“Not nearly as much as a tied score at the bottom of the ninth with the team depending on you to go three up and three down.”
Amara noticed that he rubbed his shoulder as he said the words. Jasper had mentioned Ryan used to be a pitcher and that a shoulder injury had ended his career prematurely. Surely he would have mentioned if dancing would bother it.
“See you Monday morning then. If you’re a coffee drinker, Jasper always has the coffee maker running, so don’t worry about bringing your own. And it’s the good stuff too.”
“Duly noted,” he said and made his way to the exit.
Amara stared at the door after he’d left the studio. Ryan Kidd really was easy on the eyes. A little over six feet and fit, his tee shirt had stretched across broad shoulders, and the sleeves were tight around his biceps. He obviously hadn’t let himself go after he’d stopped playing professionally.
The Florida sun had streaked his shaggy brown hair, and his steely-blue eyes had at times seemed to bore into her. She wasn’t angling to go out with him. Dating one of her dance students had always been a no-no. She didn’t mix business and pleasure. Between both teaching jobs and volunteering at the adult literacy program she hadn’t had time to date anyone in a long while. And a guy like him was probably taken – if she had been looking, that is.
She just hoped her dance partner’s wife or girlfriend would understand the time he’d be spending at the studio. With his good looks, she felt sure there was a woman in his life. Hopefully she wasn’t the jealous type.
Chapter Five
“Hey Doc! Are you home?” Ryan peered through the locked screen door and banged again on the door frame. Henry Murphy lived in a simple three bedroom beachfront home on the south end of Mimosa Key. Eager to escape Chicago winters, the widower had sold his counseling practice and retired to Mimosa Key two years earlier.
Because he loved baseball, he volunteered as a stadium usher, and his counseling background led him to offer the players free, and often unsolicited, advice about how to navigate through the world of professional sports and keep your head screwed on straight. Too bad Doc hadn’t been around in Ryan’s first year of Major League play. Ryan had learned the hard way, and as a result, he had steered young players to Doc so they could hopefully avoid the same pitfalls.
Doc Murphy had guessed Ryan’s secret fairly early, and he had promised to keep it a secret. But the older man often encouraged Ryan to do something about it. Ryan had insisted he was learning on his own, and didn’t want to go to an adult literacy program because it would embarrass the team if the public learned Whiz Kidd couldn’t read. If he had known he would be out of baseball at age twenty-two, he’d have worked harder in school. Maybe gone to college. His twenty-twenty hindsight was unparalleled.
Ryan banged on the door frame again. If he was going to figure out this dancing stuff completely and be ready by the next rehearsal, Doc would have to help him read it.
“Keep your shirt on,” he heard from inside the house. “Don’t take out your frustration on my door. I’m coming.” Soon a tall, wiry man with a head full of snow-white hair reached the door.
“Ryan,” he called out as he strode closer. “What has you riled up today?”
Ryan held up the sheaf of papers. “You’re never going to believe what I’ve been roped into, Doc. And I need your help.”
The older man swung the screen open and waved Ryan inside. Sitting around Doc’s kitchen table with tall glasses of iced tea and a plate of Doc’s famous peanut butter cookies, Ryan laid the papers out on the table and explained about the contest.
“She gave me a list of online videos to watch and that’s easy. But there are also these written instructions. I can read some, but I can’t make sense of most of it.” Even though Doc had never passed judgement on his inability to read, Ryan still felt a sense of shame leaning on the older man like this for help.
“Let me take a look,” Doc said, pulling a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and slipping them on his face. He flipped through the pages, nodded here and there and glanced up at Ryan after turning over the last one.
“She’s written out the instructions for different steps along with the choreography for your whole dance routine. That part should be pretty simple. She’ll teach you the steps and you’ll need to memorize the routine. The videos should help with the basic steps.”
“That’s a relief,” Ryan said, his shoulders sagging as he sighed.
