Page 45 of Colliding with Ten

He hesitated, a flush creeping up his neck as he thought of how to respond. “Well, there aren’t many women wearing knee braces.”

I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. “You’re lying.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, and that grin deepened, all mischief and trouble. A sparkle lit his eye.

Before I could call him out again, he nodded to the paperback in my lap. “What’re you reading?”

I snapped the book shut with a thwack. “Nothing.”

“Didn’t look like nothing.” Amusement shone in his eyes. “You were pretty lost in it. Good one?”

“It’s fine. Bad writing. Terrible pacing.” I tried to sound casual but failed.

He chuckled. “You like that?”

“No, and you wouldn’t like it either.”

Without invitation, he dropped his backpack on a nearby seat and sat beside me. The plastic chair creaked under his weight. Just like that, the row felt smaller. His mix of mint-and-soap scent was distracting.

He sat with one leg stretched out, arms draped over his thighs. My eyes fell on his hands—long, slender fingers and blunt-cut nails. I imagined how they’d feel against me. Heat rose to my cheeks.

I lifted my gaze back to his face; his expression was thoughtful as he stared at me. An awkward silence was building between us. I cleared my throat.

“Umm, I was looking at the scar on your hand.”

A small surgical scar ran across the middle of his throwing hand, down to his wrist. He tilted his hand, looking at it as if reminding himself it was there.

He shrugged. “A torn ligament in my wrist.”

He tilted his head toward my leg. “How’s your knee?”

I breathed, trying to refocus. “Getting there. I’ve been resting and elevating it.” I gestured to my setup, my leg propped on my luggage. “I came out here to Denver to see a dance rehab specialist.”

His brow lifted. “Dance rehab?”

“Yeah,” I smiled. “It’s what it sounds like, using dance as part of physical therapy.”

He leaned forward, interest written all over his face. “Never heard of that. When I tore my knee, they had me on a full recovery circuit. I’m talking strength training, hydrotherapy, balance drills, and mobility work. I spent more time underwater than I did in my bed.”

I chuckled. “Sounds wet.”

“It was.” A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “But it was good. I wanted to get better. We built everything from the ground up. Hips, legs, arms, my entire throwing mechanics changed after that. I have more power on the ball now.”

I nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Yeah, dance therapy does more than rebuild muscles. It helps you to be aware of your body, learn how it moves, and start trusting it again.”

His expression became thoughtful. “You mean like teaching your body how to stop being afraid of itself?”

“Exactly.” I smiled. “After an injury, people get scared. Even lifelong dancers start doubting themselves. They lose confidence in the movement, which can feel like losing your voice. The therapy helps you find it again.”

His expression changed. I expected him to change the subject, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked down at his hand and turned it, running his fingers over the scar. He nodded, eyes faraway.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter. “I know what that feels like. Losing your voice.”

He looked at me, and everything around us faded as we sat side by side in understanding.

Then he cleared his throat. “Guess I just learned something new. Think I’d make a decent student?”

I arched an eyebrow. “Depends. How’s your rhythm?”