Page 65 of Built To Perform

“Uh... I...”

His expression was less carefree, this time. The smile tentative; not quite enough to hide the apprehension in his eyes.

“I... yeah, Eoin,” I managed to stutter out, finally.

He nodded. “I’m...”

“I know,” I interrupted, quickly. Then bit my tongue in frustration. It’d been an instinctive thing, a fearful one even, not to mention deceptive. I knew the barebones of his identity, nothing more.

I’d peeled the straps of my singlet down as I grunted and sweated, clearing the hall of mats and benches. Just like how he’d seen me the last time, in fact. Only I couldn’t think of a way to fix that, not without it seeming rudely pointed.

“Anthony told you?”

It took a moment for my brain to understand ‘Anthony' as Coach. I knew his first name, of course; it was just difficult to imagine anybody actually using it.

“He said...” I paused, feeling sheepish. Like I was about to reveal the lie in my hasty outburst of just before: the reality that I knew as good as nothing here. Barely bare minimum in fact, about the handsome man standing in front of me in jeans and a button-down, still giving me a slightly quizzical look.

“He’s not much of a sharer, is he.”

It felt disloyal to smile, to nod in agreement. Not that I thought Coach would contest the description.

“He... he said you and him were...” I swallowed. “Together.”

I couldn’t bring myself to add the last part, the “... and that was why you were both there, that night, and saw me.”

“And from Anthony, that’s practically a full autobiography.” The smile showed amusement; at a long-running joke, perhaps, or a point of fond contention. “Did he dare reveal my name?”

I shook my head.

He held out his hand. “Luke.”

I shook it. “Eoin.” Winced. “But... you know that already.”

His handshake was firm, though his smile was soft.

“Your name did come up.”

I pulled my hand back, suddenly self-conscious at how grimy it must be. Sweaty from the competition, and then layered with dust and grit from the mats. Nervous about making a bad first impression, and then at realizing that horse had already bolted.

“That wasn’t...” I didn’t have the words to end that. “I mean, I’m not...”

“A professional dancer?” Luke’s eyebrow lifted.

For a moment the churn of embarrassment in my stomach was pierced by mild indignation - had my dancing really been so dire? - until I realized he was grinning at me.

It felt good to exhale.

“No, definitely not,” I conceded.

Luke nodded, slowly. “But we do some odd things for our friends. For our teammates.”

In my imagination, Coach had sketched out the bare minimum of explanation. Enough to paint me as some hip-thrusting fool, anyway; to put into context his own, shocked reaction upon seeing me on stage. Only his boyfriend’s description seemed to suggest the conversation had gone much deeper than that.

“Right,” I agreed, quietly.

We stared at each other.

“Eoin! Why don’t I hear mats moving?” Coach’s voice loud, even before he was through the door. “Just because you win a match, doesn’t mean you’re off the hook for... oh.”