The Guy in the Middle (The Underdogs Book 3)

by Kate Stewart

  “I’m not going to blow it.”

  “What if she’s moved on?”

  I pull a T-shirt over my head, batting away the ache. “She hasn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  Because I have to believe she hasn’t dismissed us as easily as she’s made it seem with her silence. I have to believe that every day she battles the same urge I do. To come back, to get us back—there—to that place where nothing can touch us. Where we aligned our separate planets and revolved around each other, protected each other, shielded one another, and grew together in our own universe—one we created to simply exist. With her, I felt safe, accepted, more like myself. I grew into a better version of me with her. Without her, I’m a lonely planet.

  I’ve spent enough time denying myself.

  It’s time to fight for what I want.

  “You going to throw this all away if it doesn’t work out the way you hope?”

  Shoving my gear in my bag, I rest in how right it feels to go after her, that this could be our chance. I never should have let her end it. I was never okay with her goodbye or a single minute after it.

  “I wouldn’t, and she wouldn’t let me.” I grin down at my discarded gloves that lay on the bench. “I’m her greatest investment.” I’ve got another swing left, another round inside of me. Her words strike like lightning as I pack my shit.

  “What if this moment, right here, is the moment that changes your life?”

  When I met Harper, she was a fair catch. At any point in time, I could have tapped out, signaled the flag, and claimed her despite the onslaught of hurdles we were up against, the opposition running toward us full force. Against those odds, we cracked and were forced off the field.

  This is a whole different playing field, with a completely different set of rules. And this round, winner takes all.

  Ding, Ding.

  Harper

  One breath, one step.

  “Harper, watch your frame.”

  It was just a dream.

  “Harper!” I’m tanking. I’ve never backed down from a challenge in the entirety of my dancing career, but I can’t seem to mold myself to fit this woman’s demands. She’s freaking Cruella de Vil, plain and simple. I’m sure the rug in her 2nd Avenue penthouse is what’s made of the puppy fur because she’s sporting nothing now but an outdated nude leotard and raging camel toe. Camel toe everyone sees, but no one ever discusses. In this company and most circles, she’s considered the Madam of Dance, and because I’ve just landed the first solo of my career in her new show, Retro, I’m glutton for this punishment until the final curtain drops.

  In the last couple of years, I’ve traveled the world, having been fortunate enough to dance in numerous shows with the troupe. It’s been the best two years of my career, a living dream, aside from the regret that gnaws at me most nights I lay in bed. The last few days he’s been on my mind because of a different dream, one that felt so real, I woke up crying. He was inches away, but I couldn’t touch him. I kept calling his name, begging for him to see me, but he couldn’t hear me. It was one of those agonizing dreams that seemed to last forever. Even though my heart has never forgiven me, my head sometimes decides to join in the war while I sleep.

  Since that morning, I’ve been battling myself just to reach out, but the coward in me always wins. It’s been too long to strike up a casual conversation, to check in, in a friendly way. At the time, leaving Grand was undoubtedly, the best decision for me, maybe for us both, so why can’t I live with it?

  I guess I never thought moving on would be so debilitating.

  Although moving is all I seem to do, the ache of missing him still lingers. It’s days like today when I’m failing that I wonder just how far I’ll go. Or how far I would already be with the man who made me feel everything with a single look.

  So movement it is, until I can escape any lingering doubt that I’m where I should be.

  “Again.” The dreaded word has my body aching. My toes are bleeding, I can feel the wetness between the tape.

  One breath, one step at a time.

  I’ve been dancing since I was two. Ballet, tap, jazz, modern dance, sway, I’ve even signed up for a summer of ballroom. I can still remember the exact movements to the ‘hop, shuffle-foot, step’ routine I memorized for my very first recital. My first memory is dancing in that lineup of snot-faced babies wearing a pound of tulle.

  Dancing never made me cry, then.

  This is what it takes, Harper. This is what it takes.

