I just worry that we’re destined to the same fate as last year. If I respond to him before my audition, I could jinx myself again, and I can’t horrendously embarrass myself again.
Once I’ve finished, I’ll text him to let him know. Or, who knows, maybe I’ll even call him since he’s one of the only two people who actually know I’m here.
“Excuse me. You’re in my way,” a girl says before pushing me out of the way as she waltzes to the front where an assistant is managing the auditions.
There are at least thirty other girls here. All with dark hair like mine, big smiles like mine, and I have no doubt they all learned to skate when they learned to walk.
I can’t beat them on that front, but I know they can’t sing like me.
It’s all I’ve got at this point, but it might be all I need.
I adjust the sparkly blue skate dress I bought for the audition and shake my hands, trying to calm my nerves. Then I slide my feet into my skates that Scotty let me borrow, hating the fact that every time I put them on, I think of him on his knees in front of me.
‘I’d get on my knees for you anytime, Princess.’
Shit. Why does that feel like exactly what I need to calm down today?
A small smile plays across my lips because maybe I should’ve taken him to the locker room, opened my legs, and let him take me last night. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so nervous right now.
Stop it, Laura!
I’ve got to stop thinking about Scotty and everything he does to my body.
I finish tying the laces—not as perfectly as Scotty does, but good enough—and stand. My legs feel like jelly.
Number forty-six is currently pacing near the vending machine, doing what looks like visualization exercises. Her lips are moving silently, hands tracing patterns in the air like she’s running through her routine.
I should be doing that. Visualizing. Preparing.
Instead, I’m spiraling.
What if I fall during the crossovers? What if my voice cracks? What if they take one look at me and know I’m a fraud who learned to skate in a month?
“Number forty-six!”
The visualizing girl finally stops pacing and strolls to the front so casually with her skates on. Before she leaves the room, she takes a deep inhale, rolls her shoulders back, tips her chin up, and walks through the door with the kind of confidence I wish I could fake.
Shit.
Fuck.
I’m an actress. This should come easily to me.
I can deliver a monologue without blinking. I’ve played characters who can walk into a ballroom like it’s their second home, albeit always in the background, but I played those characters with confidence.
I should be able to muster some of that fake bravado right now, but apparently, all my stage presence evaporates the second I lace up my skates.
I take a step on the rubber flooring and wobble embarrassingly as I try to stand. When I’ve got my balance back, I realize the other girls are watching me with surprise.
So much for effortless confidence.
“Fake it till you make it,” I mutter under my breath, but even my pep talk feels lackluster.
I widen my stance, stretch my arms out for balance, and stare down at my skates, trying to steady myself, only to unravel when I see the number on my chest.
47.
I'm next.
