Chapter 68: Chapter Sixty Eight

(Bryan's POV) - Thursday

The house was quiet, the sun already setting outside, casting the living room in a soft orange glow. Amber was still sitting at the dining table, scrolling through her notes, her brow furrowed as she reread our presentation slides for the hundredth time.

I had been watching her for the past few minutes, pretending to focus on my phone while secretly waiting for her to admit she was exhausted.

She hadn't.

Instead, she was still muttering Spanish phrases under her breath, biting her lip in concentration, even though we had practiced enough for two lifetimes.

I smirked, leaning against the couch. "You know, if you stare at that screen any harder, it's gonna catch on fire."

Amber barely looked up. "I'm just making sure I remember everything."

"You do remember everything," I pointed out, stretching my legs out on the coffee table. "More than everything, actually. If anyone forgets their lines, it's probably gonna be me."

Amber finally glanced at me, her lips twitching. "Well, yeah."

I gasped dramatically. "That was uncalled for."

She rolled her eyes, closing her laptop with a soft sigh before stretching her arms above her head. "Fine. I'll stop."

"Thank you." I smirked. "Now, come here."

She raised a brow. "Why?"

I patted my lap, grinning. "Because I said so."

She huffed a laugh, but I saw the slight pink tint on her cheeks as she stood up, walking over to me. The second she was close enough, I grabbed her waist, pulling her down until she was settled in my lap, legs straddling my thighs.

Amber let out a soft gasp, her hands instinctively grabbing my shoulders for balance. "Bryan—"

I smirked, my hands sliding under the hem of my jersey she was still wearing. "What?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You're distracting me."

"Obviously." I nipped at her jaw lightly, grinning when I felt her shiver. "Is it working?"

She exhaled, her fingers tightening slightly against my skin. "I hate you."

"And yet," I murmured, pressing a slow kiss to her pulse, "you're still right here."

She opened her mouth to respond, but right then—

My phone buzzed loudly on the table.

I barely glanced at it, fully prepared to ignore whoever was calling. But then, I saw the number.

I froze.

Amber noticed immediately. "What?"

I swallowed, staring at my screen like it was about to explode.

"Uh... I gotta take this," I muttered, lifting her off me gently before standing up.

She blinked, looking confused. "Who is it?"

I hesitated.

I could've told her right then. Could've said, Amber, this might be the biggest phone call of my life.

But for some reason, I didn't.

"Coach," I said instead, which wasn't a lie. "I'll be back in a sec."

Amber nodded, clearly still confused but letting it go. I grabbed my phone and walked into the other room, closing the door behind me before pressing accept.

"Hello?"

"Bryan Munzo?" a voice asked.

"Yeah, speaking."

A short pause. Then—

"This is Coach Rodriguez from the San Diego Padres organization."

I stilled.

I had to blink a few times, make sure I had actually heard that right.

The Padres?

The fucking Padres?

"Uh, yeah—yes, sir," I said quickly, sitting up straighter, my pulse hammering in my ears.

"We've been following your progress, and after your last few performances, I wanted to personally reach out," he continued, his voice professional but warm. "We're very interested in bringing you onto our development team."

My heart stopped.

I had to swallow hard before responding, because I was 99% sure my voice was about to crack. "I—I appreciate that, Coach. Wow, I—thank you."

"We'd like to set up a meeting with you and your coach next week to discuss the details," he said. "This could be a huge opportunity for you, Bryan. I know you have options, but I want you to know that we see real potential in you."

Potential.

A real shot.

At the majors.

This wasn't just some random college scholarship or minor league offer. This was the MLB. This was what I had been working for my entire life.

I let out a slow exhale, gripping my phone tighter. "I'd love to talk more about it."

"Good," he said. "I'll send the details to your coach, and we'll go from there. Looking forward to seeing what you bring to the table, Bryan."

"Yes, sir. Thank you again."

The call ended, and I just sat there, staring at my phone.

Then—the excitement hit me like a train.

I grinned so hard it hurt, running a hand through my hair, my entire body buzzing with adrenaline.

This was it.

This was really fucking happening.

I felt like I needed to punch something, run a lap, scream into the void—anything to burn off the overwhelming rush in my veins.

I had worked so damn hard for this.

Every hour spent at practice. Every injury, every missed party, every night spent studying plays instead of sleeping.

And now, it was paying off.

But then—

Another thought crept in.

And just like that, my excitement dulled.

Because if I took this... I would have to leave.

It wasn't just a college commitment. This was a real career shift. I would be traveling, training, moving—there was no world where I could stay in the same place.

Amber's world was here.

