The Wild Mustang & The Dancing Fairy (St. Mary’s Rebels 1.5)

“What do I get in return? If I keep it.” He tilts his head to the side. “Between us.”

Run, I tell myself.

Just please push him away and start running.

But all I do is stand here, staring up at him, even when it becomes difficult, even when it strains my neck because he’s so tall and big.

So beautiful that I don’t know where else to look.

I also don’t know how to stop myself from asking, “W-what do you want?”

This is what he wanted, isn’t it?

Yeah, because his features grow warm with satisfaction before he drawls, “You.”

“What?”

Slowly, those eyes of his travel all the way down to my white ballet flats. “I hear you’re a ballerina.”

My right foot tries to climb on to my left under his scrutiny. “Yes.”

He lifts his eyes. “Then I want you to spin like one.”

“I-I’m sorry?”

He shifts on his feet, making himself bigger somehow, pushing at the very fabric of the air, as he explains, “You like to dance, don’t you? So I want you to dance. For me.”

I blink at him.

I think I heard him wrong. He cannot possibly be asking what I think he’s asking.

Just to be sure, I question, “You want me to dance for you?”

“Yeah.”

“In exchange for you keeping this between us?”

“That’s the idea.”

My mouth falls open. “You’re insane.”

“I’d like to think of myself as someone who sees an opportunity and seizes it.”

“What opportunity?”

“I was bored and then a ballerina fell into my lap. A good one too, from what I’ve heard.” Again, he gives me a once-over. “So I want you to entertain me.”

I ignore the flush of pleasure at his off-handed compliment. Mostly because it’s off-handed and followed by a very presumptuous demand.

And also because, as I said, he’s insane.

“What do you think this is?” I ask, exasperated. “A movie from the fifties or something? Where you’re a cigar-smoking villain and you’re blackmailing me into dancing for you.”

“A cigar-smoking villain.” He’s amused. “I’m known to smoke a cigarette here and there and I usually prefer the term asshole but I like that. It has a certain flair to it.”

“I’m not going to dance for you.”

“Well then, I’m going to enjoy watching Ledger lose his shit in the next game when I tell him how pretty his sister looked, standing before me, begging me to keep her secret.”

I clench my teeth in anger.

Have I said that I hate him?

I really, really do.

“Fine. Fine,” I snap at him. “I’ll dance for you. But just for making me do that, you also have to apologize to my brother.”

“Apologize.”

“Yes. You provoked him on the field today. I don’t know what you said but you’re going to apologize to him when you see him next.”

A flash of irritation tightens his mouth. “Just so you know, I don’t do well with orders.”

I go up on my tiptoes then.

Because he’s so tall and I want to get up in his face, which of course he notices, my feet arched up and my calves strained.

And something in my struggle to appear all strong in front of him turns his gaze even more molten.

“Well, you’re gonna have to start,” I tell him, “because I’m not dancing until you promise me.”

He watches me silently for a few moments before stepping back.

And I think it’s over.

I’ve called his bluff.

But then, he fishes something out of his back pocket, his cell phone, and presses a few buttons on the screen.

Suddenly, the music that was a dull sound in the background flares to life. The air fills with heavy bass and people back at the party cheer.

He commands in a husky voice, “Make it good.”

Just like that, he’s called my bluff and I’m supposed to dance for him.

How did this happen? How is this my life?

When I woke up this morning all I wanted to do was get through my classes, go to the game, and go back home to the scarf that I’m knitting for Conrad.

But somehow, I’m here, about to dance for my brother’s rival.

That’s not the worst part.

The worst part is that I want to.

I want to dance for him.

I’ve been wanting to dance for him ever since I saw him play for the first time three years ago. When both he and Ledger made the team.

God.

I’m so embarrassed to admit that. So ashamed.

But the thing is that the way he plays soccer, the way he moves across the field, with grace and beauty and a certain recklessness, fills me with music.

Not to mention, the music that he’s put on… is gorgeous.

It’s a mix of hip hop and rock and when the word ballerina flutters in the air, I let go of the tree that I’ve been clinging to and step forward.

When the guy in the song calls me his – his ballerina – it feels like he’s calling me that.

The Wild Mustang who’s asked me to dance for him.