Page 13 of Playing for Keeps

“You say that,” I called back, “but if I trip over my own feet, it’s on you.”

We draped our coats over a couple of chairs pushed up against the wall, set Simon’s umbrella aside and headed straight into the thick of it. The music surrounded us, with steady, low drums. The floor was alive, and stepping onto it was joining a conversation in a language that I’d forgotten, but suddenly remembered how to speak.

Simon leaned in so I could hear him over the trumpet. “Okay, Em. Game plan: we don’t try to be perfect. We just try to have fun. Deal?”

“I can do that,” I said, smiling. My nerves weren’t as bad as I thought they’d be. The music was too loud and bright for me to worry too much.

Simon offered his hand with a dramatic bow, and I rolled my eyes but took it anyway. We slipped into a space between two other couples. He found the rhythm right away, his shoulders relaxed, and his feet moved like he was born to do this. I fell in, but I was a beat behind at first. Then my muscle memory kicked in. Step, step, and back. Step, step and back. It was there. A little rusty, maybe, but I thought I was doing okay.

“So, you have done this before,” he said, grinning.

“I told you I had,” I replied, letting myself spin. My balance wobbled once, but Simon steadied me with a light touch on my elbow. “It’s coming back.”

“See?” He beamed. “Told you your feet were clever.”

We moved together, turning with the crowd. Couples blurred into flashes of colour – red skirts twirling, white shirts damp with sweat and laughter spiking up louder than the brass sometimes. The whole place was alive.

He spun me again, faster this time, and I laughed, surprised that I didn’t fall. My body simply remembered how to move without overthinking. When the club cheered at some impressive move from a couple nearby, we joined the noise just because it felt good.

“Look at you,” Simon said, a little out of breath. “You’re glowing.”

“That’s just sweat,” I teased, though I knew what he meant. My heart was racing, my face was warm, but a genuine joy had settled in my chest.

The song slowed down for its final beats, and we finished with a simple turn, getting back into the rhythm like we’d planned it. I joined the rest of the floor clapping for the band.

“Next song?” he asked, hopeful.

I smiled. “Of course.”

The next track kicked in, sweeping us back in. My hesitance was gone, replaced by a giddy freedom. Every step seemed easier now. Every turn belonged. Surrounded by swirling lights and pulsating music, I was right in the middle of it, feeling alive.

Simon spun me around again, leaning in close. His voice was low but full of laughter. “You realize I’m dragging you with me again next time, right?”

“You don’t have to drag. Just ask.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I was going to anyway.”

By the time I got home, the drizzle had turned into a fine mist, settling on my coat like icing sugar. The house was warmer than when I’d left it, as if it had been waiting up for me. I kicked off my shoes by the door and stood for a moment, listening to the fridge humming and the pipes clicking gently.

My hair still carried a hint of wood polish from the club. I could feel the music pulsing somewhere under my ribs, the rhythm still lingering in my legs. When I closed my eyes I could almost feel Candela’s floor again. For the first time since moving, I didn’t feel like I was visiting my own life.

I dropped my handbag on the sofa and caught my reflection in the dark window. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes bright. Look at you, Simon had said. You’re glowing.

He was right. It wasn’t just the heat of the club or the margaritas. It was something quieter – the lightness that comes when you stop overthinking and just let yourself move.

I poured a glass of water and sat on the arm of the sofa, listening to the city’s night noises drift in through the open window. Somewhere, a siren wailed and faded. Somewhere else, a burst of laughter. Toronto had its own rhythm, and tonight, I’d found a way to move with it.

I opened my notebook and scribbled down one line: “Danced. Remembered my feet. Maybe that’s the start of not feeling uprooted.”

7

MAX

After practice, we headed to the locker room, where the sharp stink of gear mixed with the steam from the showers. The post-drill exhaustion felt good, a solid weight in my limbs after an hour of suicides and gap control. Will was sitting next to me on the bench, humming some pop song off-key while taking off his shin pads. Seth was across the way, leaning back like he owned the place, grinning the second he caught my eye.

“So, Finn,” he said, drawing it out, “how’d date number two go? Didn’t see you around much Saturday.”

I groaned, tugging at a stubborn skate lace. “Disaster. Again.”