Ballet, school, everything she had worked for—it was all here.

Would we work long distance? Could we?

I ran a hand down my face, exhaling slowly.

I'd tell her.

Just... not yet.

For now, I needed to sit with this. Let it sink in before I said anything.

I pushed open the door and stepped back into the living room. Amber looked up from her notes, tilting her head at me.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

I forced a smirk, rolling my shoulders like it was no big deal. "Yeah. Just Coach being Coach."

She narrowed her eyes slightly, like she didn't fully believe me, but let it go.

"Well," she sighed, stretching her arms. "We actually finished everything, so I think I should probably head back to my dorm soon."

I nodded, still buzzing, but now for a completely different reason.

She had no idea that the next time we worked on this project, I might be preparing to leave.

(Amber's POV)

I took a deep breath, gripping my notecards so tightly that my fingers ached. The classroom was buzzing with nervous energy—students shifting in their seats, whispering to their partners, flipping through their own notes as they prepared for their turn. We had spent months working on this project, and now, in just a few minutes, we'd either ace it or completely humiliate ourselves in front of everyone.

And I was this close to throwing up.

Meanwhile, Bryan?

Completely unbothered.

He was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest, legs stretched out like he was about to take a nap instead of stand in front of the class and speak Spanish.

I shot him a look, annoyed and envious at the same time. "How are you so calm right now?"

He smirked, not even opening his eyes. "Because we're gonna kill this, Ballerina."

I huffed, rolling my shoulders to shake off my nerves. "You say that now, but if I freeze in the middle of a sentence, we're both going down."

Bryan finally cracked one eye open, his smirk growing. "Then I'll save us."

I scoffed, shaking my head. "You better."

Before he could respond, our professor clapped his hands together at the front of the class, his voice cutting through the murmurs of stressed-out students.

"Alright, next up—Bryan Munzo and Amber Lee."

My stomach plummeted.

Bryan stood up like he had been waiting for this moment his entire life. He stretched slightly, rolling out his shoulders before grabbing his notecards and shooting me a look.

"Let's go, princesa."

I inhaled sharply, grabbing my laptop and my own notes before following him to the front of the class. The projector was already loaded up with our slides, the bright screen casting a glow across the classroom. I adjusted my posture, forcing myself to stand tall, to push the nerves down.

This was fine.

We had practiced this a million times.

I wasn't going to screw this up.

Bryan started us off, his voice smooth, steady, and disgustingly confident. He spoke with ease, his pronunciation rolling off his tongue like he'd been fluent in Spanish his entire life instead of barely passing this class.

I exhaled slowly, gripping my cards, waiting for my turn. But the second I opened my mouth—

My brain completely blanked.

The words I had memorized, the phrases I had practiced over and over again in front of the mirror—gone.

My throat felt tight, dry, useless.

Panic flared in my chest, my fingers trembling slightly, and I felt myself freezing, horrified at the idea of standing in silence in front of everyone.

But then—

A nudge.

Just a light brush against my hand, barely noticeable, but enough to ground me.

I flicked my eyes to the side, where Bryan stood, his body still relaxed, his smirk still subtle but knowing. His voice was low enough that only I could hear it.

"Amber. Breathe."

I inhaled shakily, gripping my cards a little less aggressively, and finally, the words came back to me.

I stumbled through my first few lines, my voice unsteady at first, but Bryan covered for me so smoothly that no one even noticed my hesitation. The more I spoke, the more my confidence built up again. I pushed forward, finding my rhythm, focusing on each word instead of the classroom full of students watching us.

And just like that—I was fine.

We fell into an easy rhythm, Bryan picking up on my pacing, adding his usual charm, throwing in the occasional joke that made the professor chuckle. He made it look so effortless, and somehow, that energy rubbed off on me.

By the time we reached the last slide, I could feel the weight lifting off my shoulders.

We did it.

The professor nodded as we wrapped up, a small but pleased smile on his face. The class gave a round of polite applause, and Bryan gave me a look that said, Told you so.

I wanted to punch him and kiss him at the same time.

We walked back to our seats, and I collapsed into my chair with an exhausted sigh.

Bryan smirked beside me, nudging my knee under the table. "Told you we'd kill it."

I rolled my eyes but couldn't fight the small smile forming on my lips. "Fine. You were right."

His smirk widened. "Damn right."

I nudged him with my foot, finally letting myself relax for the first time all day. "Okay, now I can breathe."

But then—I noticed something.

Bryan.

His smirk was still there, but it felt off—not his usual I'm cocky and you love it smirk. This one was smaller, almost forced.

Like his mind was somewhere else entirely.

