Autopilot was the first, and most junior, mistake new dancers made during company classes. Following moves without thinking about them was a recipe for disaster. That way, you couldn’t adjust as needed for healing injuries or weaknesses. A small misstep could be the end of a promising career.

It took all Oscar’s concentration to keep to the music today. Now that his company was back in Knoxville, they were working through routines to stay in shape, but more importantly, it was a competition. Raj, the creative director, was going to judge who to cast in the principal role of the next show.

The decision was due any day now. Oscar had gotten good reviews worldwide. He’d moved past another face in the ensemble to distinguish himself, and he worked damn hard to keep that up.

He never missed a class, and in three seasons, had never missed a show. He’d danced through injuries, which won him even more acclaim from his directors, and the envy of some fellow dancers.

Oscar’s eyes slid sideways to Jef. This dance routine suited him much better. Oscar had trained primarily in ballet and then contemporary dance, but he struggled to keep up with this beat. It fit Jef’s tribal fusion and musical theater background far better.

Jef’s body moved fluidly, his hip snapping at just the right moment, emphasizing the curve next to it in his leotard.

Oscar gritted his teeth, reminding himself yet again to count the beats and not think about anyone else. Another elementary rule.

He fixed his eyes on himself in the mirror, trying to keep the beat moving through his body even in the split-seconds between movements, but he looked forced to his own eye. He relaxed, but now he just looked slightly too slow to keep up with the company.

“Five, six, seven, eight, and—good.”

Raj was not going to let him get away with this. As he walked between dancers, Raj tapped shoulders one at a time.

“You won’t get anywhere on floppy feet. Keep your back straighter. Turn the right way, for God’s sake.” Raj had reached him, and Oscar winced, but all Raj said was, “Talk to me after class.”

Oscar’s head spun. That couldn’t be a good sign. Dance, he told himself as he finished the song like he hadn’t heard anything. Just fucking dance.

The music ended, they cooled off, and Raj was at the front of the class. “How about something classic?” They all recognized Swan Lake.

With this one, Oscar could let his conscious mind go and lose himself in the rhythm. A hundred dance classes came back to him—being eleven, his dad dropping him off after his custody weekends, using the music to forget the looks his mom and dad had shot each other when he picked him up. Eight, when he’d realized dance spoke to him in a way no other creative art did. Seventeen, auditioning for school…

A smile slipped across Oscar’s face as he stepped, turned, leapt. Plies were as natural as breathing to him. It took him half the routine before he even remembered to look at Jef. Just as he had a few minutes ago, Jef was struggling with this one.

Raj was walking up and down between rows of dancers, reminding those few who needed it of the steps.

Oscar didn’t need the reminder—or any corrections. Raj walked silently past him and Oscar let the pride flow through him for a few moments. In a company class, silence was a compliment.

The music hit a crescendo, and he pirouetted, leapt, stepped, leapt again. The easiest way to express emotion was through his body. He’d never known a better way. The voice failed, but the body told the truth.

When the music ended, it left him strangely wistful. He glanced sideways at Jef again, who was already walking away to stretch and drink water. They joked around as they cooled off, keeping one ear on Raj for the debrief.

That passed quickly, too. Oscar hardly paid attention, he was so worried about what might be coming next.

As everyone else left, Jef and he were the only two remaining.

Oh, shit. They don’t have a problem with us, do they?

Plenty of dancers hooked up. Sometimes long-term. Hell, some got married. He and Jef hadn’t let their sexual tension or the occasional relief thereof interfere with the shows or even rehearsal. Besides, it made a good release valve for the competitive pressure that easily built between them. If it was shallow, at least the attraction was mutual.

“I won’t beat around the bush. We’re looking at either of you for the principal role. It isn’t strictly in either of your wheelhouses, but we’re confident either of you could learn it. The choreography will challenge either of you.”

Oscar felt the blood pounding in his ears. Whatever they required, he’d learn it. Hell, he’d put in the extra hours to get better as fast as they needed him to—faster.

“But I’m not bringing you together to make this a petty one-upmanship competition,” Raj added instantly, with a warning look. “Keep it off stage.”

“Oh—”

“No—”

He and Jef rushed to assure Raj at the same moment that there was no problem.

None at all.

“Right,” Raj said after a moment, looking between them. “Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. Good work today, guys. Go get changed.”

They were nowhere near alone in the changing room, and by mutual if silent agreement, neither of them wanted to bring it up within earshot of anyone else.

Both men dragged their heels through stripping, showering, drying off, and dressing again. It gave Oscar a chance to sort out his thoughts about the whole thing, and Jef was probably in the same place.

Leading the production. Can you even imagine? It made a chill run down Oscar’s spine. He’d fought for this chance for so long, and now that it was here, he was pitted against his… well, sometimes-lover, sometimes-rival. There was no word that encapsulated their relationship.

“That’s that, then,” Jef said, drawing Oscar’s attention as he zipped his knapsack shut.

“Huh?” Jef jerked his chin around the empty changing room, and Oscar caught on and nodded. “Yeah.” He shouldered his bag and reached a hand out to shake. “Good luck, man. If they choose you… you’ll be great.”

“I was just thinking the same.” Jef crookedly smiled.

