Only The Brave Try Ballet

Chapter Two

'Dammit,' Jasmine muttered as she battled with her large pink umbrella. The blustery weather meant it was virtually useless to ward off the sideways rain as it pelted her in the face and soaked her jeans.

Her hair streaked around her, the dark strands blocking her vision as she wrestled it into submission. She dashed across the busy street, feet sliding on the slick pavement. Panting, she hitched her bag up higher on her shoulder and ducked under the shelter of the doctor's clinic. She shook the umbrella, flicking droplets of water all around her, and walked through the automatic doors to the clinic's reception.

'Hi, Jasmine.' The receptionist greeted her with a familiar smile. 'Dr Wilson will be with you momentarily.'

Jasmine sank into a chair and wound her rain-drenched ponytail into a bun. Water dripped down the back of her neck and her ankle throbbed inside her boot, a constant reminder that the accident was not yet behind her.

Another one of the staff members gave her a friendly wave as they walked through the reception area. She was practically part of the furniture here.

After a brief check-up and lecture from her doctor Jasmine left, a fresh prescription in her hand since she'd fed the last one to her shredder. She hated taking the painkillers he'd prescribed; along with her inability to heal, they felt like another sign of weakness.

The doctor had again broached the topic of her seeing a psychologist...as though her problems were all in her head. But they weren't—they were real. Her ankle would never again be strong enough to sustain her en pointe, and without ballet she had nothing...was nothing. She wrapped her arms around herself as she made her way to the reception desk.

God she missed it—the glitter of stage lights reflecting off sequins, the thunder of the audience's applause, the thrill of mastering a new part. What could she do with her life now that all those things were gone? Every time she tried to think about it her mind went blank. There was nothing else in her heart except ballet, nothing else she was passionate about. It was ballet or bust...and she was definitely going bust.

Rain thundered outside the clinic and a bright flash lit up the windows, signalling that the storm was raging on. She regretted catching public transport; there was no way she'd get home dry. Stupidly, she'd come without the car she sometimes borrowed from Elise's mother, thinking perhaps she could save money if she stuck to buses and trams. In hindsight it was a doomed plan, given that Melbourne's public transport system was prone to failure when the weather turned. But without the cash for her own set of wheels she'd be rocking the drowned rat look on a more frequent basis.

Cursing, she signed the appointment form and paid with the notes from the envelope in her bag. It had her name scrawled across the front in Grant's chicken-scratch handwriting.

'Jasmine?'

A familiar voice demanded her attention. Speak of the devil.

Grant stood in the centre of the waiting room, dressed in his training gear. He looked infinitely more relaxed than the last time she'd seen him, his face open, though he hadn't lost any of the arrogance in his swagger. People in the clinic—mainly women—admired him openly and whispered to one another behind their hands.

'Fancy seeing you here.' She kept her voice professional, pushing aside the prickle of irritation left over from their first lesson together.

'The club gets remedial massage here.' He signed his own form with a scrawl. 'These tight calves are giving me hell.'

She couldn't stop the spread of an evil smile across her lips. Her calf exercises were notorious for punishing new students and she felt a small tingle of satisfaction that he was no different.