Only the Brave Try Ballet

by Stefanie London

  Sighing, she peeled the costume from her body, leaning on her bed to help keep the pressure off her injured ankle. The throbbing had quietened, and she knew from experience it wasn’t a serious injury. Still, she’d learned her lesson about returning to the stage. That dream would go back into the dark recesses of her heart for a while...at least until she’d forgotten the sting of humiliation enough to contemplate trying again.

  She changed into sweat pants and a T-shirt, making certain to pick the ones that hugged her closely without looking as if she’d chosen them on purpose. She made her way back out to the main room in time to hear Grant in the kitchen.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ And why was he going through her cupboards? He was certainly acting familiar for someone who had entered her home for this first time.

  Grant came back to the lounge with a tall glass of water. ‘I’ve got some anti-inflammatories in my bag if you want?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ She reached for the water and sipped, watching him warily as he dropped down onto the couch opposite her. His legs were too long for the crowded space of her unit; he bent his knees and let them fall apart. The position was unabashedly male, and Jasmine had to divert her eyes or else she’d be staring straight at his crotch.

  By the time the pizza arrived she was starving. Though she wouldn’t admit it to Grant, the thought of hot melted cheese and carbs was far better than anything she could have whipped up in her ill-equipped kitchen. He answered the door and paid for their dinner. The steaming box was making her stomach churn in anticipation.

  She shuffled over on the couch to make room, so that they could share the pizza from the same box.

  ‘Are you going to get back on the horse?’

  ‘You don’t beat around the bush, do you?’

  She rolled her eyes, swiping a slice from the box and biting into it. Tangy parmesan cheese melded with salty olives and spicy salami on her tongue. It wasn’t ordinary pizza—this was the good stuff...the proper Italian stuff. She stifled a moan of pleasure. The man knew his food.

  ‘It’s a waste of time. If I have a question, I ask it.’ He chewed. ‘Simple.’

  ‘I don’t know...sometimes I think maybe I should take the hint.’

  ‘What hint?’

  ‘That it’s over—that part of my life, I mean.’ She shrugged. Now that she’d got home and her ankle had eased she’d calmed down. But the thought of getting back out on stage was, for the moment, stuck in the ‘crap to deal with another day’ basket.

  ‘You shouldn’t give up.’

  ‘Ah, well, if it’s that simple, then...’

  ‘It is.’ He reached for another slice and closed the lid of the pizza box. ‘If you’re passionate about it then you put up with the bad bits.’

  ‘Do you ever think about doing anything else aside from footy?’

  ‘Not really.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Well, I studied psychology at university, but I haven’t done anything with it.’

  Jasmine couldn’t help the quirk of her eyebrows.

  ‘Don’t look so shocked,’ he said, frowning at her. ‘We’re not all dumb jocks, you know.’

  ‘No judgement here.’ She reached for another slice. ‘I just figured that it seemed unlikely that you were lucky enough to be a professional athlete, look the way you do and be smart as well. You have to admit that’s kind of lucky.’

  ‘Have you forgotten the Rubik’s cube story already?’ He grinned, a small spot of tomato sauce clinging to the corner of his lip. ‘And what do you mean by “look the way you do”?’

  She sucked in a breath; the words had tumbled out uncensored. Clearly her guard had dropped while she’d been stuffing her face with pizza.

  ‘Well, at the moment you look like a bit of a grub,’ she said, her belly curling anxiously.

  He swiped his tongue along the edge of his lip, catching the sauce and grinning, as though he knew exactly how hot she was burning inside.

  ‘I want you to promise me something.’ His tone changed, and his brow narrowed above an intent stare. ‘Don’t let this beat you.’

  She wasn’t ready to go there yet. She wasn’t ready to have this conversation...especially not with him.

  ‘Grant...’ Her voice issued a warning, but he would not be deterred.

  ‘I meant everything I said before you stepped out on that stage.’ He swallowed. ‘This is a stumbling block, not the end of the road. Your ankle will be fine in a week or so, and I want you to keep trying.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about this.’ She felt hot, angry tears pricking at her eyes. She would not break down in front of him. This was her pain. Hers alone.

  ‘You need to talk.’ His hand was on her arm, stroking the length from her shoulder to her elbow in deep, reassuring lines. ‘It’ll help you get past it.’

  ‘Is that your psychology degree talking?’

  ‘It’s someone who cares talking.’

  ‘Why do you care?’

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. The feelings that had been bubbling below the surface—the attraction, the desire and the inkling of something more—were things she didn’t have room for...or, more truthfully, didn’t have the guts for.

  ‘Because you’re crazy-talented, and smart and...different.’ Something flickered across his face—realisation, perhaps?

  ‘Different is usually a synonym for something negative,’ she pointed out, trying to lighten the mood.

  ‘But you are different—to me at least. Do you know this is the most conversation I’ve exchanged with a woman in...God, I can’t even remember.’

  ‘Are you usually too busy getting to business with most women?’

