The TV drones in the background, some sitcom re-run he’s already forgotten the plot of. The laugh track erupts at all the wrong moments, the sound of strangers finding joy in punchlines that don’t land.
Liam’s thoughts start ping-ponging around, loud and unhelpful. The kind of thoughts that don’t even have the decency to be profound, just petty and circular.
Instagram becomes the escape hatch. He picks up his phone and surrenders to the scroll: vacation photos with suspiciously well-lit sunsets, engagement rings held up like trophies, college roommates who now make sourdough look like a personality trait. Other people’s curated happiness sliding past while he sits with takeout lo mein that tastes like cardboard.
Then he sees it. A post from the Sentinels’ beat reporter, bold text shouting louder than the laugh track in his apartment:Rumors picking up around potential trade for nineteen-year-oldgoal-scoring phenom.
The photo above the caption is practically designed to ruin his night: The kid grinning like he invented hockey, eyes bright with arrogance that only comes from not yet having been broken in half by it. Liam knows him. Met him at a youth hockey camp years ago, even signed a stick for him. At the time, Liam had been the rising star, the name all the little kids wanted scrawled in Sharpie on their jerseys.
Now the Sentinels are talking about trading for this kid. Nineteen. Fresh legs, intact tendons, cartilage still under warranty.
Meanwhile Liam is twenty-eight. He’s still supposed to be in his prime. Supposed to be carrying the team, not a truckload of ever-accumulating scar tissue.
The circle of professional athletics, merciless and efficient, turning wonder kids into cautionary tales on a schedule no one tells you about until you’re already on it.
So Liam does what sports psychologists have taught him: Feel the emotion. Acknowledge it. Let it exist without letting it control. Deep breaths. Inhale, hold. Exhale, hold. Eyes closed. The only thing in his control is himself—getting healthy and back on ice. Everything else is just noise.
But the anger lingers. Simmers. Refuses to be breathed away completely.
He picks up his phone again, thumb swiping through the Explore page for distraction. Then he freezes. Gavin Bradford’s face fills his screen, not one photo but a collage of them. The actor posing with fans at some trendy restaurant, his smile so perfect it looks computer-generated.Noir & Nectar with Bond…James Bond,the caption reads, followed by a constellation of heart-eye emojis and fire icons.
The algorithm has developed a sense of humor. A twisted sense of humor. Here’s the man who seems to have everything Liam lacks: confidence, success, a future that doesn’t depend on whether his body decides to cooperate. And yes, Petra Montgomery too.
“Christ.” The word escapes like steam from a pressure valve.
He runs both hands down his face, feels the stubble that’s becoming a beard by default rather than design. This isn’t how he planned to spend his night. Then again, nothing about his life recently has gone according to plan.
His eyes drift to the takeout bag on the table, where a fortune cookie has tumbled out. He grabs it more from habit than hope and cracks it open.
The thin slip of paper inside offers its wisdom: “A new challenge will bring new opportunities.”
Chapter Seven
I stand outside the ballet studio door for a moment longer than necessary, letting the cool hallway air linger against my skin like a brief reprieve from whatever awaits me inside. I tell myself I’m prepared for this. That’s the narrative I’ve been rehearsing all morning, but the nerves creep in anyway, those familiar little tremors of doubt that know exactly where to find my weakest spots. My gym bag strap cuts into my shoulder as I shift my weight, and there’s something almost comforting about the discomfort.
Here’s the truth I’ve been dancing around: This isn’t just about proving something to myself, though that would make for a cleaner story arc. It’s about salvaging what’s left of a career that feels like it’s melting through my fingers faster than ice in August. Petra Montgomery is my last, best hope—melodramatic phrasing, I know, but sometimes life demands a little melodrama.
Whatever flicker of romantic intrigue I felt has been thoroughly extinguished by the sight of her with Gavin Bradford in real life and online. She’s taken. No banter, no flirting, no wondering what her laugh sounds like when she’s not being a teacher. I’m here to rebuild myself before the Sentinels decide I’m more liability than asset. Simple.
I exhale sharply, one of those breaths that’s half preparation, half prayer, then I push the door open.
Inside, Petra is already stretching by the barre, her movements so fluid they make me acutely aware of my own body’s current state of disarray. The studio is quiet. She turns when I enter, her blue eyes performing a quick assessment.
“You’re on time,” she says. “Good start.”
“Punctuality’s not my problem,” I reply, setting my bag down near the wall. “My body. That’s the problem.”
She tilts her head. “We’ll see,” she motions me over. “Let’s get started.”
I step onto the smooth studio floor, and immediately every cell in my body recognizes this as foreign territory. I’m used to the sharp bite of ice under my skates, the way cold air hits my lungs like a slap, the constant negotiation between balance and speed. Here, with the warm Marley floor under my feet and mirrors everywhere reflecting back versions of myself I’m not sure I want to see, I feel exposed.
“First position,” Petra instructs.
“First position?” I ask.
She walks toward me, stopping just short of what would be considered personal space in any other context. “Simple,” she says. “Stand there. Feet turned out, heels together. Weight evenly distributed.”
I glance down at my feet, which suddenly seem like they belong to someone else entirely, and awkwardly arrange them into what I hope approximates the right shape. “Like this?”
