The Line Dance Affair

Tuesday night line dancing is my therapy.

Forty women and a handful of brave men, learning the Wobble, the Cupid Shuffle, whatever TikTok made popular that month. I'm Sheila—fifty-seven, divorced, running this class since before it was cool.

"We've got a new student tonight," my assistant whispers.

"Who?"

"Terrence Jackson."

I freeze. "The Terrence Jackson?"

Terrence Jackson was the greatest tight end the Texans ever had.

Three Pro Bowls. One Super Bowl ring. Career ended by a knee injury five years ago. He's been out of the spotlight since then.

And now he's walking into my community center in athletic wear, looking lost.

"Mr. Jackson." I meet him at the door. "Welcome to Tuesday Line Dance."

"Just Terrence." He shakes my hand carefully. "My physical therapist said this would be good for the knee. Low impact."

"She's not wrong." I glance at the brace on his leg. "Back of the class. Take it slow. No shame in modifications."

He's terrible.

Pro athlete coordination doesn't translate to line dancing—he's half a beat behind, facing the wrong way, laughing at himself every time he screws up.

"You're doing fine," I say during the break.

"I'm doing terrible." But he's smiling. "Haven't felt this humble since rookie training camp."

"Humble is good. Keeps you learning."

"What else can you teach me?"

He comes back every Tuesday.

Gets a little better each week. Stays after class to practice. Asks questions that show he's actually paying attention.

"Why do you do this?" he asks one night. "Could make more money teaching private lessons."

"Community matters more than money." I wipe down the speakers. "Everyone here is working through something. Divorce. Grief. Boredom. The dancing is just the excuse to be together."

"What are you working through?"

"Twenty years of everyone else's problems." I meet his eyes. "Sometimes I forget I have my own."

He starts showing up early.

Helps me set up chairs, test the sound system. We fall into routine conversations—his career, my life, everything in between.

"Why'd you never remarry?" he asks.

"Men are exhausting."

He laughs. "Fair enough."

"Why'd you never get married in the first place?"

"Women wanted the tight end, not Terrence." He shrugs. "Gets old, being a trophy."

"I imagine it does."

The fall showcase is the biggest night of our year.

Community center packed, families watching, my dancers performing a routine we've practiced for months.

Terrence is nervous.

"What if I mess up?"

"Then you laugh and keep going." I straighten his shirt collar. "Nobody expects perfection, Terrence. Just joy."

"You're good at this. The encouragement thing."

"Twenty years of practice."

"Can I practice something?"

"What?"

He kisses me.

Right there, backstage, thirty minutes before our performance.

His hands cup my face, his mouth moves against mine, and twenty years of professional distance evaporate.

"Terrence—"

"I've been wanting to do that for six weeks." He pulls back, eyes searching mine. "Tell me I shouldn't have."

"You shouldn't have."

"Do you mean it?"

I don't mean it.

"After the show," I say. "We'll talk after."

"Is that a promise?"

"That's as much as I can give right now."

He nods, steps back, and we go perform the Wobble like nothing happened.

The showcase is a hit.

Standing ovation, happy families, Terrence only missing two steps the whole routine.

"You did good," I tell him after.

"I had a good teacher." He takes my hand. "Can we have that talk now?"

My office is small but private.

He closes the door, leans against it, looks at me with an intensity that makes my knees weak.

"I'm forty-two," he says.

"I'm fifty-seven."

"And?"

"And you're a former NFL star. You could have anyone."

"I don't want anyone." He moves toward me. "I want the woman who made me laugh when I couldn't walk right. Who treated me like a person instead of a highlight reel."

"Terrence—"

"Tell me you don't feel this."

I can't tell him that.

"Feel what, exactly?"

"This." He kisses me again—deeper this time, hands finding my waist. "Tell me this is one-sided."

It's not one-sided.

We end up on my office couch.

His hands explore curves that haven't been explored in years. He doesn't hesitate at the soft parts—seems to like them more.

"God, you're beautiful."

"I'm old enough to—"

"Don't." He silences me with a kiss. "Don't do that."

He undresses me like I'm precious.

Kisses every inch he reveals—collarbone, breasts, the belly that embarrasses me.

"Nothing to hide," he murmurs against my skin. "Not from me."

"Your knee—"

"Can handle this." He positions himself between my thighs. "Trust me."

He makes love to me slow and careful.

Mindful of his limitations but generous with everything else. His hands, his mouth, his body moving inside mine—all coordinated, all intentional.

"That's it," he encourages. "Let me feel you."

"Terrence—"

"Come for me, Sheila. Let go."

I let go.

For the first time in years, I let someone else take control. He follows me over minutes later, both of us gasping on my office couch.

"That was..." he pants.

"Unexpected."

"Perfect."

The class doesn't find out for months.

We keep it professional—he's just another student, I'm just his teacher. But the late nights grow longer, the conversations grow deeper.

"Move in with me," he says one morning.

"We've been together four months."

"I've wasted enough time in my life." He pulls me close. "I know what I want now."

"What do you want?"

"You. Dancing through every Tuesday for the rest of my life."

I move in.

The community center gossips—of course they do. But when Terrence leads our new showcase number, dipping me like we've done this forever—

They cheer.

Some rhythms take time to learn.

Some partners are worth the practice.

And some line dances lead to lifetimes.

Cupid shuffle, indeed.