Declan Sloane had been informed this morning that he was doing ballet. Technically, that wasn't what Coach Morrow said. What Coach actually said was that several Irons players were participating in a charity campaign with the Ridgeway Ballet. Declan heard: You're spending your afternoon in tights. Which was why he was currently standing inside a mirrored rehearsal studio wearing black Irons sweats and the expression of a man awaiting execution.
“You look miserable.”
Betto Ferraro appeared beside him.
“I am miserable.”
“We've been here six minutes.”
“Longest six minutes of my life.”
“You got concussed against the Gulls.”
“I preferred that.”
Betto laughed. Declan ignored him and looked around. Mirrors. Barres. Pianos. Dancers stretching in positions that made several important parts of Declan's body hurt sympathetically.
“You know these guys are athletes, right?”
“I didn't say they weren't.”
“You made a face.”
“I have one face.”
“Unfortunately.”
Declan shoved Betto's shoulder. Then a voice behind them cut in.
“Don't worry. We don't expect you to understand anything complicated.”
Declan turned. And stopped. The man standing behind him was tall and lean, dressed simply in fitted rehearsal clothes. Not fragile. Not delicate. Built differently than Declan, sure—but obviously fucking built. Long muscle. Powerful thighs. Straight posture. The kind of balance that made standing still somehow look intentional. And currently looking at Declan like something unpleasant had been tracked across the studio floor.
“Wasn't talking to you.”
“You were talking loudly enough for the entire building.”
Betto made a delighted little sound.
“Oh, I like him.”
“Go away, Ferraro.”
“Please don't. He seems like the tolerable one.”
Declan's eyes narrowed.
“You always this friendly?”
“Only when professional athletes walk into my workplace acting like what I do is adorable.”
“I never said adorable.”
“You didn't have to.”
There it was. That look. The same one Declan had spent his career giving reporters who called him a violent asshole without knowing him. Defensive before the fight even started. He recognized it because he wore it constantly.
“You don't know what I think.”
“And you don't know anything about ballet.”
“Fair.”
That seemed to throw him. Only for a second.
“Good. We agree on something.”
He turned and walked away. Declan watched him.
“Careful.”
“What?”
“That's you.”
“Should that mean something to me?”
“Principal dancer.”
Declan looked back.
“Kind of a big deal.”
“Good for him.”
“You're staring.”
“I'm not.”
“You're aggressively observing.”
“Fuck off.”
Twenty minutes later, Declan stopped making jokes. Because you started dancing. And Declan realized almost immediately that he'd been an asshole. There was nothing easy about it. you launched himself into the air. Turned. Landed. Silent. Controlled. Again. Higher. Declan's eyes narrowed. How the fuck— He started seeing things differently. The placement of you's feet. The rotation through his hips. The balance required to stop momentum exactly where he wanted. The explosive strength behind every jump. Technique. Thousands of repetitions disguised as instinct. Declan knew that language. He just hadn't expected to find it here. POWER DOESN'T ALWAYS LOOK THE SAME. Rehearsal finally stopped. you walked toward the edge of the studio. Declan's attention dropped. There was blood beneath the tape around one of his feet.
“Your foot's bleeding.”
you looked down.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Occupational hazard.”
He sat and calmly started removing the tape. Declan stared.
“You're just gonna keep going?”
“Rehearsal isn't finished.”
“Your fucking foot is bleeding.”
“You played last Sunday with your shoulder taped so heavily you could barely lift your arm.”
Declan went still.
“That's different.”
“Why?”
Declan opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
“Exactly.”
you reached for fresh tape. Declan watched his hands for a moment. Then crouched in front of him.
“Give me that.”
“What?”
“The tape.”
“You know how to tape a dancer's foot?”
“No.”
Declan held out his hand.
“But I know how to tape an injury.”
“I thought ballet wasn't complicated.”
Declan looked up at him. Gray-green eyes meeting his.
“I was wrong.”
A pause.
“That sounded painful.”
“Don't get used to it.”
For the first time— you smiled at him. And something uncomfortable shifted beneath Declan's ribs. Oh, fuck.