You in Boston?
Heard from a guy who heard from a guy you went to see Voskoboynikov.
That true? If it is — good.
But don’t expect the League to hand you a medal for basic decency.
You wanna come back? Keep doing the work when no one’s filming it.
FWD: Internal Note — Voskoboynikov Representation
Client confirms Eriksson visitedin person.
No media present. No social mention. No follow-up statement issued.
Client describes apology as “direct” and “not defensive.”
We are not endorsing reinstatement.
But we are not opposing it either.
Monitor conduct moving forward.
69
WHERE THE MUSIC SHOULD BE
Nate
“I thought giving her space was respect. It was fear.”
Nate stood at the center of a floor too clean to hold the mess he felt like making. Hands on his hips, sweat slick down his spine, chest heaving like he’d skated ten miles with a weight vest and a grudge. He hadn’t meant to stay this late. Hadn’t meant to push himself to the edgeagain.But something about the silence made it easier to breathe than his apartment ever did these days.
He danced. Not well. Not choreographed. Just movement. Just rhythm. Just body and gravity and that tight, sour ache under his ribs that never really left anymore. The steps weren’t for the next show, or even for Holly. They were for the part of himself he didn’t know how to fix. The part that still saw her every time he closed his eyes.
He landed a sharp Cha Cha lockstep and stopped dead, bending over with his hands braced on his knees so that sweat dripped from his curls onto the floor. His breathscraped in and out, too loud in the empty room, and the burn in his thighs felt righteous, punishing.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror and didn’t see a pro athlete. Didn’t see the tough guy who’d once dropped gloves on national TV without blinking. Just a man trying not to drown in a love he hadn’t been brave enough to fight for until it was already slipping through his fingers.
“You do realize you can’t bully hardwood into submission,” a familiar voice interrupted, bone-dry and impeccably unimpressed.
Nick Marlowe stood just inside the doorway, one shoulder resting lightly against the frame as if he’d always intended to be there. All black, of course. Fitted. Effortless. A man who looked composed even under fluorescent lighting. He held a Gatorade between two fingers like he was considering whether Nate had earned it.
Nate straightened, dragging in a breath that burned on the way down. “You stalking me?”
Nick’s gaze moved over him without hurry. Took in the sweat, the tremor in his legs, the absence of music. Filed it away.
“Simply assessing the damage,” he said, then he tossed the bottle in a clean arc.
“Must be a weird Brit thing.” Nate caught it one-handed and twisted the cap off, drinking like he’d been stranded in the desert of unrequited love and repressed emotions.
Nick pushed off the doorway and stepped fully into the studio, not invading the space, just occupying it. He didn’t pace or fidget, he just stood there and watched Nate like a director assessing a rehearsal that had gone on too long. “You’redancing without music,” he observed. “That’s rarely a sign of stability.”
Nate wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Didn’t realize I’d booked a psych assessment.”
“You didn’t.” Nick’s mouth curved faintly. “On the odd occasion I just feel generous.”
Silence stretched, deliberate. Nick held out, as though letting Nate feel seen. Then, almost lazily, he lifted a brow. “You going to fix it, or just go home with a participation trophy?”
