I pull her closer, pressing a kiss to her head.
“Then let’s get to work,” I murmur, because committing to ballet is easier than committing to honesty.
Petra smiles, nestling deeper into my arms with the trust of someone who believes they know the whole story. “That’s the spirit.”
And then I hold her, this woman who teaches me to move in ways that shouldn’t be possible, while I practice the most complex position of all: maintaining balance on a foundation of selective truth, hoping the whole structure doesn’t collapse when she discovers what I’ve chosen not to tell her.
Tonight, I’ve chosen her peace over my conscience. Tomorrow, I’ll probably make the same choice. And maybe that’s its own kind of love: protecting someone from a truth that would hurt them even when keeping it hurts you.
Chapter Thirty-One
“Why do we always have to come up this back entrance?” I ask as Petra and I ascend the dimly lit emergency stairwell at Lincoln Center. The metal door clicks shut behind us.
She glances over her shoulder, a smile playing at her lips like she’s enjoying my discomfort. “What, you don’t enjoy sneaking into places like a vagabond?”
“I feel like I’m breaking into some place I’m not supposed to be,” I say. “Feels like we’re trespassing for the sake of my hamstring.”
Petra hesitates at the top of the stairs, peering through the door like we’re casing a joint instead of borrowing a ballet studio. The familiar cocktail of rosin, sweat, and expensive perfume wafts toward us—the signature scent of places where people suffer beautifully for art. Muffled piano music from another studio provides the soundtrack to our crime.
“I don’t actually know what the rules are about non-company members using the studios,” she admits.
“So, I’m basically your ballet side piece,” I observe.
She smirks, finger to her lips as we slip through the door. “Shhh, we don’t want the principal dancers to find out about my secret hockey affair.”
I roll my eyes then follow her inside.
The studio is vast in that way that makes you feel both important and insignificant—floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflecting infinite versions of yourself, all equally confused about how they got here. The Marley floor gleams under evening light filtering through windows that have most definitely witnessed more grace than I’m about to provide.
“Alright, time to get to work, LeClerc,” Petra announces, crossing her arms and pulling her hair back in a ponytail.
We start with warm-up combinations. Petra circles me like a sculptor with opinions, her fingertips finding every imperfection in my posture—ribs, shoulders, spine all getting notes they didn’t ask for, but desperately need.
After what feels like hours but is probably minutes, we move into more complex variations.
“Again,” she instructs, watching me push off into controlled jumps that I’m trying to make look effortless but appear anything but.
I wipe sweat from my brow, which is already pouring down my face. “So, when do we get past the basics? I’m ready to actually try something.”
Her eyebrow arches with interest. “Like what?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “In hockey, we do drills, but eventually you have to actually play games. You put it together in context. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
She considers this. “You want to learn a role?”
“Feels like that could be more fun—something to pull everything together,” I shrug.
She cycles through options in her head, that look of someone scrolling through a mental catalog. Then her eyes light up.
“What about the Cavalier?” she proposes.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“The male lead inThe Nutcracker. Partner to the Sugar Plum Fairy.”
“So, you want me to be yourNutcrackerprince?”
“For your information, theNutcrackerprince is the little boy who ends up with Marie. We need to get you up to date on the story.” She smiles then continues. “The Cavalier, on the other hand, is the lead principal role. It’s all about grace and strength—exactly what you need. Powerful jumps, turns, partnering lifts, everything that forces you to control your body while building explosive power.”