  And I’ll take it, to keep the dream alive. Dancing is in my blood, my bones, it should never stop being fun. Especially not because of Camel Toe Cruella.

  “Jesus, Harper, I picked you, I chose you, this better be your only off day, and it better be due to that period bloat.”

  Face reddening, I throw myself into the routine and manage to get out of rehearsal intact.

  “Jesus, she’s gunning for you. You must have stared at the camel toe too long.” Grinning, I turn to see Casey catching up with me as I exit the building and welcome the cold slap of New York winter on my face.

  “I can take it.”

  He regrips the duffle on his shoulder. “Yeah, well, she’s miserable, and the only reason she’s got any say is because she owns the center and is on the board of directors. Her time is almost up, and she knows it. You were fine.”

  “Fine?”

  He smirks, giving me a side-eye. “You want a compliment?”

  At twenty-eight, Casey is one of the youngest and best choreographers in the business. I’ve worked with him on other shows, and he’s been helping me with my number for Retro. My pointe is rusty, and he’s been conditioning me. Although my confidence could use a lift, I don’t want false compliments. It does nothing to help me. “Fine will do. I know I was off today.”

  “Not by much, and shit happens. She’s drilling hard. You still have plenty of time.”

  “Thank God we’re on break for a few days.”

  “I’m surprised she’s letting us have it. And I’d be even more so if that bitch knows a thing about Jesus.”

  I throw my head back and laugh. “You make a fortune off her, don’t you?”

  “Doesn’t mean I have to like her.” He smiles down at me. “You going home for Christmas?”

  “To Texas?” Inwardly, I cringe at the thought. That place is now a ghost town of my former life. “No. My nana lives here, so I’ll be celebrating Hanukkah with her. How about you? Do your parents live here?”

  He shrugs. “They both passed. My sister lives in Ohio and has a thousand kids, so I’m passing on that this year. So it’s just me and my dog Romeo.”

  My cheeks heat. “That’s right, you told me that, didn’t you?”

  “Once or twice.”

  I’ve made out with Casey a couple of times at various parties the past few months, sending him mixed signals. On Halloween, we spent the better part of an hour doing some heavy petting in one of the guest bathrooms of a director’s house. As soon as he produced a condom, I tapped out. He asked me out as I adjusted my flapper dress in an attempt to reel it in, and I’d turned him down with some bullshit excuse brought to me by Grey Goose. Since then, we’ve been friendly, and he hasn’t pushed.

  He lifts my duffle off my shoulder, adding it to his.

  “Come on, I’ll buy you a piece of lettuce to help you get rid of that period bloat.”

  “Har, har.”

  “Coffee?” Casey isn’t what I’d call ruggedly handsome. With dark brown hair and deep-set brown eyes, he’s got a boyish charm to him that’s alluring, along with an incredible build.

  “Sure. I have time for coffee.”

  He pauses on the sidewalk and turns to me as a cab horn sounds next to us, and the wind kicks up. I can feel Christmas in the air due to the amped chaos and those bustling around us. Very little compares to a New York City Christmas.

  “Just so you’re aware, this is a date.”

  “What?” I gape at him, surprised a
t his changing demeanor. “I agreed to coffee, not a date.”

  “It’s a date,” he says adamantly. “I’ve been patient. Whoever you’ve been waiting for isn’t coming.”

  The words strike deep, and I feel slapped.

  “Pardon? Who says I’m waiting for someone?”

  “I do. This is the third show we’ve done together, and I get this vibe, this not available vibe, but I keep waiting for this guy to pop up and he never attends shows or meets you after rehearsal. So, the way I see it is that you’re waiting for someone. Or maybe you were, or,” he gives me a hopeful grin, “he’s been waiting for you for three long shows.”

  “You know I like you, Casey, but—”

  “Shit, kiss of fucking death.” He gives me a sheepish grin. “Too bold. I came on a little strong in the end, didn’t I?”

  I can’t help my smile. “Little bit.”

  “Sorry.”