I frowned slightly, turning in my seat to face him. "Okay, what's up with you?"

He blinked, like I had snapped him out of something. "What do you mean?"

I studied him carefully, watching the way he leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head, acting way too casual.

"I don't know," I muttered. "You've been acting... weird. Not today, but like... all week. And don't try to deny it, because I see it."

Bryan smirked again, but it wasn't quite as strong as before. "Maybe I'm just happy our project is over."

I narrowed my eyes, not buying it. "Bryan—"

Before I could push further, the professor called for the next group, and I had to drop it for now.

But the feeling didn't go away.

Something wasn't adding up.

And I was going to figure out what.

The relief from finishing our Spanish presentation lasted for approximately thirty minutes.

Then, reality hit.

I barely had time to grab a quick snack before I had to rush to the dance studio, stuffing my presentation notes into my bag as I went. The transition from academic stress to ballet stress was seamless, and my body was already feeling the exhaustion creeping in.

It had been weeks of intense rehearsals for Swan Lake, and even though I had done this ballet before, it didn't make it any less demanding. Every muscle in my body was aching, and my feet were already sore before I even stepped inside the studio.

But I loved this. Every second of it.

The moment I walked into the dance studio, the familiar scent of rosin, polished floors, and faint lavender from someone's essential oils filled the air. Other dancers were already stretching, warming up, chatting quietly, and as soon as I slipped off my warm-ups and tied the ribbons of my pointe shoes, I felt the nerves from earlier start to fade.

This was my element.

I moved to the barre, stretching out my legs as I listened to the low hum of conversation around me. Mrs. Lawson, our instructor, was adjusting the music, flipping through her notes, preparing for today's session.

"Long day?" A voice beside me asked.

I turned to see Ellie , the blonde-haired dancer who had been in my class since freshman year. She was already in position, rolling out her ankles, her sharp eyes studying me.

I sighed, flexing my foot. "Spanish presentation. I think I almost died."

Ellie smirked. "Did you forget your lines?"

"Almost," I admitted. "But Bryan covered for me."

Her smirk widened slightly. "Of course, he did."

I rolled my eyes. "Don't start."

"I didn't say anything," she sang, but the glint in her eyes told me she was thinking plenty.

Before I could respond, Mrs. Lawson clapped her hands, bringing the room to attention.

"Alright, everyone, let's begin."

We moved through barre work, our muscles gradually warming up, movements precise, controlled. I focused on every tendu, every plié, letting my body settle into the rhythm.

But the exhaustion? It was catching up with me.

By the time we moved to center work, I could feel the strain deep in my legs. Every relevé felt heavier than usual, every turn took more effort to land smoothly.

I pushed through, refusing to let it show.

Mrs. Lawson walked through the room, offering corrections, adjusting postures, occasionally giving an approving nod when someone executed a movement flawlessly.

I wanted that nod.

I knew I was pushing myself. I knew my body was screaming for a break. But I had worked too hard for this.

The last half of class was focused on variation work for Swan Lake, and that's where the real challenge started.

"Amber, let's see your sequence," Mrs. Lawson said, motioning for me to step forward.

I swallowed, nodding as I took my place.

The music started, and I lifted my chin, falling into character, letting the choreography take over.

The first few movements were clean, effortless—but then came the pirouettes.

It was a series of fast, consecutive turns, demanding control, balance, and stamina. My heartbeat spiked, but I knew I could do it.

I turned once—sharp, controlled.

Twice—spotting perfectly.

Third—a slight wobble, but recoverable.

Fourth—my ankle protested, the exhaustion finally hitting.

I landed a second too late, my balance shifting just slightly.

Not a fall. Not enough to be obvious. But enough to make me mad at myself.

Mrs. Lawson hummed, studying me. "Solid effort, Amber, but keep your core tighter in the final rotations. Don't let fatigue pull you out of it."

I nodded, biting the inside of my cheek.

I could've done better.

The rest of class went by in a blur. By the time we finished, my legs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds, and the thought of walking back to my dorm made me want to curl up on the studio floor and never move again.

The other dancers were gathering their things, slipping out of their pointe shoes, pulling on warm-ups as they chatted about their weekend plans. Normally, I would've packed up and left with them, eager to get off my aching feet and collapse into my bed.

But today, I wasn't ready to leave.

I sat on the studio floor, stretching my legs out in front of me, rolling my ankles, trying to ignore the fact that my entire body was screaming for rest. My variation earlier had been good—but not perfect.

And perfect was what I needed.

Ellie, who was pulling on her sweatshirt, caught my determined expression in the mirror and groaned. "No, Amber. Whatever you're thinking? Stop."