“The last few pages are about your practice schedule as well as information about the contest itself. Background stuff like who organized it, who put up seed money, ticket prices, that the proceeds go to Dr. Oliver Bradbury’s clinic in Naples. Did you realize people are paying a thousand dollars each to attend this event?” Doc asked, tapping the stack of papers with one finger. “Ha! I just realized it’s a thousand bucks to watch a Buck.”
Ryan blew out a breath. “Holy shit. I can’t screw this up, Doc. And I can’t get out of it. Cutter made that damned clear.” He groaned and leaned forward, banging his head gently against the table top. “What am I going to do?”
“For a start, you could sign up for that program down at the Presbyterian church and learn to read,” Doc instructed.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Ryan replied, sitting up and leaning back in the chair. “I’ve told you. I don’t want to embarrass the team with negative publicity if someone recognizes me. And eventually someone would.”
“I’m sure the franchise would survive. Comparatively speaking, not being able to read is small potatoes compared to the headlines some athletes make. And you’d be championing a great cause.”
Ryan shrugged. “I don’t have time anyway. She said we’d be rehearsing a couple times a week for the next month. Between that and my coaching responsibilities, I doubt I’ll have time to take a leak, much less go to some class at night. And besides, I doubt I’d learn quickly enough to figure all that stuff out in time. So what am I gonna do in the meantime?”
“With the videos you should be able to figure out the choreography part of this on your own,” Doc began. “And I’ll read the rest into my phone and send you the audio file. Let me go make a copy of all this.”
Doc rose, scooped the papers off the table and then strode from the room. He returned minutes later and handed the sheets back to Ryan.
“How’d you figure out I couldn’t read, Doc?” Ryan asked, staring at the floor.
“I recognized your coping mechanisms.”
Ryan glanced up suddenly, his eyes wide with amazement. “How?”
“My son has dyslexia,” Doc said matter-of-factly.
“But he has a college degree. He’s an architect.” Ryan remembered hearing Doc speak of his son. “How did he accomplish all that if he couldn’t read?”
“We were fortunate that he was diagnosed early, so with special tutoring programs and a lot of work by his mother and me, he learned to work around it,” Doc explained. “Have you ever been tested for learning disabilities?”
Ryan shook his head. “Nah. That’s not my problem. I was just a lazy kid who thought he could charm his way through anything, and apparently I charmed my way right through twelve years of school without learning my ABCs.”
“You’re not lazy now. You worked hard to achieve all you did as a pitcher. I’ve seen how hard you work with the Bucks and how you volunteer with the high school team. You can change things, you know. But you have to want to do it. And if you want to read badly enough, you’ll find the time to attend an adult literacy program.” Doc paused for a moment and studied Ryan from across the table. “You do want to read, don’t you?”
That was the sixty-four thousand dollar question. Ryan had always been a winner, though he had figured out early on that it wasn’t how much he wanted to win that counted as how much he hated to lose. Conquering illiteracy would definitely be one in the win column. But could he handle the accusing looks, or worse yet, looks of pity, when people found out? Yes, his hindsight was unparalleled. Too bad he hadn�
�t opened his eyes sooner and looked forward.
Chapter Six
Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow. Walk, link, promenade, walk, reverse turn, walk, link, rock.
Ryan held an imaginary partner in his raised arms and moved around the locker room to the tune playing through his black earbuds. He’d been at this for two weeks and still felt as awkward as he had the first day he had stepped onto the dance floor at Allegro. Dancing with Amara, however, was decidedly easier than dancing alone in the locker room. She was a terrific teacher and talked him through the routine at each practice. But she had explained that there would be no talking during the final performance, and the judges would be looking to see who was leading whom.
He had to step up his game. They were halfway through their practice sessions and the contest was two weeks away. He had become accustomed to the slick-soled ballroom shoes with their higher heels. Doc had helped him with the written choreography instructions Amara regularly gave to him. And he had watched the video of her and Jasper performing the routine so many times he could see it when he closed his eyes at night. He also saw Amara behind those closed eyelids. Soft, warm, decidedly feminine. And too many times he ended up aroused and uncomfortable, wishing he could ease the discomfort with Amara rather than by way of a cold shower.
