Page 117 of Illegal Formation
He shoved his hands in his pockets and gave me that crooked, almost shy smile that somehow still undid me every time. “Yeah.”
“For me?”
“Who else would I rent a dance studio for, Em?”
A watery laugh escaped me, and I pressed my lips together, trying to keep myself from completely unraveling.
Braden stepped a little closer. “I wanted you to have a glimpse of what it could be like if you chose dance. Not just performing,” he added gently. “Teaching. Leading. Building something of your own.”
He nodded toward the mirror, toward the open floor, toward all the possibility sitting quietly between us.
“I keep thinking about that flag football jamboree,” he said. “The way those little girls followed you around like you hung the moon. The way you lit up when you were with them.” He smiled softly. “You were helping them with their stances and showing them drills and hyping them up like it was the Super Bowl, and you looked…” He exhaled, searching for the right word. “At home.”
Emotion climbed so fast up my throat I could barely keep up with it.What is happening?!
“And when I first brought up teaching,” he continued, “I saw your face. I saw your wheels turning, even if you tried to brush it off.”
I shook my head a little, my voice barely above a whisper. “Braden…”
“It’s been hard. I know. You’ve been on the sidelines. You got injured. You’re the oldest on the team already, and everything in your head is whispering to you that you’re not enough. You think dance is ending for you because eventually the NFL is going todecide you’re too old for this version of it,” he said, holding my gaze. “And maybe one day that part does end.”
That landed like a stone in my stomach. But before I could spiral, he stepped closer still.
“But you are never too old to dance, Emily. And as someone who was completely fucking hypnotized the first time I saw you dance, believe me when I say dance had chosen you. It’s just waiting to see if you choose it, too.”
I wet my lips, shaking my head even though I knew he was right. I could feel it humming in my soul, that part of me that had always longed to move, to stretch, to cross distance and take up space and bend my body in ways that created art.
“What do you feel when you imagine it?” he asked.
I looked at him, unable to answer. My voice was stuck in my throat that was thick with emotion. When he gestured to the studio, I looked around again.
I took in the mirrors. The floor. The barres. The empty open space just waiting to be filled.
“Imagine a class full of little girls in here,” he said. “Hair in buns and glitter on their eyelids and too much energy in their tiny bodies. Or maybe they look different. A little older. Maybe they’re a little rough around the edges. Maybe no one has ever taught them a thing about dance but they’re here because they want to move, because they feel that same calling you do. Imagine them all waiting for you to tell them what comes next.” He reached for my hand. “How does that make you feel?”
I opened my mouth, closed it, and then laughed through the tears threatening to spill. “Terrified?”
Braden smiled. “Okay. Fair.”
“And…” My voice cracked, and I pressed my lips together before trying again. “And kind of… excited.”
His whole face changed at that, his shoulders relaxing, chest emptying like he’d been worried he’d overstepped, like he’d been hoping I’d admit what I just had.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s what I thought.”
I looked around the room again, but this time, I didn’t just see a studio.
I saw little girls in pink tights and oversized sweatshirts.
I saw teenagers with ponytails and ambition and nerves.
I saw a version of myself standing at the front of the room, counting off an eight-count, clapping my hands, calling out corrections, believing in them until they believed in themselves.
I saw a life I’d never let myself fully picture.
And for the first time since my injury, I didn’t feel grief when I imagined dance.
I felt possibility.
