When NFL quarterback Alfred F. Jones had joined Dancing with the Stars, he’d done it because his agent had told him the publicity would help him. He hadn’t done it to meet the most gorgeous person on the fucking planet and fall in love with one of the ‘nobody’ dance instructors—after all, he was a gay guy being paired with a girl. There was supposed to be no way he was going to fall for anyone there.
Especially not world-famous fashion model Francoise Bonnefoy’s dance instructor Arthur Kirkland.
“It just isn’t fair!” Groaning, Alfred placed his head into his hands, ignoring Madeleine as she tentatively patted his head with a chuckle. “How come Bonnefoy gets to rub her hands all over Arthur while I’m stuck with you—no offense, Maddie. But seriously, how did this happen?”
“None taken,” his Canadian partner replied, although the tone of voice suggested the unintentional slight was going to be the root of a three hour rant in the future. “As for how it happened, well, we were being introduced to our partners on initiation day when you allegedly landed eyes on ‘the hottest—‘”
“It was a rhetorical question!” Jumping to his feet, the American sighed. “Well, all this moping is bringing the hero down. How about we practice that big spin again?”
“If it’s any consolation, I heard him call her ‘frog’ repeatedly in the cafeteria today,” Madeleine commented, standing and taking Alfred’s hand in silent reply. The American leaned over and pressed ‘play’ on the CD player before dragging his partner to the center of the practice floor. “Alright, so I’m going to twist my leg around yours and you’re going to kick yours out slowly, all while on tiptoe.”
“…I think this is more dangerous than football,” Alfred muttered, wincing when Madeleine elbowed him as he missed his cue. Involuntarily, his leg kicked out, the Canadian’s twisted around it.
“YOU UTTER BASTARD!” Letting out a high pitched scream, the girl fell gracelessly to the floor. Alfred’s ‘hero instincts’ overtook him and he knelt beside her quickly.
“No, I am not fucking okay!” Madeleine attempted to pull in her knee and let out a slow hiss of pain. “Torn hamstring. Crap.”
“If you legitimately ask that question, I’m stuffing that CD up your butt—no, I cannot dance anymore. Go call the medic, would you?!”
“See, this leaves us in a bit of a predicament.”
The producer twisted his cigar in his fingers, letting ash fall to the ground as he lazily blew a smoke ring. Madeleine had been sent off in a limousine earlier, flashing a sad smile and (for some reason) a knowing wink as she left.
“I don’t see why. I mean, you’ve eliminated injured pairs before. They just don’t eliminate anyone that week, right?”
“That’s what would typically happen, yes,” he replied with a sigh. “However, Francoise Bonnefoy happened to get injured today as well, and won’t be competing. Originally we were planning to eliminate her and Arthur Kirkland, but now that you’re out for the count as well…”
“…So, only one couple—essentially two people—can be out every episode?”
“Yes, but both Ms. Williams and Ms. Bonnefoy are out, and that fills the quota of ‘a couple’ being booted, despite the fact that it’s unconventional. So now that we’ve got two people out I don’t think we can afford to get rid of you and Mr. Kirkland without losing viewers, either by shortening the season or not including enough drama…”
And suddenly, the producer was grinning. “Say, you’re the gay football player, aren’t you?”
“Uh…yeah…” Alfred gave the producer a raised eyebrow, backing away slightly. “Um, why’re you looking at me like that—”
“This is complete and utter shit.”
“Well, I always heard that the first step to solving a problem was to approach it calmly and rationally. Unfortunately, we’ve already missed that step. So you’re screwed.”
“It’ll be fine, Alfred,” chuckled Madeleine. Alfred heard a thick French accent from Madeleine’s bedside in the hospital, and the Canadian responded in turn before talking into the phone again. “It’s just dancing…with Arthur.”
“I just know it’s all going to go to hell and I’m going to mess up! You gotta help me escape or something!” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “If the producer was worried about losing viewers, adding a guy-guy couple with confirmed gay guys was not the way to go!”
“The world’s become more accepting—you’d be surprised how many people are rooting for you. People were freaking out that you’d be eliminated when they saw me. Believe me, if they had a problem with you, they’ve already said it six months ago when you first came out.” More French exchange, littered with static, took place on the other end of the phone. “Hang on, Francoise wants to talk to you.”
“Maaaaaddiiiiiiie!” Drawing out the vowels, Alfred groaned. “You know what I think of her—”
“As much as I do not care,” came the thick layered tone that could only come from high-end Paris, “I will tell you that you have been at the center of many things Arthur has said in the past weeks, both good and bad. Interpret that how you will.”
The line shut down, cutting off a stern reprimand from Maddie, and it was then that Alfred became aware of a tapping foot on the other end of the practice room.
Soft golden hair and deep green eyes. Shit.
“Glad to see you back on this end of the cell phone, Jones,” he sighed, and British accent and melodic voice and what the fuck was he doing with his life?! “Now, if you’d please, put the CD in, get your arse over here, and put your hand on my waist.” There was a pause, where both tinged slightly red. “Sometime today, preferably!”
This was going to be a long season.
