Sweet Satisfaction

“I have two glasses of cold wine .”

I padded across the floor and joined Sam on the couch. The gas logs crackled as if they were real. They were pretty to watch .

I took the glass from him. “Thank you .”

“How was the bath ?”

“Everything I needed. Even my leg feels better. Thank you .”

“You’re welcome.” He kissed me .

“How are you feeling? About the game .”

He shifted back on the cushions. “I’d rather not talk about it. It’s over. We lost. I can’t get that second back .”

“I understand.” I stared in the fire. “I feel the same way about my accident .”

“Then I guess I shouldn’t ask .”

I shook my head. “No, I think I can talk about it now. I’ve wanted to tell you. It’s a big part of me, Sam, and I think you should know what happened.” I took another sip of wine. “It was during a performance. And not just any performance. It was opening night. My parents were there. Do you know how huge it is that both of them were in the same room to see me perform?” I spoke the words slowly .

“I was prima ballerina. My father flew in from Paris. This was what all of us had been waiting for. Finally, after years of practice and fighting for that position—I had it. And they were so proud of me. Proud that all the work had finally paid off. The hours and the years of practice and pain had meant something.” The flames danced over the fake logs .

I paused, remembering what it felt like to see my family’s faces in the audience. How the pride poured through me like a white light when I stepped on the stage .

Sam took a sip of wine. “I think I can relate to that part, at least. My parents pushed me pretty hard to be a football player. At first it was all about being the quarterback, but after talking with a few scouts when I was ten, they decided I was going to be a tight end .”

I stared at him, realizing each moment we were together we had more in common .

“But tell me what happened. I want to hear.” He rested his hand on my knee .

“I’ve gone over it a hundred times. A thousand times. Questioning myself. Questioning my partner. Did I mis-step? Did I drop his hand at the wrong time? Did my foot miss his palm? What did I do to cause it? I’ve asked myself every question possible .”

I took another sip of wine and turned to face Sam. “And you know what I figured out ?”

“What’s that ?”

“That it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. If Charles had turned or I had turned. Or if the lights were in our eyes. Or the music was too loud. Or I was so nervous to see my mother and father sitting together. It doesn’t matter. Because I can’t undo the fact that I fell on stage from six feet in the air and that I tore my hamstring in so many places the ballet couldn’t keep me on .

“I can’t make it not be true. It’s my story. It’s my history, Sam. The ballet let me go, and I did just enough rehab to join the Goddesses until auditions for the troupe next year. I hated myself for months for wearing those gold boots and slutty top, but I realized something about that too. Those boots are as important as my pointe shoes. That’s my story. I was a ballerina and now I’m a Goddess. And I have to be okay with it. I fell and destroyed my career.” I touched the side of his jaw, outlining the strong bones that made up the face I had fallen for. “So, what’s going to be your story? Are you going to let one night define who you are, or are you going to keep going ?”

“It’s not the same.” He leaned into my hand. I could feel the roughness of his stubble against my soft palm .

“It is the same. Injury. Embarrassment. Letting other people down on the team. Having a theater full of people see your f

ailure. Thinking you’ve lost something you can’t get back. Thinking the one thing you love more than anything is over. I know exactly what you’re feeling right now .”

He traced my collarbone and my skin prickled. “When I’m with you, I’m not worried about all that noise, Natalia. I don’t care right now that I dropped the pass and let the team down. I don’t care that Wes is mad as a fucking hornet. That the only replay they’re showing on Sports Now is the end of our game. You know why ?”

I shook my head .

“Because this is what I want. You are what I want. This is the story I want .”

He loosened the tuck I had on the towel and it fell open. I gasped .

“It is a good story,” I whispered. “I think we have the same story, Sam .”

He nodded, sliding down the couch and pushing my knees wide. I forgot what we were talking about or that the night was slipping through our fingers. As soon as I felt his tongue press between my legs, all thoughts were gone. We were in our own world, in our own cabin where Sam was right. This was a fucking incredible story .