The Dance Competition Heat
"Regina dominates the ballroom dance scene at fifty-seven. When her new partner turns out to be half her age, the chemistry on the floor leads to fire off it."
Competitive ballroom is not for the weak.
I'm Regina Baptiste—fifty-seven, five-time regional champion, the woman everyone wants to beat but can't.
My partner of ten years just retired.
Now I need a new one before nationals.
"His name is Marcus Chen."
My coach shows me the headshot. Young, maybe thirty, mixed heritage, with competition medals I've never heard of.
"He's a child."
"He's a champion from the California circuit. And he specifically requested you."
"Requested me?"
"Said he wanted to learn from the best."
The first rehearsal is a disaster.
Our rhythms clash. His style is too flashy. Mine is too traditional.
"You're anticipating," I snap.
"You're holding back."
"I'm leading."
"Ballroom isn't about leading." He stops mid-step. "It's about conversation."
"Then let's talk."
I sit on the studio floor, gesture for him to join me.
"Why me?" I ask. "You could partner with anyone."
"Because you're the best. And because—" He pauses. "Because I've watched your videos for years. The way you move, command space, refuse to disappear despite every reason to."
"What reasons?"
"You're fifty-seven in a sport that worships youth. You're thick in a world that demands thin." His eyes meet mine. "You're everything I want to be when I grow up."
We try again.
Something shifts—his words changed the air between us. Now when we move, there's conversation. Push and pull. Give and take.
"Better," my coach says.
It's more than better.
It's the beginning of something.
Rehearsals become longer.
We perfect the waltz, the tango, the foxtrot. Every move requires touch—his hands on my waist, my body pressed to his.
"You're tense," he notes one evening.
"I'm focused."
"That's not focus." He stops, faces me. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Regina."
"Fine." I pull away. "I'm feeling things I shouldn't feel. For my partner. Who's young enough to be—"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't put that wall between us." He moves closer. "I feel it too."
"You can't."
"I can. I do." His hands find my face. "The way you move, Regina. The way you command attention. You think that doesn't affect me?"
"We're partners—"
"We can be more."
He kisses me in the studio.
Mirrors reflecting us back—two people who shouldn't fit but somehow do.
"This is crazy," I breathe.
"This is chemistry." He pulls me closer. "The same chemistry that makes us dance."
We go to my place.
He undresses me by moonlight, his dancer's hands knowing exactly how to move.
"Beautiful," he says.
"I'm twice your size—"
"You're exactly my size." He lifts me easily—dancer's strength. "Perfect."
He lays me on the bed and shows me what younger men have learned.
Patient, exploratory, nothing like I expected. His mouth traces every curve like choreography.
"Marcus—"
"Let me lead this time."
I let him lead.
His tongue between my legs is performance art.
Building, building, then the crescendo. I come crying out while he holds my hips steady.
"Now the real dance," he says, climbing up my body.
"I don't have your stamina—"
"You have exactly what I want."
He slides inside me and we find our rhythm.
The same connection from the dance floor, but deeper. He moves like music—slow passages, fast crescendos, the perfect finish.
"Together," he gasps.
"Together."
We come at the same moment.
Like we planned it. Like we rehearsed.
"Best performance of my life," he manages.
"The judges would approve."
Nationals is six weeks later.
We take the floor as partners—in every sense. The rumba we've choreographed tells our story: tension, discovery, surrender.
"Perfect scores," my coach whispers.
First place.
The trophy goes on my shelf.
Marcus goes in my bed.
"People will talk," I warn him.
"Let them." He pulls me close. "They'll say Regina Baptiste found the perfect partner."
"At fifty-seven."
"At the perfect time."
We keep competing.
Keep winning.
Keep proving that age is just another number on the scorecard.
Some dances take time to learn.
Some partnerships defy expectation.
And some trophies—the ones that matter—aren't made of gold.
They're made of this.
Of us.
Forever on the floor.
And off.