The Swan and The Sergeant - Alana Albertson Page 0,4

all business. Competition eve was always a headache, with all the tanning, makeup, hair, fasting.

The calming scent of lavender filled the reception area. I closed my eyes and smiled. Hotel spas were my standard primp spots for competitions. The staffs were thorough and professional. Even better, they were nice. I could stand a good dose of nice before I walked into that den of dancing wolves. A competition dance floor was no place for the weak or the unprepared.

“Selena Martinez, here for my ten-fifteen appointment.”

“Oh yes, Miss Martinez. We’re so thrilled to have you.” The receptionist consulted her computer screen. “You’re scheduled for a facial, a Brazilian bikini wax, a brow wax, a Mandarin Orange Body Polish followed by a custom sparkle spray tan, and then you’ll receive a mani and pedi while Alberto touches up your roots and tightens your hair extensions.” She abandoned the screen and leaned forward, her eyes wide. “You know, Miss Martinez, I just love Dancing Under the Stars—really, it’s my favorite show. You ballroom dancers must lead such glamorous lives.”

I pressed my lips into a forced smile. “Yes. We’re so blessed. And please, call me Selena.”

I sat on the sofa and thought about my “glamorous” life. I lived in the gym and the studio, sometimes dancing up to eight hours a day. Every weekend was spent in a hotel in some random state, competing. My diet consisted of egg whites, vegetables, soup, and salad. I couldn’t even eat fruit—too much sugar. And I hadn’t had a weekend off in two years.

The paparazzi stalked me. No man had the guts to ask me out, knowing that his picture would be a TMZ headline if we were ever caught together. I couldn’t even take my trash cans out of my house in my sweats for fear that I’d get photographed. I hated all the nonsense I had to endure to dance.

What if I’d chosen a different path all those years ago?

It didn’t matter.

I’d probably never get married and have a family.

But enough of the self-pity. I did love my life. How blessed was I? The older generation of ballroom dancers had spent every penny they earned on competing. The show allowed me to pursue my dream of winning Blackpool while not having to worry about money.

For years, I had struggled. My mother had worked three jobs and cleaned dance studios at night in exchange for my lessons. I was finally in a position to support my family. My first big splurge had been buying my mom a condo and starting a college fund for my younger sister.

Now I could make twenty thousand dollars just for appearing at a party. Dima and I had even started our own charity, bringing ballroom classes to inner-city kids. I was so appreciative of the opportunities the show had given me. How lucky was I to make a living out of my true passion? I lived to dance. I chastised myself for even feeling ungrateful for a second when so many people struggled.

But deep in my heart, I knew what I’d given up to have this life could never be replaced.

I had only opened a magazine to the first page when the receptionist called over to me. “Selena, Larissa is ready for you.”

I sucked in a deep breath before standing. Let the games begin.

In the backroom, I stripped off my peach-colored terry sweatsuit, put on a smock, and lay on the paper-covered table.

Larissa entered the room and gave me a smile. “I just got tickets to the competition tomorrow. I can’t wait to see you win.”

“Thank you for supporting us.”

She painted the hot wax onto my skin. “Are you thinking of retiring? I read in Star Magazine that you want to start a family.”

Larissa ripped the hair from above my eye, but the face I made had nothing to do with the pain. Star, of course.

“I hope to someday.” I yearned to take a break and start a family. I was confident that I’d be able to balance my career and children, but I hadn’t been on a date in years. People outside of the industry didn’t realize that no one could ever have a healthy relationship in the ballroom world.

Dancers had three options for dating: they could date their partner and combine their floor and relationship problems, like what had happened with Dima and me; they could date a dancer who was not their partner, and the worse dancer of the two would be jealous of the other’s success; or