Logline

Akhyra Morel, a prima ballerina with a phobia of human contact, has to confront her past traumas and a media scandal in order to find love and healing with a rising soccer star.

Blurb

Afraid of human contact, renowned ballerina Akhyra Morel is the epitome of grace on stage, but offstage, her icy demeanor keeps everyone at arm's length. When a media scandal jeopardizes her career, Akhyra reluctantly becomes entwined with Lucian Moreno, a rising star of the national Haitian football team.

Lucian, suspended from the quarter-finals of the Gold Cup competition due to a foolish bar fight, finds himself stuck chauffeuring around his coach's spoiled daughter. Initially resentful and at odds, Akhyra and Lucian must learn to cooperate. As Akhyra takes a hiatus away from the attention of the press, she is confronted with a reluctant guardian who would rather be on the football field than playing chauffeur.

In this delicate dance of vulnerability and strength, Akhyra and Lucian navigate a journey from isolation to connection. Will the fiery clash of their worlds lead to a new pas de deux, or will the shadows of their pasts keep them forever entwined in a dance of solitude?

Prologue

Lucian

"We're winning this Gold Cup!" Hector, our captain, screams at the end of his speech his drink held high as the guys erupt in cheers and applause almost drowning out the Latin music being played by the DJ.

This evening, we won the match that secured us a spot in the quarter-final of the Gold Cup, an international football competition for national teams of North and Central America, including the Caribbean. Our destination after leaving Estadio Cuscatlán was the hypest bar in the city of San Salvador, where we got booed upon our arrival. But we couldn't care less.

For the Salvadorans, being defeated in their own territory as a host country of this competition by a team whom all the sports critics said wouldn't make it past the group stages must be a tough pill to swallow. They have been doubting us since the beginning of the competition, a small team from a small country, and yet here we are, so close to the finals, so close to winning.

Our goalkeeper, Alex, jumps on my back and pins me in a headlock as he yells in Creole, "Gen Kanpe?" A popular Haitian idiom that means "Are we gonna stop?"

My voice, as well as those of all eleven members of our football team, answers in a unique voice, "Pa gen kanpe!" We won't stop.

After our toast, most of the guys scatter around to start getting down and dirty on the dance floor. Despite the cold welcome that we received, the guys have no trouble finding dance partners. I'm pretty sure that none of them will come back to the hotel alone tonight.

As for me, it will be just me and the lonely sheets of my bed. I have a no sex rule during international competitions that I never break. The guys often make fun of me for being superstitious, but I believe that sex is more than physical. And I'm not about to exchange my energy with some random girl during an important competition.

I wave to the barman to bring me another drink and decide to check my messages meanwhile. I have many texts from friends back in Haiti, but I open my sister's conversation first. Her message brings an instant smile on my face.

Maëlla: Bring the cup home champ! 🇭🇹🏆⚽️7️⃣

Me: So you only love me when I win?😏

Maëlla: Haha. Funny!

Me: CR7 or LM7?

Asking my sister to choose between me and her celebrity crush, famous soccer player Christiano Ronaldo, has been an ongoing joke between us ever since I joined the Haitian team.

Maëlla: Byeee 💀👋🏾

When the barman brings my drink, before I take it, a hand snatches it away from me.

I put my phone down, ready to cuss out whoever dared to mess with my drink only to find Alex grinning at me like the little shit that he is.

"Thanks dude, you can always get the next one."

"You ever get tired of being a pain in the ass?"

"You ever get tired of being the star of the match?"

Tonight, we beat El Savador three to two. Two of those goals have been scored by me, including the winning one. I'm not gonna lie. It does bring me pleasure to see my name mentioned in more sports articles. My sister always sends me the ones who focus on my play on the field. One headline stated: "Haiti's Sensational Lucian Moreno Shines as Top Winger."

"So what are you gonna do after we win?" Alex asks when I finally get my drink.

"Dunno. Sleep for a year, probably?"

