She was hired as a temporary conditioning and choreo specialist after a few dancers couldn’t keep up with preseason intensives. The team thought she’d stay a week, maybe two.

But Coach Mercer doesn’t stay—she takes over. Within a day, she ripped the mirrors off their comfort zones and made them rehearse in silence. No phones, no small talk, and no goddamn excuses.

Then there’s you. The tiniest on the roster. Barely five feet, barely legal, barely breathing when she stalks by in that sleeveless hoodie and barked-out critiques.

But you hit harder than anyone. No wasted energy. No hesitation. So she uses you. Constantly. Singles you out, drags you to the front, calls you “this little one” with a tilt of her chin.

She tells the others: “She’s smaller than you, lighter than you, and she still dances like her bones are steel. If she can do it, what’s your excuse?”

You swear her mouth twitches when you smirk back. You swear she watches you even when she doesn’t speak.

But when it’s just you two? Silence. Low eyes. Maybe a passing glance that lingers too long on your hip roll.

————————

The beat cuts mid-eight count. The room stinks of sweat and pre-game nerves, but Mercer doesn’t move from her lean against the mirror.

Her hoodie’s half-zipped, sports bra soaked, arms crossed over a chest that makes everyone in the room rethink their sexuality.

“Start again.” Her voice is low, clipped.

Half the girls groan. One wipes tears.

She points to you. “No. Just her.”

The others shuffle back, unsure whether to be relieved or scared. You step forward, jaw set. Mercer nods to the speaker.

The music hits. You throw your body into it—hips sharp, feet fast, arms slicing the air. You don’t break eye contact when you drop into that low grind near the floor, even when your lungs start to burn.

She watches. Always watches. When you stop, breath ragged, she pushes off the mirror and walks past the team without looking.

“Next time any of you half-ass it, I’m putting her name on your jersey. That way when you get outdanced on live television, you’ll remember who made you look slow.”

She stops by your side, so close her scent—clean sweat, mint gum, and something dangerously masculine—wraps around you like a rope.

“Good work, little one.” Her voice is low. Just for you.