  I sigh, hating that I’m making this so awkward. “You know what’s crazy? I’ve never been on a real date.”

  “What?” He frowns.

  “It’s true.”

  “Well then, what’s the holdup?”

  The holdup is a six-foot-plus ballplayer turned boxer than I haven’t been able to get over since I left him standing in his driveway. ‘I belong to dance’ has been my motto most of my life. I kept it true by pursuing my dream and letting Lance go so he could pursue his own. But it’s been years, not days, not months. It isn’t healthy. I never thought the ache would last this long. I knew I would regret it, that I would never stop loving him, but I never expected to mourn our relationship this much after so much time had passed.

  Lance still dominates my heart. As for sex, I made the mistake once of giving my body away for the sake of attention. I have no intention of repeating that mistake ever again. With the handful of flirtations I’ve had the past few years, I’ve never once broken that promise to myself. It’s never felt right. I’ve never wanted to hand myself over as freely as I did with Lance. With him, sex was love, and I don’t know the difference between the two. And I just know, I’m not the girl that wants to separate them.

  Looking at Casey now, I wish I was.

  And he’s right, I’ve been waiting, and for what? I broke us, and I did it intentionally. I gave Lance no reason to come for me. I gave him no reason at all. I denied commitment and shattered us both. But the bond we made; I can’t seem to escape from. Every single step I’ve taken since, I’ve made with him in mind. I can still feel him as a presence in my life, and no matter how far I travel, I carry him with me. His smile, his blunt charms, his love. The look in his eyes. I’ll never get over Lance Prescott, that’s what time and distance have told me.

  Or am I just not trying hard enough?

  Am I trying at all? It’s been two years, and I’m mourning my first love like a widow. At some point, dance won’t fill every space in my life. Casey’s handsome, educated, funny, and one hell of a dancer. I’m attracted to him and way past the rebound point. If I was looking for a prospect, I have one hell of a contender right in front of me.

  Contender.

  It was just a dream, Harper.

  I blow out a frustrated breath and level with Casey.

  “You’re right. And it’s been this way for far too long. I can’t make any promises. That said, do you still want to date me?”

  “I already knew that, so yeah.” He pushes the hair away from my face. “So, what do you say? We start slow. Coffee first, and then we can work our way up to dinner.”

  I pull on my beanie and nod. “Okay.”

  Lance

  I can’t feel my balls. I’ve never in my life been this damn cold. I was nowhere near prepared for a New York winter when I got on the plane. All of my rounds in the amateur league consisted mostly of bouts in the Southeast. This cold is far more bitter. Mouth closed tight, I tread the sidewalk with my hands stuffed in my jeans eyeing each apartment building. Most days, I could give zero shits about posting my status, but tonight I thank God for social media. While waiting to board, I’d searched for Harper. I knew she no longer lived in the same place that she moved to when she took off to the city. She told me then that they were looking for something bigger. This led to stalking those closest to her to search for any clue of Harper’s address. I’d started with her sister, Kandace, who’d visited a little over a year ago. She’d posted a picture of the place John Lennon lived and died, so I know Harper lives on this street because the caption said, “my sister lives on the street John Lennon lived and died.” Morbid, but factual, and the reason I’m on 72nd Street.

  It’s not like I could call and ask her dear old dad. The last time I saw him, he was in the headlines, and it had little to do with coaching ball. There was far more going on with Ryan Elliot that year than we all thought. It hadn’t been so much me dating his daughter that had caused a rift in the team, though I know it had everything to do with his hatred for me. It appeared Coach Elliot was hiding a few secrets himself, and that scandal had rocked its way into national news. It was all I could do to keep from reaching out to Harper.

  But I didn’t.

  Another regret.

  Coach might have been the wedge to come between us back then, but he was no one to regard or respect now.

  Fuck him.

