“Yeah, those,” I say. “Those exact ones.”
“Oh, this is rich,” Rocky says. I can hear him rubbing his hands together. “What’s the angle here? Trying to impress a date?”
“Something like that,” I respond.
“I’ve been out of the game a while,” Rocky continues, “but I’d recommend wearing a shirt with some type of collar. Hoodies don’t make a great first impression, at least they didn’t in my bachelor days.”
“It’s not like that,” I snap. “Just…can I have the tickets or not?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “I’ll email you the details. And they come with backstage passes—how about that? Don’t forget to thank me later when this broad, whoever she is, swoons over how cultured you are.”
“Thanks,” I say flatly, already halfway to hanging up.
“Wait, wait, one more thing,” Rocky adds. “Do me a favor. Try not to nod off during the performance. It’s bad PR for everyone if you snore during a grand jeté.”
I hang up, tossing my phone onto the couch with more force than necessary. Of course Rocky would milk this for weeks. But for Lila, it’s worth it.
Probably.
Chapter Three
At night, Lincoln Center is the brand of beautiful that makes you feel slightly inadequate just by being in its vicinity. The David H. Koch Theater glows like a scene from a fairy tale, golden light and elegant lines, and I’m standing here in my best suit feeling like I’m about to be ejected for not belonging.
Lila, on the other hand, is vibrating with excitement beside me. She’s six, which means her capacity for wonder hasn’t been beaten down by years of disappointment and cynicism. Lucky her.
She’s not wrong to be excited. The David H. Koch Theater is where people wear real jewelry and actually know which fork is for salad. I’m surrounded bypatrons,not guests, and it feels like any second someone’s going to ask me about my thoughts on Giacomo Puccini’sTurandot.
Inside the theater, the lights dim and I brace myself for what I assume will be several hours of twirling in tutus while I fight to stay conscious. Ballet isn’t my thing. The only reason I’m here is Lila, who’s currently gripping her armrest like she’s about to launch herself into orbit.
The curtain rises, and at first, it’s exactly what I expected—elegant, sure, but also slow. My mind starts to wander, calculating how long I’ll need to sit here before I can reasonably claim cultural enlightenment.
But then something happens. One dancer steps into the spotlight, and suddenly the whole energy of the performance changes. Her movements are spellbinding, nothing like the soft prettiness I was expecting. There’s power in the way she moves, a precision that reminds me of something I recognize—the feeling of a flawlessly executed power play breakout or the perfect timing of an offensive zone entry.
This is athleticism disguised as art. Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe we’re looking at it backwards. Maybe all athleticism is just art that forgot it was supposed to be beautiful.
I find myself leaning forward, actually paying attention for the first time since the curtain went up. The way this one dancer moves through space is mesmerizing.
“Uncle Liam,” Lila nudges me with her elbow. “You’re supposed to clap when they finish the dance.”
I blink, realizing the first act has ended, and the audience is applauding. I clap belatedly, the sound awkward against the rhythmic tide of appreciation around us.
“You were watching really hard,” Lila says. “Do you like it?”
“Yeah,” I say, and I’m surprised to find that I mean it. “I guess I do.”
By the second act, I’m completely absorbed. The dancers move like a single organism, their strength and unity building something that’s bigger than the sum of its parts. And that soloist—the one who caught my attention earlier—commands the stage with a presence that’s impossible to ignore. These dancers have that thing I’ve been missing: complete control over their physical selves, the ability to make the impossible look effortless. I want that feeling back.
When the curtain falls after the final act, the audience erupts in applause. Lila is bouncing in her seat, her clapping so enthusiastic it draws amused smiles from the sophisticated patrons around us.
“Isn’t it amazing?” she says, her face glowing with joy. “I like the girl with the sparkly pink costume the best.”
“Yeah,” I say, still watching the stage as the dancers take their final bows. “She’s really something.”
“She’s like a princess, but strong, too, like she doesn’t need someone to save her,” Lila adds with the kind of insight that catches you off guard. “Do you think you could lift someone like that?”
I shake my head. “Unlikely. I’d probably fall over and crush them.” But even as I joke about it, I can’t stop thinking about what I’ve just witnessed. The strength, the control, the absolute mastery of movement. It’s everything I used to take for granted back when skating felt like flying, and my body was an instrument that played whatever tune I wanted.
Now I feel like a broken violin, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever make music again.
