And in the middle of it, I’m trying to remember how to breathe.
My stomach swoops—the usual stage jitters, nothing I’m not used to, no matter how many times I do it.
There’s a knock at my dressing room door.
“Delivery for Katerina Easton,” someone calls out.
I open the door to find a drink holder from a delivery service.
“This is for me?” I ask.
“It’s what the delivery guy said,” the backstage coordinator's intern says and then runs off to put out the next fire.
I take it over to my makeup mirror and glance down. It’s a hot tea to-go cup and a bottle of seltzer water.
The top of the to-go cup says. “Don’t break a leg, KitKat.”
My heart about bust through my rib cage. Scottie… it has to be him. No one else calls me KitKat.
He sent me a delivery even though he’s about to go on the ice in another city, in another state.
“Five minutes to places,” someone calls, breaking me from falling a little harder for my husband.
I smell the hot beverage already starts to calm my nerves. Chamomile tea, and just the way I take it with a little honey.
I’m in full hair and makeup, costume fitted and pinned, ribbons tied. My feet are already taped within an inch of their life, toes padded, new pointe shoes broken in just enough to carry me through tonight without betraying me… hopefully.
My phone buzzes on the tiny dressing table in front of me.
Irina:I can’t believe it’s opening night. How’s my star?
I exhale through my nose and pick it up.
Me:Trying not to throw up.
It takes her two seconds.
Irina:Vomiting is for amateurs. You are a professional. You will plié your fear into submission.
A laugh escapes me, shaky but real.
Me:That’s not a thing.
Irina:It is now. Seriously, Kat. Go break their hearts. You’ve got this.
Me:I’ll try.
Irina:No trying. Do it. And then text me after. I love you.
Me:Love you too.
I set the phone down and look at myself in the mirror.
Heavy stage makeup. Sharp liner, red lips, hair scraped back into a bun so tight I can feel my pulse in my scalp, which means it’s perfect. The costume is a glittering dream, all tulle and jewels and movement. On the surface, I look exactly like what I am: principal dancer, opening night, center of the stage.
But underneath?
Underneath, I’m the girl who ran away from an arranged marriage to a Russian politician. The girl whose father sees her as a bargaining chip. The girl who married a hockey player she barely knew and somehow fell in love with him, anyway.
