Only the Brave Try Ballet. Stefanie London
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silk dresses and needle-thin heels.
Worse, she’d been here before. The glitz and the glamour of the arts world wasn’t so different—though there was a distinct lack of fake tan and fake boobs where ballet and art were concerned.
She’d been on the arm of a wealthy man—the son of a financier—who’d thought his family’s bank balance meant that he owned her, that he could control her as he controlled the investments in his portfolio. His family had money equivalent to the GDP of a small nation.
And it had ended badly...very badly. Her stomach churned.
‘Champagne, miss?’ A waiter held out his silver tray, four delicate flutes of bubbling wine catching the light in front of her.
‘No, thank you.’
‘I will.’ Elise reached for a flute and smiled.
The waiter drifted into the crowd and they found a spot to stand in front of the mammoth glass window. Outside the seats were filling up. A sea of black and green engulfed the stadium, and excitement was palpable in the atmosphere. Inside the clinking of champagne flutes and muted chatter filled the air.
‘I would have thought you’d be OK to have a drink by now.’ Elise took a delicate sip from her flute.
Her blond hair was piled on her head, with wispy strands loose and alluring around her pixie face. A chunky strand of grey pearls offset her steel-coloured eyes. Even Elise looked more as if she belonged than Jasmine did.
‘It’s not like I’m working hard to resist it,’ Jasmine said.
‘You’re missing out—this is the good stuff.’ She winked. ‘The French stuff.’
‘I don’t want it.’
Elise watched her, assessing her as she sipped again. Her tongue captured a stray droplet of the fizzing liquid. Jasmine forced a smile; she didn’t want to ruin what would be an exciting night for Elise.
‘One glass won’t kill you,’ Elise went on. ‘I’m driving, so you don’t have to worry about safety.’
‘I don’t want one.’ She couldn’t keep the frost out of her voice.
Elise sighed. ‘I’m not trying to push you. I’m just saying that it’s OK to let your hair down every once in a while. You know—live a little. Maybe act like you’re twenty-seven instead of seventy-seven.’
‘I’m sure there are seventy-seven-year-olds who are more fun than me.’
Both girls laughed, and Elise hooked her arm through Jasmine’s. ‘Yeah, I’m going to trade you in at a nursing home on the way back.’
The room filled up around them. A woman in a knee-length indigo shift stood next to them. Jasmine was sure she’d seen her in the society pages, possibly mentioned as the wife of one of the Jaguars players. She was so close the headiness of her perfume made Jasmine breathe deep. The scent was rich. Refined. French to match the red soles of her designer shoes.
Elise nudged Jasmine and pointed out another woman who’d walked past—a semi-celebrity, famed for the high-profile sports-star boyfriends she turned over frequently. Her tanned skin glowed as though she’d returned from the Maldives that day. She probably had.
‘Why don’t we sit outside? We can’t take Grant’s tickets and then stay in here all night.’ Jasmine motioned for the door to the balcony. Her chest felt squeezed tight, as though two hands were crushing her ribcage, pushing all the air out of her. She gripped her handbag to her stomach, wishing the swishing sensation would stop.
Mercifully, Elise downed the last of her champagne and they stepped out into the members’ balcony area.
The vibe outside was entirely different, and the din that rose up from the crowd was full of excitement and anticipation. Jasmine’s heart immediately slowed, the pressure in her chest easing as she located two spare seats. She wrapped her coat around her shoulders and crossed her arms as she sat, popping the collar to protect her neck from the chill.
‘You OK?’ Elise touched her arm.
Jasmine nodded. Now that she was outside, away from the dismissive glances and claustrophobic atmosphere of the Long Room, she felt marginally better.
Still, she’d prefer to be at home with a blanket, a good book and a cup of hot chocolate. Not here, freezing her butt off in a dress that seemed to be too dressy and yet not dressy enough. But Elise could be a bulldog when she wanted to; sometimes it was easier to give in rather than indulge her Goldilocks complex about her wardrobe.
More members piled out of the Long Room and into the balcony seats. They were mostly men in suits; the women seemed to be staying inside, except for a group of younger girls with extra-long hair extensions and too-short dresses. They occupied the front row, giggling and pointing as the players took to the field.
It was match time, and the fans were chomping at the bit. The Jaguars had won the coin toss and the players now jogged into position. The noise level in the stadium swelled. Even Jasmine couldn’t help but get caught up in the rush...just a little.
For some reason her stomach fluttered at the thought of seeing Grant out there. She jumped as the siren sounded and the game began. A centre bounce set the ball into play and the crowd was on the edge of their seats from the first few seconds.
‘It’s going to be a close game,’ Elise said, her tone serious. ‘The Jags lost by a point last time they played the Suns, and only by two or three points the time before that.’
‘Since when are you such a football expert?’
‘Since there are hot guys in tiny shorts.’ She laughed.
Jasmine nodded. ‘Where’s Grant?’
She scanned the ground, looking for a familiar head of thick blond hair since that was about all she’d be able to see from the balcony. The players were quick, running at full speed as the ball flew from the centre towards the goalposts at one end. There was a mad scramble and the ball went out of play.
‘He’s the full forward.’ Elise pointed to the other end of the field. ‘Number eighteen.’
Jasmine spotted Grant’s hulking frame, his arms bulging in the sleeveless Jaguars guernsey. His muscles rippled as he moved, tense and ready to spring into action. She noticed one of his shoulders was covered in tattoos—something she hadn’t seen beneath the T-shirts he wore to her lessons. His blond hair shone under the stadium lights, and even at such a great distance she could see the focus on his face.
Her stomach clenched.
He was so masculine out there. So powerful. He moved with all the strength and grace of the big cat his team was named after. Each movement was practised and precisely executed. He tracked the other players effortlessly, moving to cover and dodge with incredible agility.
She swallowed, pushing down the attraction humming through her. He was so...virile.
The ball hurtled towards Grant. He sprang into action. It bounced, there was a flurry of arms and legs, and then he got his hands on it. He kicked. The ball sailed into the air, straight through the goalposts in a single graceful arc.
Around her the crowd roared; flags and scarves waved in a blur of black and green. She jumped to her feet and cheered. The air rushed out of her lungs as she shouted his name.
The players clapped one another on the back and Grant looked up towards the members’ area. Jasmine was certain he was looking straight at her. OK, so maybe she did get the appeal of the footballer...
Grant’s muscles were freed, tired and a little bruised—just the way he liked it after a good massage. Most of the guys in his team booked their treatments around the schedule of a pretty brunette masseuse, but Grant much preferred the stout, middle-aged woman with knuckles of steel.