I glanced up at her. "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean," she said, throwing her bag over her shoulder. "You're about to overwork yourself again."

I exhaled, not denying it. "I just want to run it one more time."

"That's what you said yesterday," Ellie pointed out, raising an eyebrow. "And the day before that. And the day before that."

I gave her an innocent look. "I don't recall."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. But don't blame me when you literally collapse before the show."

I laughed, waving her off as she left the studio.

Once I was alone, I walked to the center of the room, taking a deep breath before repositioning myself.

The music wasn't playing, but I could hear it in my head. The rhythm, the movements, the exact placements of my feet, the angles of my arms—all of it.

I started the pirouette sequence again, my body automatically falling into the motions.

First turn—sharp, clean.

Second—strong, controlled.

Third—almost perfect.

But by the fourth, I felt the strain. My core wobbled just slightly, and when I landed, I knew it still wasn't good enough.

I let out a frustrated sigh, shaking out my arms.

One more time.

I moved back to my starting position, mentally preparing to go again—

Then, a voice behind me.

"You're seriously still here?"

I startled slightly, whipping around.

Bryan was leaning against the studio doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching me like I was the most predictable person on the planet.

I blinked. "What are you doing here?"

He lifted his phone, waving it. "Texted you ten minutes ago. Figured you'd be out by now."

Oh. Right.

I quickly grabbed my phone from the side of the room, seeing his unread message:

I'm outside. Let's go.

I winced. "I was gonna respond—"

"Uh-huh." He smirked, stepping inside. "But then you decided to torture yourself instead."

I huffed, crossing my arms. "I was just fixing my turns."

Bryan raised an eyebrow. "They looked fine to me."

I narrowed my eyes. "You don't know anything about ballet."

He grinned. "Yeah, but I know you. And I know you wouldn't be this annoyed if they were actually bad."

I groaned, turning back toward the mirror. "They're just not where I want them to be yet."

Bryan watched me for a second, then sighed, walking over. "Alright. Stretch first."

I blinked. "What?"

"You wanna keep pushing yourself? Fine. But if you're gonna do this, at least do it right," he said, motioning to the floor. "Sit."

I hesitated. "Bryan—"

"Sit."

I sighed but obeyed, lowering myself to the floor as he crouched in front of me. He reached forward, taking my leg and slowly pushing it toward my chest, stretching my hamstring.

I exhaled, already feeling the tension ease.

"God, you're tight," Bryan muttered.

I snorted. "Don't say it like that."

He smirked. "You're the one with your leg in my hands, not me."

I rolled my eyes, biting back a laugh. "You're stupid."

"I know," he murmured, pressing his thumb gently into a sore spot near my calf, making me sigh in relief.

I closed my eyes for a second, letting myself relax into the stretch.

Bryan adjusted his grip, pressing his palm along the back of my thigh, easing the tension. His hands were warm, careful, strong.

"You don't have to push yourself this hard," he murmured after a beat.

I opened my eyes, looking at him. "I do, though."

He studied me, his gaze sharper, more serious than before. "Why?"

I hesitated. "Because I have to be perfect."

Bryan frowned. "Says who?"

I swallowed, avoiding his gaze.

"I just—" I exhaled, shaking my head. "It's Swan Lake. It's one of the most famous ballets of all time. That means every step, every movement, has to be flawless. If I mess up even once, I'll never forgive myself."

Bryan didn't say anything at first, just let my words hang in the air.

Then, he slowly lowered my leg, shifting so that he was sitting in front of me instead of just crouching.

"Amber," he said quietly, his voice steady, sure. "You're already amazing. You don't have to kill yourself proving it."

I bit the inside of my cheek, staring at my hands.

I knew that.

I knew that.

But it didn't make the pressure feel any less real.

Bryan reached forward, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear before tilting my chin up so I was looking at him.

"Do me a favor," he murmured.

I blinked. "What?"

"Just... let yourself be proud of how far you've come," he said. "Even if it's just for a second. Can you do that?"

I let out a soft breath, studying him.

He was serious. No teasing, no cocky grin—just Bryan.

Caring, understanding, frustratingly right Bryan.

I nodded slowly.

His lips curled slightly, and he leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead.

"Good," he murmured.

I closed my eyes for a second, just breathing him in.

Bryan lingered for a second, his breath warm against my forehead, before pulling back just enough to meet my gaze. His fingers still rested beneath my chin, his thumb brushing lightly against my jaw.

I swallowed, my pulse kicking up.

Then, before I could second-guess it, I leaned in.