But seeing the routine on tape and having a basic understanding of tango steps did not necessarily translate to being able to perform the dance yourself. And just this morning, Amara had emailed a new video of her and Jasper demonstrating an addition to the routine.
Watch the section after the second promenade, she had said to the cellphone camera. Jasper thought we needed a corté for flair, and I agree. We’ll learn it this afternoon.
Ryan snorted. There was no we involved in learning this new step. She knew it perfectly well as illustrated by her flawless execution of it in the video. And he had to admit, the corté thing did add some pizazz to their routine.
He thumbed the screen on his phone and started the music again. He counted under his breath, achieved the proper stance and held his arms as if Amara was in his embrace. Dancing required touching. And touching her gave him a thrill that overrode any lie he had told himself about not being attracted to her.
Having her in his arms was the best part of this whole ordeal, and he was beginning to think he might change his policy of not dating women from the island. Two weeks of having her soft curves pressed against him and breathing in the floral scent of her perfume had him wanting to explore her more. The first day of practice, he’d fought an erection the entire time. To battle it, he had concentrated on the pain he’d endured after injuring his shoulder. And since he wasn’t concentrating on the dance steps, Amara’s feet had suffered the consequences. Only after she had limped off the dance floor and Jasper had read him the riot act had he been able to get close to her without his body betraying him.
Of course, nights were another matter. She had begun to invade his dreams, and that was okay. More than okay. He had no need to fight his body’s reaction there. Oh yeah, he was definitely going to rethink his no-island-girls dating policy.
Ryan cued the song one more time, closed his eyes and once again began the steps that had become so familiar. Slow, slow, quick, quick—
Bump.
“Whoa! Watch where you’re going there, Kidd.”
Ryan yanked the earbuds from his ears and stared into the face of Cutter Valentine, who had entered the locker room unnoticed. And thank God it was Cutter and not one of the players. He had worried about practicing in the locker room and the guys ragging him if they saw him dancing around with his hands in the air, mumbling the step pattern under his breath.
“Sorry,” Ryan apologized. “I was just uh…”
“Yeah, I saw. How’s it going? Think you have a shot at winning this thing?”
Ryan shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Well, you practice really hard, you hear? I’m not telling you what to do or anything, but if you should win and get that prize money, Elliott Becker’s wife would be most appreciative if you donated it to her goat project.”
“Goat project,” Ryan repeated. “Uh, yeah.”
“You’ve been tweeting regularly, haven’t you?”
“Sure thing,” he replied. “Why don’t you take a picture of me here in the locker room?” Ryan handed over his cell phone, then struck a dramatic pose albeit with a goofy grin on his face. When Cutter was satisfied with the photo, Ryan took back the phone and used the phone’s voice assistant to enter his message.
@KiddandPerez Caught in the act! Practice makes perfect. Remember to vote! #DancingOnTheSand #KiddandPerez
“I’ll leave you to your practicing now. I just wanted to pop in and see how things were going.” Cutter turned and strode toward the door. Before leaving he gave Ryan one last appraising look. “Looks like they’ve turned you into a regular Twinkle Toes,” he said with a chuckle.
Damn. On two counts. If he won, Ryan had hoped to use the prize money toward a new car. He’d had his eye on a sweet silver convertible at a dealership on the mainland. Five thousand dollars would barely make a dent in it, but a dent was a dent. Now it looked like he could be financing a shipment of goat chow instead. A large shipment.
He wondered what Amara would do with her share. She didn’t seem like the silver convertible type. Maybe she’d go on a vacation to the capitals of Europe. Or buy a new wardrobe. He could envision her in a skimpy bikini sunbathing on a white sand beach. Or sunbathing in nothing at all.
His groin twitched, and he reined in that thought. It was bad enough Cutter had caught him dancing. He didn’t need a player to walk in and catch him sporting wood while daydreaming about his dance instructor.