  He raked a hand through his hair, the gold strands catching the soft glow of the lamp. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Don’t you talk to your mum?’ She tilted her head, suddenly curious beyond belief about this secretive man in front of her.

  ‘Actually, no. Mum hasn’t been with us for some time.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ She bit her lip.

  ‘The whole family thing is...strained.’ His mouth drew into a flat line. ‘I guess some families aren’t meant to be close.’

  Her mind flashed to her mother and father. It had been a while since she’d seen them. Facing them was harder these days. The worry on her mother’s face or in her tone on the voice mails she left made her chest ache. Guilt was an ugly, dirty, painful emotion.

  ‘Are you close with your folks?’ Grant peered at her as though trying to see exactly what was going on in her head.

  ‘Not as much as I should be.’

  ‘Are they far away?’

  ‘About forty-five minutes.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Not far enough for me to claim it as an excuse. I haven’t seen them much since the accident.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s hard. They sacrificed a lot to enable me to dance, and look what I’ve done with it...’

  ‘I’m sure they don’t blame you.’

  ‘They don’t.’

  They’d been by her side all through the surgery, the rehabilitation, her return to the company... It had only been after she’d quit her position with the Australian Ballet that it had become hard to look them in the eye.

  ‘But you still feel guilty?’

  ‘Ashamed is probably more accurate.’ She sighed. ‘I call my mum every week, but I have to force myself to do it. Sometimes I’d rather curl up in a corner and ignore the world.’

  ‘You have nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘I poured every cent they spent on my ballet tuition down the drain when I crashed that car. I guess it’s lucky that I managed to get a scholarship when I started training seriously, so at least I didn’t send them completely broke in the process.’

  Hands shaking
, she reached for another slice of pizza, determined to give her mouth something to do instead of spilling out her skeletons to Grant. He did the same and they ate in silence.

  ‘You don’t have to throw it all away,’ he said. ‘You can dance again. Maybe not ballet, but I’m sure there are other types of dance that you could do. Surely your training would help?’

  ‘Why do you believe that I’m such a great dancer? You’ve never seen what I was like before...’

  ‘I’ve seen your eyes when you dance, your face. That tells me enough.’

  He had another droplet of sauce on the corner of his mouth. She reached her hand to his lips and wiped the spot, her fingertips grazing his skin.

  He caught her wrist in his hand, bringing it to his mouth and slowly drawing her in. As he wrapped his lips around her finger and sucked Jasmine’s heart stilled. The gentle pressure made her throb, and a jolt of arousal ran through her.

  As he released her their wide-eyed gazes mirrored one another. She drew her hand back, holding it to her chest as the finger burned where he’d tasted her. Neither of them moved.

  The silence between them was thick, heavy. Grant’s eyes were clouded, his pupils dilated with the lust he held back. Silent tension pushed and pulled, threatening to shatter their restraint.

  ‘I should go.’

  His voice was heavy, each word rough with desire as he leant back, creating more distance between them...as if that would help.

  ‘Why don’t you stay?’

  Was she doing this? Her voice had been the merest of whispers, barely audible above the sound of her fluttering heart.

  Torment seeped into his features. His mouth pulled into a firm line and he looked at her.

  ‘I shouldn’t...’

  And yet he lingered. He was inches from her; she could reach out and touch him, reach out and shatter those last shards of control with a gentle brush of her fingertips. She knew she had it in her to be sensual again, to use her body for pleasure.

  She placed her hand on his denim-clad thigh and smoothed the fabric beneath her fingertips. Hard muscle flexed beneath her touch and she could swear all his breath rushed out into the air between them. She leant forwards, her lips parted.

  Two solid hands eased her back against the couch, and when the pressure of his body didn’t follow Jasmine’s eyes snapped open. Grant was on his feet, looking down to where she sat.

  ‘I’m not starting something that neither of us will be able to stop.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to stop it?’ Humiliation burned beneath her skin but she had to ask—she had to know how he felt.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid.’

  She didn’t move her gaze from the floor until the front door clicked behind him. Only then did she let herself dissolve.

  EIGHT

  Grant woke up with grit in his eyes. Yet another night of inadequate sleep, though this time it hadn’t been due to the nightmares. This time his mind had been occupied with dreams of another kind.

  Dreams of Jasmine sprawled beneath him on her couch, pressed up against the railing of his balcony, on her coffee table... The list went on. He was finding it harder and harder to resist her charms, and when she’d reached for him last night—when she’d asked him to stay—it had taken every last morsel of will to keep from ravishing her on the spot.

  He thumped the tiled wall of the shower, releasing a fraction of his pent-up frustration. It wouldn’t do. He’d had a cold shower as soon as he’d arrived home last night and yet he’d still woken up with a raging hard-on and a head full of fantasies. She’d dug herself so far under his skin that he didn’t know left from right. Even when he promised himself he’d leave her alone, he couldn’t stay away!

  The hot water rushed over him as he pressed his forehead against the tiles so the back of his neck was under the strongest part of the stream. He rolled his shoulders and groaned. No matter what he did, no matter how he rationalised away his attraction to Jasmine, she managed to throw it all out of the window with a single look.