"Man, I feel you on that one. These 4 a.m. training sessions have been kicking my ass."

We both laugh as we recount some of the torture that the coach has put us through this season. Alex is our youngest member at only nineteen years old, and the coach especially loves to go hard on him to toughen his endurance.

To be honest, I already have a vague idea about what I might do after we win this championship. Some recruiters from European clubs have been in touch with my agent about the possibility of joining them. But I haven't found it in me to talk about this with the coach yet.

In the blink of an eye, Alex has already disappeared. He's been snatched away by a pretty Salvadoran who's twerking against him on the dance floor to a Daddy Yankee song.

They are going at it so much that they have attracted the attention of other people around the bar. I notice a table of three guys who don't look that pleased by the scene and start to worry that the girl might be related to one of them.

I'd probably be overprotective, too, if I saw my sister grinding against a complete stranger, but when I catch their conversation, I understand that this is not the issue at all.

"These goddamn negros think they can steal our women too," a fake blonde guy with loads of piercing says in Spanish.

"They got lucky today, they're not winning this Cup," one of his friends answers.

"They better go back to that shit hole where they come from," Blondie retorts.

They continue their trash talk in Spanish. Thanks to my Dominican grandfather, I am fluent enough to understand everything. These three dickheads are talking crap about my home and my team. Before I am even aware that I'm moving, I find myself heading to their table.

When I stop in front of them with my hands in my pocket, Blondie sizes me up and down before asking, "You got a problem?"

I shrug. "Just heard you talking shit about my people and came to check if you would dare say it to my face."

"Your people?" he retorts dubiously.

"You heard me."

"You're not Haitian," he scoffs, grimacing like the word "Haitian" caused him physical pain. As if that wasn't enough, he has the gall to add, "You look nothing like them."

I often get that treatment from foreigners, and frankly, it's annoying as hell. They never believe that I'm Haitian because of my fair skin and the silky texture of my hair.

When I started competing internationally with the team, most sports journalists would ask me, "What are you mixed with?" implying Haitians only came in one-size-fits-all packaging and therefore should all look a certain way. I always had to clarify that I am Black, born from two Haitians.

Looking at the pathetic excuse of a human being in front of me, I decide to lean into sarcasm to try and stall the rising anger boiling within me. "I'd offer a free crash course on racial diversity, but those concepts might be too complex for your pea brain."

The dickhead looks at his friend and they all cackle like I've told the joke of the century. Suddenly, he's on his feet, his breath reeking as he tries to appear tough. The atmosphere of the bar changes all at once. I can feel the members of my team drawing closer.

"You're talking a big game for someone who's gonna get dragged through the mud during this competition."

"And you're way too cocky for someone who got their ass handed to them on their own territory."

Pure rage overshadows his expression as he grits out, "As I said earlier, you better take your monkey people and get the fuck out of my country."

When I start laughing, Blondie looks at me as if I've grown a second head.

"I think I'll take your advice," I tell him and begin taking a few steps back. "But first, I got a parting gift for you."

I come back to land a vicious punch straight on his nose. A satisfying thrill spreads through my body when I sense a bone crack on impact. Blondie howls like a wounded animal at the same time that his friends lunge toward me, but my teammates are already by my side. They got my back.

We ended up getting thrown out of the bar by security, but it felt good to wipe the floor with those racists. Though if I had known that this little altercation would get me suspended from the next match and that I'd have to chauffer around the coach's spoiled daughter as punishment there's no way I would've wasted my stamina on Blondie.

I guess I had it coming, but I'll do my best to get rid of that egocentric ballet star in no time.

Chapter 1

Akhyra

My smart watch beeps signaling the end of my workout. I get up and pick up my mat. Before stepping out of the balcony, I double-check to see where Carper is standing. Like a rigid lamppost, his bear frame clad in a suit is stationed by the corner of the living room.

