at her friend as soon as the door swung closed behind him.
‘I’m doing you a favour, Jazz,’ Elise said, positioning her hands on her hips. ‘He’s drooling over you during class and you’re too chicken to do anything about it.’
‘That’s not true. He’s practically a celebrity—he could have any of those red-carpet bimbos by his side.’
‘Yes, but he’s looking at you.’ Elise sighed. ‘You’re too blinded by your own stubbornness to see it.’
‘I am not stubborn.’ But even as she said it Jasmine knew it was a lie.
‘Right.’ As if on cue, Elise cocked her head and rolled her eyes. ‘You know not every guy is like Kyle. Grant is different. He—’
‘Stop it.’ Jasmine shut her eyes. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’
She loved Elise, but this was crossing the line. She didn’t want anyone pushing her towards Grant—especially when she was having a hard time controlling herself around him as it was. There was something about him that drew her like a magnet.
Magnetic attraction or not, she knew a relationship with him would never work because she didn’t belong in his world. She’d had her time in a glamorous community filled with extreme wealth, cliques and persistent paparazzi. She’d promised herself she’d never go there again. But something pulled her to Grant—something dee
p and inexplicable.
She watched him through the viewing window while he warmed up at the barre. Against her better judgement, she didn’t look away.
* * *
The pre-game rush was what had drawn Grant into the world of football back in his childhood. Some guys lived for the relief that came when the siren sounded, others purely for the swell of the crowd’s cheer upon victory. But Grant was all about the build-up, the anticipation...and this match had it in spades.
He told himself it was because the Jaguars were playing their fiercest rivals. But deep down he knew the jangling of his nerves was caused by two things: Jasmine, and the niggling sensation in his hamstring. He couldn’t let it get the better of him today...not when so much was at stake.
‘Bloody hell, you’re a space cadet today.’ A hand slapped down onto his back, the sound barely registering above the locker room din.
‘Huh?’ Grant turned to see his team-mate, Archer, standing beside him, shaking his head. He was a small guy, as rovers tended to be, but he had a larger than life personality. His eyes glittered with mischief.
‘You seem light on your feet lately, mate. I should start calling you Twinkle Toes.’
‘Now, now...’ their coach warned, his voice booming above the noise.
‘I thought Grant might be able to share some of his experiences with the team.’ Archer looked up at Grant, unperturbed by the half a foot height difference between them. ‘How are the pirouettes going?’
‘You don’t want to go there, Arch.’ Grant stretched up to his full height. ‘Even doing ballet I’m still twice the man you are—mentally and physically.’
‘Short jokes...clever.’ Arch rolled his eyes as he stretched out his quad.
‘Nothing wrong with getting in touch with your feminine side, is there Grant?’ Another player chimed in.
‘Back off.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a bad sport.’ Arch elbowed Grant in the ribs. ‘I’d say pink is your colour.’
‘You’re just jealous, Arch.’ Grant felt the frustrations of the past year building, but he remembered the breathing exercises and calming techniques he’d learnt. Unclenching his fists, he let out a slow breath. ‘I get one-on-one time with a hottie ballerina and you’re going home to your old lady. I know who I’d rather be.’
Den Porter came up to the two guys and clapped them both on the back, chuckling at Grant’s joke. ‘Can’t argue with that, can you, Arch?’
Archer muttered a retort but left Grant alone. The locker room buzzed around them, pre-game jitters filling the air with a crackling, unpredictable energy.
‘You have been a bit of a space cadet,’ Den echoed, taking a long swig from his water bottle.
‘I’ve got things on my mind.’ Grant shrugged.
‘They’d better be game-related things,’ the coach said as he walked past. ‘This season is your chance, Grant. An opportunity for redemption.’
‘He sounds like a goddamn evangelist,’ Grant muttered as the coach disappeared from earshot. ‘He’s got the memory of an elephant too.’
‘Maybe you should have thought of that before you dragged the club into your personal life.’ Archer’s voice was stony. ‘You cost us that season.’
‘If I remember rightly, you didn’t score a single goal that game,’ Grant said through gritted teeth.
‘Who could concentrate, with you stumbling all over the place? You were a mess.’
Grant slammed his locker shut, enjoying the loud crack. He’d been on the straight and narrow for over six months now, but his team would never pass up the opportunity to have a go. They thought he’d cost them a winning season—their first winning season—and that his antics had distracted the team.
He’d given up the partying, he’d given up the booze, he’d even given up the groupies. But it wasn’t enough; in everyone’s mind he was the reason for their failure. He could still remember the last call he’d had with his father in the days after the story had hit the media. ‘Now you’re a deserter and a drunk. You’re no son of mine.’
‘You whinge like an old woman, mate.’ Den rolled his eyes at Arch.
The coach approached Grant, his weathered face drawn into a stony expression. ‘Don’t forget you promised me this season would be a winner, Farley. When I agreed to give you a second chance you told me you’d give me a winning season.’
‘I will.’