  ‘Dammit,’ he growled against the wall.

  With a flick of his wrist he shut down the hot water and flinched as an icy stream hit him dead-on. The cold water stung his body but it would quash his excitement...for now. At least until the next time he saw her.

  Grant stepped out of the shower and wrapped himself in a big fluffy towel. He wandered into the lounge room and turned on the TV. While he fired up his coffee machine he heard someone saying his name. He turned in time to catch the daytime entertainment reporter for Channel 9.

  ‘It’s been a while since we’ve seen footy players behaving this badly.’ Her exaggerated facial expressions made him curl his lip into a sneer. ‘But I’m sure you’ll all remember when Grant Farley, full forward for the Vic Harbour Jaguars, had a very public fall from grace last year.’

  His photo flashed up onto the screen. He had a fat lip, from the one punch he hadn’t been able to dodge, and his eyes were bloodshot beyond recognition. He was barely standing.

  ‘After spending the night in prison he was charged for starting a brawl that landed two men in hospital. Luckily for Grant the assault charges were dropped shortly after. I guess that’s what happens when you’re one of the highest earners in the AFL.’

  Her perky voice dipped an octave as she leant in close to the camera, the screen capturing her ample cleavage.

  ‘Now, this week’s mugshot comes from star—’

  Grant switched off the TV, his blood boiling. It had been a year. A whole damn year and they were still feeding off his photo like a pack of vultures. Shame washed over him, as it did every time he was reminded of when he’d hit rock bottom.

  His partying had got steadily worse through his mid-twenties, and then he’d started blacking out and getting into trouble.

  The night it had all come to a head he’d drunk so much that he hadn’t been able to do more than throw the first punch before his friends had jumped in and he’d stumbled off. The pub’s security system had shown clearly that he hadn’t thrown any of the blows that landed the two men in hospital. Still, he’d been the only famous one there, and he had deep pockets.

  Grant had never felt lower than when he’d signed that cheque to make it all go away. He’d taken voluntarily leave from the club so they didn’t get dragged down with him. He’d disappeared overseas for a few months, cleared his head and come back with the strongest commitment of his life—the commitment to do right by his club and his fans.

  It had been a whole year, he hadn’t gone clubbing once, and his career was back on track. He’d also ditched the so-called best friend who had leaked the photo to the media, making a promise to himself that no one would ever use him again.

  However, the media loved to tell his story over and over. He wondered how long it would be before they forgot about it—if they ever did. What if he could never clear the mud from his name?

  He cringed; the Farley name had been an honourable one once. The rural veterinary and farming business his father ran had had a good, solid reputation in their community... Now they were known as the family whose son had gone off the rails. It was an inerasable mistake—one that had cost him dearly.

  Maybe if he could get one win this season he could prove he was back on track. At least then he’d have the respect of the fans and of his team. That would be a step in the right direction.

  * * *

  Jasmine had been cooped up inside for days since her fall. Her ankle was looking better: the swelling had reduced and the bruises had shifted from purple to a yellowish-brown. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it was a far cry from what she’d feared.

  She knew the drill—take it easy, give the strain time to heal, keep the ankle elevated. But she was bored, bored, bored.

  The drivel they featured on daytime TV didn
’t hold her interest and she’d devoured three books from cover to cover before exhausting her supply of new reading material. She needed something to distract her—anything to take her mind off the shambles that Grant Farley had made of her senses.

  Jasmine huffed, resting against the side of her couch while she looked around, desperate for something to do. All she could think about was how close she’d come to letting him in, to baring herself and all her flaws to a man she barely knew. It was stupid. Reckless.

  The last time she’d trusted a man she’d flushed her career down the toilet. Kyle hadn’t come to visit her once after her surgery, though she’d heard reports that he’d used his social rank—and the donations his family had made to the hospital—to check in with her doctor as to the status of her injuries. It had been concluded that she wouldn’t be dancing for a very long time, if ever again.

  After that there had been a brief note delivered by one of the hospital staff. His elegant handwriting had told her that their relationship wouldn’t work out. And that had been that. She’d never seen him again.

  The humiliation still burned in her throat every time she thought of the absolute car crash—no pun intended—that had been her relationship with Kyle Waterhouse. Not only had he treated her as the ultimate asset—something to show off to his mates as a sign of his status—but he’d viewed her very much in the same way as the projects and stocks he funded. She was something to throw money at, to control and shape as he pleased. He had not cared about her beyond potential returns. And when she’d no longer been valuable he’d cut his losses.

  Tears prickled behind her eyelids, hot and angry. She couldn’t stay cooped up in this house any longer, lest she send herself around the twist. Though she wasn’t supposed to drive, Elise’s mother’s car was automatic and her good foot was the only one she needed. Surely a little trip to the ballet studio wouldn’t hurt? It wasn’t far from home and the fresh air would do her good.

  Besides, she wanted to find out how the rest of the performance had gone and to see if any of her students had been approached by the scouts. Feeling justified, she stood and limped to the car.