Satisfied by how far he is, I walk inside, leave my rolled mat by a potted plant, and grab the bottle of water that Carper has left for me on the glass table. A reminder from my watch informs me that at exactly 7:15 a.m., my team will be knocking on the door. That's in less than three minutes.

I evaluate the distance between my loveseat and the sofa where they'll be seated. That's too close.

"Carper, move this near the windows."

He gets into action in silence, picks up the furniture by its armrest instead of dragging it across the floor, and positions it by the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a magnificent view of London city.

One of the reasons why I particularly hate hotels aside from the fact that they are infested with people is because no matter how big the suite, it always leaves me with the impression of being trapped in a spacious cage.

I sit down with my bottle of water and right on cue there's a knock on the door. Carper goes to open it, letting the two members of the team inside. He indicates where they should stand.

Hannah and Valentino know the rules by now, but I still extend my hand in front of me as a signal for them to stop walking. It's something that I do more for myself. My therapist's favorite catchphrase is "If you can't touch them, they are not that close."

"Good morning everyone," I greet them.

They both answer in the same strained voice and wear identical nervous expressions as if they were students about to take an unexpected quiz they haven't studied for. I have that effect.

"That's a lovely ensemble Hannah," I compliment my social media manager on her attire which makes her blush with pride.

Hannah always dresses like a boarding school aristocrat who spends her days in dark libraries and might join a secret society given the right amount of coercion.

"Thank you Miss Morel."

"I suppose you took as much care choosing my outfits for this evening as you did getting ready?"

"Yes of course," she answers abruptly. "I mean, I did my absolute best for you as always." Her smile this time is tight as she flicks her bangs. I recognize her nervous tick.

"We'll see about that."

I gesture for them to sit down then motion for Carper to bring me the clothing rack that Hannah came with. He leaves it at a safe distance from me before returning quietly to his corner.

This evening after my show I will be attending a musical that I was invited to. I usually pass on such kinds of public affairs but being an artist of the classical world means you've got to have the right people on your side. Besides, I'll be watching from a private box so no risk of mingling with the crowd.

I go over the rack to review the different gowns that Hannah has purchased with my card. "Mid, mid, garbage, maybe." None of these correspond to what I want for tonight.

There's one particular dress that has so much glitter on it, that my eyes almost hurt from a simple glance. I grab the ostentatious fabric to hold it in front of me. "Did a fairy vomit on this thing?"

"It was highly recommended," Hannah whispers with uncertainty.

I decide not to honor that with a response and continue to gauge the remaining gowns.

One red outfit catches my attention. It reminds me of a Versace dress that BIake Lively once wore to the 2009 Emmys.

"Now, this one's perfect." I turn to face Hannah. "You're excused now, do what you want with the rest."

Her sigh of relief doesn't escape my attention when Carper brings the clothing rack to her. Once she's left I focus on Valentino. He's sitting so straight you'd think he's having tea with the queen herself. Just like Carper, Valentino always dresses with a suit and tie when meeting with me, but no matter how formal his clothes are his curly hair always make him look like a high school homecoming king when in fact he's in his late twenties.

"Give me good news Tino. What are they saying about me?"

He starts listing what the major British news outlets are saying about my ballet show. For my European tour I have only two spectacles in England, and the last one is tonight. It's important not only to begin with a good impression but also to leave with a good one. Valentino gives me a great breakdown of the overall opinion from the press.

"Oh and there was this thing too," he adds at the end of his presentation. "I don't think it's worth paying attention to, but people are talking about a secret lover."

"Say what now?"

"Here's the article."

Valentino starts reading and the more he speaks, the harder it is to keep a straight face. Basically what they are saying is that I am rarely seen in public with male companions, except for my staff, but I do go out to dinner and reserve entire spaces. So they think I'm secretly dating some hotshot politician or business tycoon.

I can't help but laugh at this bunch of nonsense. One thing about the press is they'll always find an aspect of your life to dissect to the bone with the vicious tenacity of a famished hyena.

