Only the Brave Try Ballet. Stefanie London

cocky guys were a thing of her past, and she intended to keep it that way. It was strictly business, and after he paid her for the lesson she could go home and forget she was selling out. Forget that her dream had been reduced to this BS.

      Grant walked over to his duffel bag and rifled through it, withdrawing a thick envelope. He thrust it in her direction.

      ‘This should cover me,’ he said. ‘Coach thought it’d be easier to pay up front since you only take cash.’

      The rewarding heaviness of the envelope sat in Jasmine’s hands. It would cover her rent and bills for the next month or two, and give her a little breathing space. Relief coursed through her, immediately followed by a wave of shame as she tucked the envelope into her handbag. She didn’t bother to count it. A guy who earned more than a million a year, if you believed the papers, was hardly likely to scrimp on a couple of hundred dollars for ballet lessons.

      ‘Thanks,’ she muttered without looking at him, dropping onto one of the couches and peeling off her leg warmers.

      ‘Just so we’re clear, this is something I have to do to tick a box. I don’t have any secret dreams of wearing a tutu and getting up on stage. So don’t take it personally if I don’t crave your feedback.’

      Self-important, arrogant, egotistical...

      ‘Fine.’ Untying her ballet shoes, she reached for her fleece-lined black leather boots. Her body was cooling down and her ankle ached. Grimacing, Jasmine rubbed at the soreness, feeling the rippled skin of her scar underneath her tights before sliding the boot on. ‘You’re here to tick a box. I’m here for the money.’

      If he wanted to play it like that, then he could expect an equal response from her. Hopefully the weeks would pass quickly and then she could move on to figuring out what to do with her life.

      As he pulled a pair of tracksuit pants from his bag Grant’s leg muscles flexed and bulged through his leave-nothing-to-the-imagination sports tights. She’d spent the whole hour forcing her eyes up and away from the tight fabric that stretched over his thighs and...well, everything.

      Heat crawled up the back of her neck and pooled in her cheeks. She pulled her eyes away as he stood and turned to her, staring at the ground as she pulled on her boots.

      ‘See something you like?’ he asked, his smile indicating it was a rhetorical question.

      Dammit.

      * * *

      He regretted the words as they came out of his mouth, but Jasmine Bell stirred something in him that made him want to bait her. She had this prickly demeanour that he found both frustrating and fascinating.

      He was used to swatting the football groupies away with a metaphorical stick. But Jasmine...well, she was a different breed entirely. All long limbs and straight lines, she was sexy as hell in spite of her don’t-mess-with-me attitude. Or maybe that was exactly what he liked about her.

      She glared at him as though she were mentally setting his head on fire. Her slender arms were crossed in front of her, as if trying to hide the lithe figure beneath. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of answering his question. There was a small part of him that enjoyed the power struggle; it was a game he liked to play. Moreover, it was a game he liked to win.

      Now he’d ticked her off royally, and that was fine by him. He needed to keep his distance. Women were not a permanent fixture in his life...people were not a permanent fixture in his life. The fewer people he saw outside his footy team, the fewer people had the opportunity to use him. So he kept his distance, and he would do the same with her.

      ‘Did becoming famous cause you to forget your manners, or is that the way you were raised?’

      She smiled sweetly, her sarcastic expression stinging him as much as the intentional barb in her words. The tilt in her chin issued a challenge.

      ‘All I wanted was to play footy; the fame is an unfortunate by-product,’ he said, surprised by his own honesty. Her small rosebud mouth pursed, and her dark brows creased above a button nose. ‘As are the ballet lessons.’

      ‘Isn’t that what they call a first-world problem?’ She hoisted her bag over her shoulder and walked to the front door. He followed, holding back an amused smile. ‘Like Boo-hoo, I’m famous and it’s such a tough life.’

      ‘I’d be happy to swap for a day so you can experience it first-hand.’

      ‘As much as I’d love to see you in here, trying to wrangle a bunch of toddlers, you couldn’t handle my job.’ She held the door open for him, and offered another saccharine smile. ‘Besides, I have the most annoying student to teach.’

      Grant couldn’t help it—a hearty laugh burst free. She was prickly, all right, but hot damn if he didn’t enjoy it. ‘Sucks to be you?’

      He waited while she locked up, and then they walked to their respective cars. The lights on his Mercedes flashed as he pressed the unlock button. Inside the car was chilly, and the windows took a moment to clear.

      By then Jasmine was gone. Within minutes Grant was zipping along the freeway, the street lights blurring orange outside his window as the car tore down the open road. It was late and the city had long cleared its peak hour congestion. He massaged his injured hamstring, the muscle aching under the pressure of his fingers.

      Who would have thought something as prissy as ballet would be such a workout? Not that he would dare admit it to Jasmine or any of his team-mates.

      His phone buzzed in the mobile-phone holder attached to his windscreen. The goofy face of fellow Victoria Harbour Jaguars player Dennis Porter flashed up. He swiped the answer button.

      ‘Den.’

      ‘How are the ballet lessons going?’ Even through the phone line Dennis’s mischievous tone was obvious. ‘I wanted to see if your masculinity is slipping away by the minute.’

      Ballet lessons were far from Grant’s idea of fun, but a persistent hamstring injury meant the need for increased flexibility training, and who better to help with that than a ballerina? His physiotherapist had made it sound good in theory, but the reality was proving to be much more irritating—especially since it gave his team-mates more than enough fodder for locker room jokes.

      ‘Ha!’ Grant scoffed. ‘Even if it was you wouldn’t be in with a chance. You’re not my type.’

      ‘Yeah, yeah. That’s what all the ladies say. So tell me that at least your teacher is hot?’

      ‘Hot doesn’t even begin to cover it.’

      He’d been expecting someone older, more severe...maybe with a Russian accent. He’d had to keep his mouth firmly shut when a willowy beauty with a long black ponytail and porcelain skin greeted him at the studio.

      ‘Maybe I’ll have to pop in to one of your lessons.’

      A surprising jolt of emotion raced through Grant’s veins at the thought of letting Den anywhere near Jasmine. He shook off the strange protective urge and forced his mind back to the present. ‘I know you want to see me in action.’

      ‘The whole country wants to see you in action. It’s going to be a good season. I can feel it.’

      ‘Me too.’

      A drawn-out pause made Grant hold his breath.

      ‘Do you think all that other stuff is behind you now?’ Den asked.

      Part of him wanted to answer truthfully. He didn’t know if it would ever be behind him. How could you forget the moment you almost flushed your life’s work down the toilet? Considering football was all he had, it was a damn scary thought. But Den was only a buddy, a mate...and as one of the more junior guys in the team he was not someone to whom Grant could show weakness.

      ‘Of course. You know me—I’m practically invincible.’

      He hung up the phone and allowed his mind to drift back to Jasmine. She was a