The Salsa Competition | La Competencia de Salsa
"Two rivals forced to partner for a dance competition discover their chemistry on the floor might mean something more"
The Salsa Competition
La Competencia de Salsa
"Absolutely not," I said when Coach announced the pairing.
"You think I'm happy about this?" Camila shot back. "I've been training for this competition for two years, and now I'm stuck with you."
"The feeling is mutual."
But Coach didn't care about feelings. She cared about winning.
Camila and I had history. Ugly history. We'd competed since we were teenagers—always placing first and second, never agreeing on who deserved which.
"Your footwork is sloppy," she said during our first practice.
"Your attitude is worse."
"At least I have an attitude. You have ego."
"That's rich, coming from the most arrogant dancer in the circuit."
We lasted fifteen minutes before walking out.
Coach forced us back.
"You're going to practice eight hours a day until you can look at each other without wanting to kill," she said. "The competition is in three months. Figure it out or forfeit."
Forfeiting wasn't an option. Not for either of us.
"Fine," Camila said. "But don't expect me to like you."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
Week one was brutal. We argued about everything—choreography, timing, whose style should dominate.
"This isn't a dictatorship," I snapped.
"No, it's a partnership. Something you clearly don't understand."
"I understand partnership. I don't understand surrender."
"Maybe that's your problem."
Week three, something shifted. We started anticipating each other's movements. Her body would lean, and mine would catch. My arm would extend, and hers would find it.
"That was... good," she admitted after a seamless run-through.
"You sound surprised."
"I am surprised." She was breathing hard. "I've never moved with anyone like that."
"Neither have I."
The tension changed. What used to be antagonism became something else—electric, charged, dangerous.
"We need to talk about this," she said one night, cornering me after practice.
"Talk about what?"
"The way you look at me when we dance."
"How do I look at you?"
"Like you want to devour me."
"Maybe I do."
She kissed me against the studio mirror—desperate, angry, hungry.
"This is a terrible idea," she gasped.
"The worst."
"It'll ruin our partnership."
"Or make it better."
"You're impossible."
"So are you."
We kept it secret. By day, we practiced until our feet bled. By night, we explored each other until we lost track of time.
"The competition judges chemistry," she said. "I think we've got that covered."
"We've always had chemistry. We just expressed it through hatred before."
"And now?"
"Now we express it through... other things."
The competition arrived. Twenty couples from across the Americas, one title.
We danced like we were alone in the studio—every look meaningful, every touch intentional. The routine we'd created was fierce, intimate, impossible to fake.
The crowd went silent. Then erupted.
We won. First place, unanimous decision.
"The chemistry between you two is undeniable," a judge commented. "How long have you been partners?"
Camila looked at me and smiled.
"Our whole lives," she said. "We just didn't know it."
We still compete. We still argue. But now the arguments end differently.
"Your footwork is sloppy," she'll say.
"Come fix it," I'll respond.
And she does. Over and over again.
The salsa competition—where rivals become partners, and partners become everything.