About two years ago when I'd decided to stop feeding the public's expectations of what a ballerina's hair should look like and begin to wear locs, the arts conservatives all around the world had a collective stroke. They took sick pleasure in publishing long editorials about how I had no respect for the "classical image" of such an ancient form of art.

It was around that time that I decided to hire someone who works in PR. In a relatively short time, Valentino had been able to build me the image of the unconventional ballerina from the Caribbean, whose global success is not only due to talent but also unwavering authenticity.

"Do you want to release a statement about this?" His pointed inquiry suggests that he probably has a draft ready. Valentino is always a few steps ahead.

"Let them chew on that bone for a while to keep them occupied," I decide. "After all, a successful woman is only as interesting as her dating life. Ask Taylor Swift, she knows how that song goes."

After my prep with Valentino, I send him away to get ready to go to repetition. Half an hour later, Carper is driving me to Sadler's Wells Theatre where I will perform in front of fifteen hundred people tonight.

Younger me would've never thought this possible, but here I am. The first Haitian ballerina to be that successful across the globe. I have no intention of stopping there. The sky's the limit.

***

As soon as the curtains close I am able to breathe better. The applause of the audience is still reaching me as I make my way backstage and find my bodyguard waiting for me. Carper follows me to my lodge at a respectful distance.

I quickly freshen up and change my clothes before Valentino comes fetching me for the scheduled meet and greet. Taking pictures with the fans is the worst part of what I do, but when you're a public figure, you've got to be somewhat close to those who support you.

"How many tonight?" I ask Tino who's standing by the door waiting for me.

"Just fourty," he answers with a wobbly smile.

"Let's cut it down by half." sure that nobody invades my personal space. He looks menacing enough that they wouldn't try it.

Inside the photo booth, the photographer greets me with a charming smile. "It's an honor to meet you, Akhyra Morel." He goes for a handshake, but Carper stops him.

"No contact," he says firmly.

To his credit, the photographer doesn't seem shocked. He keeps on his professional composure as he indicates where I should position myself, then the session begins.

Time goes by at a tortuously slow pace as one fan succeeds the other. They are mostly little girls, and a few teenagers. I take pictures, sign stuff, and answer a few questions while Carper makes sure that they remain at a safe distance.

When Valentino announces that the session is over the other fans waiting in line start complaining even after he tells them they'll be getting a refund. One girl starts bawling and her mother sends me a distressed look that I pretend not to see. I let Valentino handle them and follow Carper who guides me outside of the meet and greet area.

I quicken my steps when we walk past the security ribbon behind which the unlucky fans stand defeated. Their arms reach toward my direction asking for a selfie or an autograph.

I can't get out of here fast enough.

"Akhyra, wait!" a small girl yells.

I turn around to see her running toward me, she must have slipped unnoticed by security. My heart begins to run its own marathon the closer she's getting to me. Even if I know Caper will get her before she reaches me, I extend my arm in front of my body to reassure myself. "If you can't touch them, they are not that close."

As predicted, Carper grabs the little girl who wails and kicks her feet in the air in true child rage. The mother comes to recuperate her and it takes a moment to calm the kid down.

If I had not been distracted by that scene I would've probably heard those little steps getting close to me but by the time I feel the presence of another person behind me I know that it's too late.

When I turn around an adorable brunette, wearing a tutu and who's missing her front teeth, is grinning at me. This time I don't get the chance to evaluate the distance between us before she launches herself in my direction to trap me in a hug.

"Let go of me!" I cry out in panic.

My hands that were frozen a second ago move quickly to yank her body away from mine and I push her as far as I can.

There's a collective gasp all around me as the little brunette lands on her backside. Carper arrives right this instant to pick her up but the damage is already done.

I hear the sound of many cameras going off and when I glance around everyone has their phone out filming the scene.

My eyes meet Valentino who gapes at me speechless. I can already tell that no matter how good he is at his job he won't be able to spare me from getting hit by the media shit storm that I've just unintentionally awakened.