For @eddiediaznetwork Eddie Diaz Week 2026, day 2 prompt: competition
Rated T, 827 words. Eddie and ballroom dancing.
Here, waiting for his turn to lead Kaitlyn Cromwell in the waltz at the Southwestern Ballroom Dance Invitational, he can let his eyes linger on the male half of the couple currently performing.
He’s studying the competition. It’s opposition research. Reconnaissance. That’s why it’s okay to let his eyes slide deliberately up the boy’s body, to linger on his broad shoulders, his full lips pouting in concentration.
His form is impeccable. Eddie can’t see his back muscles through his black suit jacket, but from the way he’s holding his upper body, firmly upright but still fluid, he can imagine how strong and supple they are. He can imagine how that big hand feels on his dance partner’s waist. Eddie can imagine a lot of things, if he lets himself.
Today, he doesn’t. He won’t.
He’s focused on the boy because he’ll be dancing the same steps, trying for the same confident, graceful air when it’s his turn. There’s no need to study the girl’s part, no reason to spare her more than a casual glance, even though she’s been smiling shyly at him all day. He’s trying his best to ignore that, actually. There’s no time for distractions.
Eddie was surprised, at first, that his parents even agreed to let him do ballroom dance. He was so used to them separating him from his sisters, correcting him when he showed interest in the things they liked. They had Barbies, and he had G.I. Joes, at least until his mother found him playing house with them instead of war. He doesn’t play with toys anymore, that stuff’s for little kids. He was never allowed to help his abuela in the kitchen. His sisters learned the family recipes while Eddie was shunted outside to play soccer or capture the flag with his boy cousins. It’s fine, he can’t cook anyway.
When Sofia wanted to quit ballet and try ballroom instead, Eddie hesitated to ask if he could do it too. He’d always loved dancing, on his own, unguided, in private, but he thought he knew what his parents would say: ‘that’s not for you, Edmundo.’ But they allowed it, and Eddie knew better than to question their decisions.
He supposes it’s easier for his mother to drive him and Sofia to one practice after school instead of two. He supposes his father likes the emphasis on traditional gender roles. He supposes they’re both proud because he turned out to be good at it. Ramon and Helena can point to his trophies and brag to their friends about their son’s surprise talent. Sofia doesn’t win many prizes, but for some reason, that’s never been a problem for their parents.
So Eddie’s allowed to look, if it’s in service of winning. He can spend hours in front of the old TV in his basement, replaying videos of dancers performing the waltz, the samba, the foxtrot, and his mother will praise him for caring so much about the sport. He can admire the men’s athleticism, their agility, their strength, and no one will bother him. He can stop, rewind, pause, play, watch their bodies flex, writhe, undulate, over and over, in the name of coming out on top.
Eddie wants to be like them, that’s all. He wants to perfect the steps, spin sure-footed across the dance floor. He wants to lead, to support, to be the solid foundation his partner can depend on. It’s not about the way their arms bulge when they lift their partners, or the raw power harnessed, controlled, but not quite concealed by their precise movements. If Eddie watches some routines so many times he memorizes them, it’s just because that makes him a better dancer.
The couple finishes their waltz and leaves the dance floor. They didn’t make any glaring mistakes, but they didn’t attempt any of the more intricate steps either. Eddie smirks at the boy as they pass by him, feeling superior. He and Kaitlyn will score higher, easily.
But the boy returns his gaze, a challenge in his smile, and Eddie feels a little like the wind’s been knocked out of him. He has dark eyes and dark hair gelled firmly in place, just like Eddie’s. There’s a bead of sweat on his temple. Eddie licks his lips unconsciously and tries to ignore how his breath is coming faster now, how his heart is racing. It’s nerves, adrenaline before his performance, that’s all. The boy nods once in acknowledgment. Suddenly, it’s too much; more than Eddie’s allowed to look at. He turns away quickly, snaps himself out of it. Pulls his partner out onto the dance floor.
Eddie and Kaitlyn win their division. Eddie stands on the makeshift stage, holding his latest statuette, feeling nothing but relief that it’s over. He scans the small crowd, finds the boy staring at him again. Still. Unabashed, unashamed that he didn’t place, triumphant somehow anyway. Just looking at Eddie, and seeing.
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