Live. Love.

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Chapter 5 Starting Over

Nicky hesitated looking up at glass front building when Brad pulled the car to a stop at the curb. Coach Hannah Rodriguez’s dance studio was two stories, covered in shiny glass. She was nervous. Her heart beating heavily in her chest. Coach Hannah was one of the best, most challenging coaches in the country. Nicky had never met her, but she’d heard stories. Hot shot dancers being torn to shreds within minutes. Never dancing again.

Urban legends, Nicky was sure, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a little bit afraid. Nicky lived for dance. She always had. All kinds of dance. She loved it all. The movement an extension of the music that it was set to. Being a professional dancer wasn’t easy. It didn’t matter how much natural talent you had. It was hard work. The conditioning, the training. Half the coaches pushed you to starve yourself, shave off those last few pounds.

“You good?” Brad asked shoving the transmission into park, eyeing her carefully. Nicky had latched onto the ends of her hair twisting them up into her fingers, chewing on her bottom lip anxiously.

“Uh huh,” Nicky said absently.

“Hey,” Brad said touching her arm to grab her attention. “You’ve got this.” Nicky nodded turning back to look at the building as Gage pushed out of the car from the seat behind her. “The rink is only two block that way.” Brad said gesturing down the street, turning to face her arm over the top of the steering wheel. “We have a long practice today so come over when your done ok?”

Nicky nodded again stepping out when Gage opened her door. Lost in her head she stood for a moment back to the opening. Nerves rushing through her. She hadn’t had to prove herself since she’d auditioned for Juilliard. When she’d graduated Coach Randal had already been watching her. He’d approached her with an offer to train her. She’d spent the last year at the top of his team preparing for a company audition she hadn’t even received an invitation to yet.

Gage trapped her, his hand on the hood of the car and the top of the door. Without thinking he reached out cupping her cheek with his hand. The eyes that met his were dark and clouded, not quite focused. He tapped his thumb just below her lip that she was massacring with her teeth. She stopped rubbing her lips together, focusing on him.

“Kitten.” He murmured rubbing his thumb over her bottom lip soothingly. Nicky tilted her face up to him, now fully focused on him and the fire his touch had lit. “You’ve got this.” Gage said clearing his throat. Dragging his eyes from hers he took a step back, letting his hand fall away. Jesus, he needed to get laid.

Straightening her shoulders, Nicky tossed her hair back, gripping her dance bags strap with both hands. He gave her a familiar tilt of his lips when she slipped past him to walk to the building. When she got to the door she couldn’t help but look back. Smiling when she found him still standing beside the open car door watching her.

Windows lined the lobby showing off the classes inside. To left ballet. Delicate, anorexic dancers in leotards, tights and point shoes. Hair pulled back severely into tight buns. They leaped and spun, one in sync with the other. Arms and legs extended tight and sharp. To the right salsa. Long flowing skirts. Sharp but somehow fluid movements. Partners, arms wrapped around each other like they were lovers.

“Ms. Wilder.” A voice called from beside the desk straight ahead. A man stood patiently waiting for her to reach him before he spoke again. He was fit and tall, dressed in purple dance leggings, and a bright blue crop top that showed off his toned abs and muscular arms.

“I’m Coach Hannah’s assistant Tony.” He introduced. Hyper articulating his s’s and elongating his vowels. His eyes looked her over critically, brow raising with attitude. Waving a hand in the air for her to follow him. “You’ll change, then come to room three and wait for Coach Hannah to acknowledge you.” Pushing open the door to the locker room he waved her through before spinning on his heal and sashaying away.

Class was already under way when Nicky entered the studio five minutes later. Pulling her hair into a messy knot at the back of her head she watched them dance. It was an eclectic mix of styles bringing the music to life visually with footwork and hand movements. Sexy sways in the hip. Tight spins and dramatic body thrusts. The music overflowing with emotion and drama. Torturous betrayal. Hot sexuality.

It was a tight routine, a combination of steps, body pops, and hand motions to a popular rap song. The team was good. Tight in their formation and synchronicity. Each independent move made as a group was nearly perfect. Precisely in concert. This is where she lived. This is where she was free.

Nicky had always thought of dancers as the different groups in High School. Popular kids. Geeks. Rejects. All forced together in one classroom. Expected to get along and work together. Not really friends, just barely keeping the peace for the sake of the routine.

Support dancers were solid. The ones that had the technical step down, kept the group grounded in the basics. They were like a tether to the dancers that flitted around them. They enjoyed dancing but could take it or leave it if they were pushed in the wrong way. The kids in school who didn’t give a shit what people thought, reminding everyone else that they weren’t perfect either.

Instinctual dancers were naturally good. They picked up steps like they were breathing. Usually, the coaches favorite because they were hardly any work at all. Their movements were easy, fluid, sharp almost perfect without even trying. Annoying as fuck to the other dancers who actually had to work to get where they were. Jocks, nerds, rich kids that just had everything handed to them by fate.

Working dancers wanted it in a way no one else in the room did. And they had to work their ass off for it. Being good to a working dancer meant they ate, slept, breathed dancing. Working their bodies to death to learn new steps memorize routines and get lines clean. That kid in school who was a little on the anxious, struggling to pass no matter how much they studied.

Then there were the flash dancers. They weren’t always the best, but they always drew the crowd's eye. They had a charisma on stage that no one else next to them did. Divas, they drank their own cool-aid making them almost un-coachable. The popular kids in class. Nice in a way you're not sure they’re really being nice. Way to perfect to be real.

“Lana, pick up your fucking feet. You’re behind a half a second.” Coach Hannah yelled from the sidelines. Coach Hannah was in her forty’s. Here blond hair sprinkled with streaks of silver that looked more like Christmas tinsel than age. Dressed in a leotard and dancing leggings she stood to the side, watching her dancers.

Lana was the stereotypical dancer. Dark hair pulled up into a high ponytail. Her face delicate and angular. Flat chested and skinny to the point it almost looked unhealthy. Lana stopped dancing with a stomp of her foot glaring across the room at Coach, her hands going to her hips. A flash dancer.

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