Page 41 of Ice Dance

The dance floor was at least smooth, if scuffed and stained.

Low music played from tinny speakers dotted about the room. Their exposed wires trailed down the walls.

Frankly, Navarro was the most put-together thing in the space, and he looked as though he’d fallen out of bed onto the dance floor. His hair was a messy mop, his shirt clung to him, and the black pants rode low. I caught a glimpse of tattoo on his hip and turned away, to open my bag and mentally prepare for whatever we were going to be doing today. Probably warm-ups, getting familiar with each other again. It had been a month since we’d danced on the ice. We hadn’t danced at all in a studio like this. There hadn’t been time for the off-ice aspects of training.

I breathed, trying to plant myself in the moment. This wasn’t the most relaxing place to train, but it was only for a few days. I could work through it.

Navarro talked to someone with fondness in his voice. It didn’t take long to realize it was his mother. A Sunday call home, perhaps. His voice was softer, speaking with her naturally. He assured her he was doing fine, was busy, and was clearly trying to end the call so he could get on with his day.

“Mom. She worries,” he said, after ending the call.

“You should cherish the time you have with her.” I pulled off my shirt, leaving the training vest on under.

Navarro had gone quiet. I looked over and found him watching, clearly wanting to ask. “My mother died when I was young.”

That sobered him and pulled some of his smile down. “Sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. I was too young to understand.”

“Right.” He crossed the room and gestured at the floor. “You found the studio alright, then?”

“Yes.” I wasn’t sure I could think of anything polite to say about SAGA STUDIOS, so I didn’t say anything at all.

He planted a hand on his hip and grinned. “You’re judging very hard right now.”

“Well, it’s difficult not to when the water stains from the upstairs units make their own kind of statement.” I glanced up at the stains in question.

He rolled his eyes and walked toward the balance bar. Reaching his hands up, into his hair, he bundled the locks into a stub of a ponytail. His biceps flexed, shoulders rolling. Frankly, I couldn’t wait to get my hands on him, in the purely professional sense. I hadn’t danced at all in a week, and was feeling its loss in my bones.

“It might not be your level of studio⁠—”

“Clearly.”

“But in a humble place like this, there’s no pressure to perform for anyone but yourself.”

“Performing for yourself is how novices train.”

He dropped his hands to his hips and faced me. “You just can’t help yourself, can you? Gotta get a dig in.”

“That wasn’t . . .” I wet my lips. “I didn’t mean for that to sound personal.”

“Whatever. When does Dylan arrive?”

“This afternoon. But we probably won’t see her until tomorrow morning.”

He looked away, and a little flutter made his cheek tremble. I’d been in the room less than five minutes, and his body language had gone from loose and free when he’d been on the call with his mother, to tight and guarded with me.

We needed to dance to work this out, but this was his space, his world. I’d brought some music suggestions, had a few ballroom routines we could run, just to warm up, but I was getting the sense that I should wait for him to make the next move. All I seemed to be doing was adding to his tension.

We stood at opposites ends of the floor, neither of us moving.

Birds tweeted outside, from where I had no idea. I hadn’t seen many trees when the taxi had pulled up. Music leaked through walls that weren’t designed to be soundproof. Laughter barked from somewhere in the building.

“We should start simple,” Navarro said. Finally.

Simple was good.

“Hold work,” he said. “No choreography. Just walking and rhythm.”