I hold fifth position. Petra stops moving. Her arms fold across her chest. “Someone’s been doing his homework.”
“I can occasionally follow instructions.”
Her lips twitch. “Occasionally?”
“Okay, rarely.” I straighten a little, ignoring the burn in my hamstrings. “Admit it though. I’m your star pupil now, aren’t I?”
She lets out a subtle laugh. “If by star pupil you mean the only adult in the room who still can’t tell fourth position from fifth without looking down at his feet…”
“Semantics,” I shoot back. “History will remember me kindly.”
“History,” she says dryly, circling behind me, “is already laughing.”
I take a break, reaching for my towel. “All I know is I’ve got a month to convince my body we’re still friends. No time for the scenic route.”
“A month?”
“Five weeks if we’re being technical,” I clarify. “Five weeks before I either get traded or get back on the ice game ready.”
Petra tilts her head. “And you think ballet is going to magically fix everything that’s broken?”
“If I’ve learned anything, it’s that miracles hide in the hardest work. So push me until I either break or become something better.”
“You sure about that? Because I don’t do gentle encouragement. I do brutal honesty.” She starts circling me again, cataloging every flaw in my posture, every tremor in muscles that have clearly been slacking.
“Gentle encouragement is for people who have time to waste.”
She stops and studies my face. “Alright, LeClerc. You want the full ballet boot camp experience?”
“I haven’t cried since I was five when I learned that tears don’t change the scoreboard.”
Petra laughs. She backs away, gesturing for me to follow. “Let’s see how long you can hold a plié.”
“I won’t wobble,” I protest, sinking into position.
“Really? Because last week I’m pretty sure you invented an entirely new category of plié—the hockey player special, featuring knees with commitment issues.”
“That was experimental choreography,” I shoot back, thighs already staging a mutiny. “Very avant-garde. You probably just weren’t ready for it.”
She smirks. “Oh, I was ready. I just didn’t realize it came with sound effects.”
“Those were battle cries,” I grunt. “Completely intentional.”
“Chest up, core engaged. You’re hunching over in the penalty box.”
I adjust my posture, breathing through the fire in my legs. “Got it. Chest up, core locked and loaded. Any other wisdom?”
“Yeah,” she says, continuing her slow patrol around me. “Stop staring at the floor. You’re supposed to own this space.”
I lift my gaze until it meets hers. “Like this?”
She pauses, and a smile flashes across her face. “Better. You might actually survive this.”
What follows can only be described as an hour-long negotiation between my body and the concept of suffering. Petra escalates the intensity—jumps, extensions, and combinations requiring increasing coordination and strength.
When she finally calls for a water break, I collapse onto the bench. Half my water bottle disappears in one gulp. “You weren’t kidding about the ‘no easy’ thing.”
“I’ll admit you’re exceeding my very low expectations.”