He stuffed his choreography diagrams into a duffel bag, which held his ballroom shoes as well as a roll-on bottle of muscle rub and some moleskin patches for the blisters he had developed. He’d had no idea dancing was so strenuous and would wreak such havoc with his feet.
And he was in good shape. He jogged regularly, worked out in the team’s gym and even swam in his apartment complex’s pool when he wasn’t stretched out in a lounge chair surveying the female population of the complex. But none of those activities used the same muscles dancing did. How did the contestants who weren’t in shape handle it? Poorly, he hoped selfishly. Poorly enough to affect their performance and allow him to shine on the dance floor.
He hitched the duffel to his shoulder and grunted as the strap hit a tender spot, a painful reminder of the accident that had ended his pitching career six years ago. Six long, sorry years. And it had all been his fault.
Surgery and months of physical therapy had brought his shoulder back to full function. Almost full function. He couldn’t pitch or swing a bat and beat the hell out of a baseball anymore. Only one player in major league history had ever come back from a SLAP tear in the shoulder.
And it wasn’t him.
He shifted the bag to the other shoulder and shoved his cell into his back pocket. He would swing by the Toasted Pelican on the way to Allegro and grab a burger before his five o’clock practice. He needed to fuel up his body for the sweaty workout he knew to be ahead.
His mind suddenly switched to the picture of Amara, sweaty and lying beneath him on that white sand beach where his imagination had sent her bikini-clad body. A smile curved his lips and he made the decision then and there to make an exception to his dating rule, but only after the contest was over. He had to put his full attention toward winning. His employer notwithstanding, winning would make Amara happy, and a happy Amara would likely be more amenable to going out with him. And he really didn’t care at this point if the players saw him practicing. They could kiss his ass. He was not only going to win this damned contest, he was going to win over the girl, too.
She just didn’t know it yet.
Chapter Seven
When Amara arrived at Allegro for her five o’clock practice with Ryan, she found Jasper in his office. He cradled the
phone between his ear and his shoulder and scribbled on a sheet of paper in purple ink.
“And when do we find out the schedule?” he asked into the receiver, motioning Amara to sit in a battered folding chair in the corner. “Uh-huh. Can’t we find out any earlier? Really? It would help all the contestants you know.” He listened for another minute and then rolled his eyes and huffed out a breath as he disconnected the call.
“Problems with the contest?” she asked.
“Not really problems. I just have to wonder if someone with a grudge against Allegro is handling the scheduling. Normally we would know the dance order by this time. But no,” he said, drawing out the last word. “They’re not releasing that information yet. I did find out who the other dancers are though.” Jasper grinned at her like the Cheshire cat and waggled his eyebrows.
Amara leaned forward. Knowing the competition was half the battle. “Spill the beans. Who?” she asked.
“Have patience, sweets. I’m getting to that part. In addition to the three of us from Allegro, there are three other women. One is a real estate agent from Ft. Myers, one is a doctor from Naples and the third is an attorney from Tampa. There’s also a retired brigadier general from Tampa who’s dancing with Margot Hutchinson. And surprise, surprise, Mimosa Key has a fourth entry in the competition.”
“Please tell me it’s not Gabe Rossi. If the competition judges are women he’ll get votes just because he’s Gabe.”
Jasper nodded and chuckled. “Don’t you know it. He broke a lot of hearts when he married that woman and settled down. I heard through the island grapevine that they did ask him to compete and his answer was a great big effing no.”
Amara couldn’t contain her burst of laughter. “I’ve heard that the man doesn’t mince words. But back to the subject of the fourth entry from Mimosa Key, who is it? We only have three instructors. How….”
Amara’s voice trailed off as the obvious dawned on her. “Tiffany?” Amara asked, gesturing toward the wall. Tiffany Jones rented the space next to Allegro and also taught ballroom dancing. Jasper had been concerned about another dance studio being in the same building and competing for the same students, but he’d really had nothing to worry about. They catered to two different kinds of clientele. Allegro tended to draw the more serious competitive dancers.
Dancing on the Sand Page 3
