Page 41 of Frozen Hearts
Then my thoughts drift to how it would feel if the roles were reversed—him sitting in the audience watchingme.My skin heats, muscles tightening at the notion. Shivers skate down my spine as I picture his chestnut orbs locked on me with that same intensity he had on the ice. Desire floods my veins at knowing I’m the only one who has his attention. It’s heady. Intoxicating. And has me momentarily wishing he was here. That I had the courage to tell him what I do for a living.
He hasn’t asked, although I know if we continue to hang out, it won’t be long until he does. Until I have to tell him. It makes me nervous. Nervous to see how he will react. To know what he might think. Will he care? I hope not but you can never really know.
My steps falter, and I focus my thoughts back on Logan and tonight’s game. From the second he hit the ice, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. And every time he scored a goal, I got swept up in the excitement of the crowd, screaming his name and clapping my hands like a lunatic.
I struggled at times to follow what was happening. I looked up the rules of the game before I went tonight, but factoring in the speed at which everyone moved around the ice, it made it challenging to follow at times. However, even when I wasn’t sure what was going on, it didn’t detract from the game. From the atmosphere. The energy in the crowd and the effortless way in which Logan moved captivated me. He owned the rink with every slice of his blades and whack of his stick. The hard, determined look in his eyes when he was on the ice. How focused and in the zone he was. I didn’t need to know anything about hockey to know he’s a natural at it. He was born to be on the ice, adored by screaming fans and taking down men the size of mountains.
I’m not entirely sure if the way he was playing was normal for him or not. The man beside me kept cursing every time he elbowed another player and the couple of times he pulled stunts worthy of a penalty and time in the glass box. Yet, after he saw me, he stopped playing so aggressively. It was as if whatever anger he was harboring disappeared and his head was fully in the game. Even the spectators around me noticed the change in his behavior, and I received some sideways looks after that.
Icouldn’t have been the change in Logan’s mood… could I?
The only time he took his focus off the game was when he looked at me. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t make me feel all sorts of special, especially when he came right over and basically declared for the entire stadium to see that I meant something to him.
Meant what, I’m not sure, but whatever it is, I can’t deny it feels pretty damn good.
Or that I feel the same way, too.
My thoughts revolve around Logan for the entirety of my shift, which catches me by surprise. Normally when I’m on stage, I lose myself in the performance, falling into the practiced routine alongside the other dancers. Dancing has always been my outlet. The thing I turned to when I needed to get out of my head and forget the world for a while.
It’s the only reason why I even felt comfortable accepting this job. Putting my body on display for everyone to gawk at is not something that comes naturally to me. It’s not that I have body image or self-esteem issues, but knowing I’m deliberately encouraging men to look at me, enticing them, is triggering for me.
I can’t even be at a swimming pool without wearing a one-piece that covers as much skin as possible, and the second I’m out of the pool, I’m pulling on a top and shorts to cover up.
So, applying for a job where I dance half-naked in front of a room full of strangers was ahugedeal for me. I probably wouldn’t have applied for the job, except reality came calling in the form of my mother, reminding me I have responsibilities and I can’t afford not to. So I learned how to block it all out. To focus only on the movements, the way I do when I dance solely for me.
“I need you to stay behind and help me lock up,” Ben, the club’s manager, says when I’m nearing the end of my shift.
Rocks settle in my stomach. I hate it when he asks me to stay late. From the minute I met him, I was wary. He always gives me ick vibes, with his greasy, slicked-back hair and the overwhelming stench of aftershave that threatens to drown me. However, it’s more than that. It’s the way he leers at me and the other girls, always watching us a little too closely, a little too often.
“Sure,” I say, resigned, as I go to change out of my skimpy outfit and into my normal clothes.
“I can wait for you,” Tara offers in a quiet voice when we’re backstage.
“No, it’s okay. Nothing’s going to happen. He’ll try his luck, I’ll turn him down, and that will be that.”
Tara stares at me for a moment longer, searching to see if I’m telling her the truth before she relents. “Okay. Well, let me know when you’re done, yeah?”
I give her a quick smile. “Will do.”
Once I’ve changed, I begin wiping down tables and stacking chairs on top of them before moving over to the bar and tidying it up. I’m leaning over the prep area to wipe down the bartop when Ben emerges from his office.
“You danced well in tonight’s performances,” he says in a leering tone that raises the hairs along the back of my arms. I appreciate that, as a manager, he would be watching the shows to ensure everything goes smoothly. However the way he says it, like he was watchingmespecifically… it creeps me out. “Is that what you’re going to college for? To become a dancer?”
Yeah, I’m sure he’d like that. Bet he’s picturing it right now, all that bending and stretching. I guarantee he’s thinking about how flexible I’d be in bed. The other girls talk, and word is that Ben is a creep. He has hit on a couple of the other girls, offering them rides home and inviting them to his place so they can ‘get to know each other better’.
Dude, professionalism! It’s a thing, look it up!
“No. I haven’t decided what I want to do yet.”
The last thing I want to do is give this guy any information about me. Equally, I don’t want to come across as rude. It’s a challenging balance.
He steps closer, within touching distance and effectively corners me behind the bar. “You’re young,” he says, voice lower than a moment ago. “You’ve got plenty of time to figure it out. In the meantime, you should let loose, have some fun, enjoy yourself.”
The insinuation is clear. My body is coiled tight as I stare pointedly at the bartop I’m now furiously wiping in an effort to distract myself. Perhaps it will serve to remind him that we’re actually meant to beworking.
He shifts so his chest brushes against my back, deliberately leaning in and eliminating any possibility of it being an accidental graze. My blood turns to ice in my veins, my heart rapidly thumping against my ribs. Reality blends with the past in a cruel clash as memories rise like a tidal wave, threatening to crash over my head.
Another heavy body.