  But that was then and there. This place may be the perfect backdrop for a fresh start for us, at least for the time being. Though this city is anything but welcoming. Stepping over the lines on the sidewalk, I try to picture it through Harper’s eyes. So far, New York City is a whole lot of sensory overload—brightly lit marquees, metal and glass skyscrapers with residential huts in between corner stores and eateries. Horns are a constant background noise, in addition to the piss-poor hospitality, and mind-numbing cold. For Harper, it’s home, for me, it’s a different universe. One I’d gladly enter just to get a glimpse of her in it.

  Searching for any sign of the lit front door, I begin to question my tactic. This half-assed plan is straight from a lunatic’s imagination. René had been the key to getting me this far. After seeing Kandace’s post, I searched for René and found he recently posted a selfie in front of his building, where I know they still live together. Behind him in the shot were twin lit candy canes on the front door of the lobby, the numbers blurred by the vanity filter magnifying his face.

  I have a street and a clue as to which building, and if I was taking stalking 101, I’d ace that shit. I’m not sure what that makes me, but I’m assuming somewhere between desperate and creeper.

  Desperate seems the right word for the moment.

  I can’t shake her. No matter how much time has passed.

  With every step I take, I curse the fact that at any point, I could have made this same trip two years sooner and maybe salvaged our relationship.

  It’s been two years.

  Two years.

  Do I even know her anymore? Have I changed?

  Am I chasing what was and what no longer exists?

  “Fuck it.” Pushing those thoughts away, I cross the street and resume my search. I’m determined to see this through, to either fuel or snuff out any lingering hopes.

  I’m a few blocks down when I see the lights on the door. Speeding up, I’m there in seconds and through the doors looking at her mailbox.

  Medrano/Elliot 21B

  Surely it can’t be this simple?

  Entering the elevator, palms sweaty, I keep my eyes trained on the threadbare maroon carpet.

  “I’ll still feel the same way about you, even years from now. I know it. I know myself. I probably won’t ever stop loving you.”

  Harper is the only woman I’ve ever let get close enough to truly know me, but I can’t help the doubts creeping in. Then again, I’ve been living those words on my own side of things since she left my driveway.

  And it’s time to find out if they have proved true for her as well.

  Sharply, I knock twice on the door and shove my hands in my jeans. The slight swelling in my ey
es has my vision blurry. The fatigue I feel after going six rounds before the trip here vanishes when the door opens. René stands in front of me in a black tank and blue jeans. He’s shorter than me, attractive and built. If I hadn’t seen his Instagram and known who he was, I would have been on edge with him answering the door, especially with his scrutinizing brown eyes and the way they’re taking me in. Nothing about this man’s appearance seems anything but hetero. That is until he opens his mouth and calls behind him.

  “Oh, dear Christ. Mami! Santa came early, and my delivery finally chowed up!”

  I can’t help my grin when he turns back to me.

  “I dreamed ju. Thank ju, Hezuz.” He does the sign of the cross and blows a kiss to the heavens before lifting his hand on the frame and leaning in. “So, what should we do first? A picnic sounds so romantics.”

  “It’s December.”

  “Never underestimates the power of body heat.”

  “Do you greet all strangers at your door like this?”

  “If dey look like ju, jes.” He deadpans.

  I shake my head with a grin. “Is Harper here?”

  “And all my hopes, splat like shits.” I throw my head back and laugh. This guy is something else. He calls back over his shoulder again. “Harper, GQ just showed up, and he is hetero!” He turns back to me. “What’s jour name?”

  “Lance.”

  He opens his mouth and freezes, his expression turning grim.

  “Lance?”

  “Yes.”

  He lifts a brow as I lift my chin, ready for the inevitable.

  “Huh, I thought ju look familiar. Cowboy Lance.”

  I cup the back of my neck. “Not exactly.”

  He steps out into the hall, crowding me before yelling back into the apartment. “Never mind, Mami, it’s for me.”

  “What the hell, man?” I say, backing up so he can close the door.

  He crosses his arms, unfazed. “Aren’t ju about, oh, two years too late?”

  “She’s here, right?”

  “Oh, tough guy, che here, but ju are not welcome.”