Page 11 of The Comeback

“I don’t understand how that has anything to do with ballet.” She looks at me like I don’t understand how to play football. When she’s the one that has no idea what she’s talking about.

Charlotte is tall and slender with long legs. The muscles in her thighs and calves are defined and show how much time she spends working out. This was not what I envisioned when I thought about a dancer.

What did I expect? Weakness?

Fuck. I am an elitist ass.

“If you aren’t pushing off with all your weight, then it’s a sign you’re scared your ankle will give out again.”

My hands ball into fists. I want to smash my mouth over hers to keep it from moving. “I’m not scared.”

“Fuck.” She rolls her eyes. “Men are such babies. Fine. You aren’t scared. You’re too cautious with your injury because you’re concerned it’ll happen again.”

“I’m not concerned.” Bullshit. When did you become a liar? But I’m not scared. That’s going too far. “What makes you think I’m concerned?”

“Because if you’ve worked out as hard as you say, there’s no other reason for you not to have returned to pre-injury form.”

“I’ve done everything I said I’ve done.” I bristle, but I can’t decide if it’s because she implied that I’m scared, that she can see right through me, or that I’m one step away from early retirement. Or getting a one-way ticket to a bottom feeder team.

“Hey.” She raises her hands in front of her with her palms facing me. “I wasn’t intending to insult you.”

“Listen. This is a pointless conversation. Dance is not going to help me do anything. I’m not planning to put on a leotard and strap on a pair of slippers. It was a mistake for me to come here.”

“Yes, it was a mistake.”

My eyes narrow at her quick dismissal. The woman has my head spinning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re the one that’s insulted dance. Considers me incompetent. Doesn’t believe there’s a possibility that the reason you’re struggling is because you’re worried about re-injuring your ankle. And to top it all off, you’re closed-minded.”

“This is a ridiculous conversation.” I grab the knob and twist. “I’m out of here.”

Chapter Seven

That Night

Charlotte

After I step into Callahan’s Bar, I search the crowd for Dani Sinclair. Over the last several months, we’ve grown close. When I see her standing next to her husband, Gunner, I wave and weave my way through the crowd.

“Hey, guys.” I step into Dani’s embrace.

“Hey, girlie.” She grins. “It’s about time you showed up.”

“I had a late class.” Which was my fault. I was so irritated with Weston’s condescending attitude this afternoon that I spent my break visualizing tossing darts at his face. That left the rest of my day backed up.

Maybe I shouldn’t have gone to the trouble of finding a photo of him and his ex-Ms. Willow Reed–that’s not her name, but looking at how thin she is made me feel overweight and inferior–in a slinky dress and stilettoes getting ready for a Hollywood movie premier.

And I shouldn’t have printed out the picture and drawn a mustache above her upper lip. But it felt good.

“That’s fine.” Dani pulls back, and Gunner cups her cheek.

“Babe, I’ll be back in a few. I’m going to talk to the guys.”

“No problem.” She stands on her tiptoes and kisses him.

A wave of regret washes over me. If I had stopped playing basketball and followed my ex around, would that be us? Please. I mentally roll my eyes. There’s not a chance in hell of that happening. My ex didn’t have a romantic bone in his body. Not even the one in his pants.

As they continue to whisper sweet, annoying nothings to each other, I wave over the bartender and order a beer. One drink is my limit when I’m driving. And drinking beer will ensure I don’t go over my limit. If I can even choke one down.

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