Oscar could see in Jef what he didn’t in himself, and for perhaps the first time, he realized that Jef might feel the same way about him. He stared for a moment too long at Jef’s lips, waiting for him to say anything else.

“Good luck to you, too.” Jef pulled back and stepped around him, giving him a wide berth for the first time… ever, maybe.

Oscar felt weirdly empty. He’d half-expected a hug, and half of that part of him had expected a knife in the back after the hug. Or a knife in the back and then a hug. Or just one or the other, for now. Like a Punnett square of dance rivalry.

With his mind caught up in his metaphor, before he could say anything else, Jef was gone.

Oscar walked slowly toward the entrance of the studio, his mind on his practice routine. He had to step it up if he was going to get picked—study what Jef did and copy it? If they were looking for a blend of their strengths, he had to step outside his comfort zone and show them he could do it.

And then his foot slipped sideways on the marble step down to the sidewalk, the ground rushing up to meet him as something popped in his knee.

Motherfucker!

His knee flared with pain as it buckled, but his expression showed nothing. Years of training to dance through pain kept his last step to the sidewalk smooth even though his other knee wouldn’t bend without an agonizing fire throughout the joint, and his fingers curled so tightly around the railing that his knuckles turned white.

“Oscar. Shit. Are you okay?”

Raj’s hand was on his shoulder, guiding him to sit on the step, supporting his bad leg.

Oscar’s world collapsed around him.

He saw it all. I can’t hide it now. Fuck. Can I play it off?

As his knee straightened, Oscar hissed in pain, then gritted his teeth as red-hot frustration surged through him at his reaction. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Raj spoke with the patient experience of a man who’d watched his dancers push through all manner of injuries—someone who would look past the careful mask of art to the subtle signs. Oscar’s fingertips dug into the step on either side of him, and Raj couldn’t miss the pale sheen to his skin and his quick breathing.

Not like this.

Oscar bent over his knee, supporting it with both hands as he tried to straighten it.

“Whoa. Don’t push it.” Raj crouched next to him, fingers pressing into the joint as he looked up at Oscar.

When his fingers pressed around the kneecap, they caused another flare of pain so intense it overshadowed the pride burning its way out from his heart.

“Fuck!”

Raj hissed and patted his shin gently. “It’s your kneecap, honey.”

“I fucking know it’s my fucking kneecap. I’m fucking fine.”

The door banged shut behind him, and Oscar didn’t even turn to look. He could feel who it was, and he wanted the world to rewind thirty seconds. Why now?

Jef’s steps clattered down the stairs and he paused, half-crouching next to him. “What happened?”

Raj waved a hand to dismiss him. “We’ve got it under control.” Oscar straightened up, wiggling his toes and shifting his weight as if it were a minor strain, and Raj eyed him. “I’m not fooled, Oscar.”

Jef lingered near the bottom of the stairs. “Need a hand?”

“We’re fine, thanks,” Raj repeated, turning to look at him. “See you tomorrow.” It was closer to fuck off than Oscar had expected, and he appreciated the protection, but there was no hiding Jef’s reaction.

Jef gave him an ambiguous smile. “See you around.” He walked off, a spring in his step.

Twist the knife, why don’t you, little fucker. Oscar glared after him.

Raj put an arm around him. “Up you get. We need to get you x-rayed. But you know what this means.”

“Six weeks recovery? Eight?” Oscar was miserable.

“Yep.”

Oscar’s voice shook as he rose to his feet, and he was willing to pretend it was the physical pain causing that. “I’m out, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, hon.” Raj helped him to the side street where his car was parked. “You’re financially okay to do that, right?”

Oscar nodded. Thankfully, he’d always kept his head on straight and saved most of what he made in case of exactly this. Most dancers were injured sooner or later, and without incoming money from performances, they could find themselves screwed very fast.

Raj sensed his distress. After Oscar was settled in the passenger seat, he climbed into the driver’s side. “You have a long and promising career. Don’t fuck it up for one tour.”

Oscar turned his head to look out the window, not trusting his voice enough to answer.

* * *

“Of course he’s not home.”

Oscar bumped his head against the door. The long walk up to the studio loft—more pulling himself upstairs, really—had been frustrating on his own.

But it wasn’t the worst injury he’d ever had, and without Raj there, he didn’t have to smile through the pain and look elegant. Oscar had insisted he was fine to get inside to his friend’s place, conveniently not mentioning that his friend lived on the top floor.

Still, he caught himself wishing Falcon were here just to bring him a cup of coffee or a beer while he was laid up.

It was lonely here, even in the pretty, airy, well-lit studio apartment surrounded by Falcon’s very presence in the form of all the artwork, that finished and that still drying. But his and Blane’s house move was pending, and this wouldn’t last much longer.

He didn’t blame Falcon for wanting to spend all the time he could with his boyfriend. New love was a powerful force.

Almost enough to make him jealous. What he and Jef had wasn’t love—not even close. It was laughably stereotypical: rivals toeing the line between enmity and lust.

It didn’t make it less real, though, and it didn’t make him less likely to say yes the next time they shared a hotel room on tour.

That smile, though? He wanted to punch Jef for it. So far below the belt that there was no even joking about it.

“Fuck you, and fuck your stupid leading-man face.”