‘You’d better not have any distractions this time.’ Two hard eyes bored into him. ‘I make it a rule not to give third chances.’
Message received.
* * *
Jasmine and Elise arrived early to the Melbourne Cricket Ground, where all the big AFL games were held, to collect their tickets. As they were gaining access to the most exclusive part of the MCG they hadn’t been able to dress down like the rest of the fans who were streaming into the stadium. Amidst the black-and-green Jaguar guernseys, and the occasional fan sporting the red and yellow of the away team, they looked out of place.
The winter air bit right through Jasmine’s coat and boots, a fine mist of rain dampening her exposed neck. She shivered and huddled closer to Elise. They moved with the crowd, searching for the ‘Members Only’ area.
Following the signs, they eventually ended up in the Long Room, with its floor-to-ceiling views of the ground. It was another world. Away from the crowds and coloured flags of the general admission area. Away from the manic cheering, meat pies and scarf waving. Away from the ‘real’ football experience.
Up here men wore tailored suits and women dressed in all manner of finery, toting handbags that probably cost more than a month’s rent. The sound of dramatic air kisses and tinkling laughter rose above quiet conversation.
‘It’s something else, isn’t it?’ Elise looked around, dazzled.
Jasmine shifted on the spot and removed her coat, slinging it over one arm. She smoothed her free hand down the front of the vibrant emerald dress she wore over thick black tights and boots. She’d changed a dozen times before leaving, even though she knew she was unlikely to see Grant after the game. Still, she’d fussed over endless combinations until she’d ended up back in the first outfit she’d tried on. Last minute, she’d thrown a long strand of onyx beads around her neck to try and fancy up what essentially was a plain cotton dress.
She looked even more out of place here than she had in the crowd. Elise loved being amongst the rich, but Jasmine hated it. Such wealth flung around, while she could barely scrape together enough money to keep her electricity turned on. She felt frumpy and juvenile next to these elegant swans in their silk dresses and needle-thin heels.
Worse, she’d been here before. The glitz and the glamour of the arts world wasn’t so different—though there was a distinct lack of fake tan and fake boobs where ballet and art were concerned.
She’d been on the arm of a wealthy man—the son of a financier—who’d thought his family’s bank balance meant that he owned her, that he could control her as he controlled the investments in his portfolio. His family had money equivalent to the GDP of a small nation.
And it had ended badly...very badly. Her stomach churned.
‘Champagne, miss?’ A waiter held out his silver tray, four delicate flutes of bubbling wine catching the light in front of her.
‘No, thank you.’
‘I will.’ Elise reached for a flute and smiled.
The waiter drifted into the crowd and they found a spot to stand in front of the mammoth glass window. Outside the seats were filling up. A sea of black and green engulfed the stadium, and excitement was palpable in the atmosphere. Inside the clinking of champagne flutes and muted chatter filled the air.
‘I would have thought you’d be OK to have a drink by now.’ Elise took a delicate sip from her flute.
Her blond hair was piled on her head, with w
ispy strands loose and alluring around her pixie face. A chunky strand of grey pearls offset her steel-coloured eyes. Even Elise looked more as if she belonged than Jasmine did.
‘It’s not like I’m working hard to resist it,’ Jasmine said.
‘You’re missing out—this is the good stuff.’ She winked. ‘The French stuff.’
‘I don’t want it.’
Elise watched her, assessing her as she sipped again. Her tongue captured a stray droplet of the fizzing liquid. Jasmine forced a smile; she didn’t want to ruin what would be an exciting night for Elise.
‘One glass won’t kill you,’ Elise went on. ‘I’m driving, so you don’t have to worry about safety.’
‘I don’t want one.’ She couldn’t keep the frost out of her voice.
Elise sighed. ‘I’m not trying to push you. I’m just saying that it’s OK to let your hair down every once in a while. You know—live a little. Maybe act like you’re twenty-seven instead of seventy-seven.’
‘I’m sure there are seventy-seven-year-olds who are more fun than me.’
Both girls laughed, and Elise hooked her arm through Jasmine’s. ‘Yeah, I’m going to trade you in at a nursing home on the way back.’
The room filled up around them. A woman in a knee-length indigo shift stood next to them. Jasmine was sure she’d seen her in the society pages, possibly mentioned as the wife of one of the Jaguars players. She was so close the headiness of her perfume made Jasmine breathe deep. The scent was rich. Refined. French to match the red soles of her designer shoes.
Elise nudged Jasmine and pointed out another woman who’d walked past—a semi-celebrity, famed for the high-profile sports-star boyfriends she turned over frequently. Her tanned skin glowed as though she’d returned from the Maldives that day. She probably had.
‘Why don’t we sit outside? We can’t take Grant’s tickets and then stay in here all night.’ Jasmine motioned for the door to the balcony. Her chest felt squeezed tight, as though two hands were crushing her ribcage, pushing all the air out of her. She gripped her handbag to her stomach, wishing the swishing sensation would stop.
Only the Brave Try Ballet Page 4
