But worse, so much worse, are the intimate moments. The kisses stolen between combinations. The way I pull her close like she’s the only thing that makes sense. Her head on my shoulder when we’re both exhausted, laughing at something that probably wasn’t even funny but felt hilarious in our private bubble.
The comments mushroom as the clips go viral across all the social media platforms:
“BRO IS DOING BALLET BYE BYE TO HOCKEY LOL”
“Next he’ll be wearing tights on the ice. What an EMBARRASSMENT”
“This is the most elaborate scheme to get laid I’ve ever seen!”
My stomach knots then convulses. Yes, this is about me getting embarrassed. But more importantly, this is about Petra. Her career and reputation. The careful line she walks between being taken seriously as an artist and being ridiculed.
I call her immediately. Straight to voicemail. She’s probably in the studio or in a meeting, or—
She would have seen this on her way to work. Walking into Lincoln Center with this bomb exploding across social media. Her professional world colliding with our private one in the most public way possible.
I try again. Voicemail. Again.
Rocky sends another message: “For what it’s worth, your technique actually looks pretty good ”
I stare at my phone, at the video that’s already been shared tens of thousands of times, of our private moments transformed into content for strangers to consume with their morning coffee.
Some violations you can’t undo. Some privacy, once lost, stays lost. And some girlfriends are probably having career-defining conversations right now because their boyfriend thought learning ballet was a good idea, and someone decided exposing it was a better one.
I sprint to the front door. I need to get to Lincoln Center. Need to find Petra and do something even if that something is just standing there, telling her I love her.
The subway ride to Lincoln Center takes forever. Every stop an eternity. Every delay a personal insult. By 66th Street, I’ve been serenaded, stepped on, and somehow entered into a staring contest with a toddler. My phone continues its volcanic eruption of notifications, each one a reminder that the internet has opinions about my life choices.
A text from my agent: “We need to discuss how to handle this.”
I want to throw my phone onto the tracks, but that would probably just generate more content and delay my arrival at Lincoln Center.
When I finally reach the ballet theater, I’m blocked at the entrance by security.
I text Petra again: “I’m outside the theater. Can you come down?”
Still nothing.
I pace the plaza like a caged animal, watching dancers come and go, wondering if they’ve seen the video.
My phone buzzes. Finally, a response from Petra. But it’s only two words: “Not now.”
I stand there in the plaza, surrounded by passersby yet alone. The video continues its viral march across the internet. Memes are being born. And somewhere in that building, the woman I love is dealing with the fallout of my presence in her life being transformed into entertainment with possibly dire ramifications for her.
All because someone decided our private moments were public property.
I sit on a bench, watching the fountain, and do the only thing I can do—wait. Wait for her to be ready to talk. Wait for the internet to move on to its next victim. Wait to find out if this thing we’ve built can survive being exposed to the harsh light of public consumption.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I learned ballet to heal my body, to become stronger, and to return to hockey better than before. But in the process, I might have damaged something else entirely: the world of the person I care most about.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The door to Nilas’s office slams behind Petra with the finality of a judge’s gavel, the sound ricocheting off the ceilings that seem designed specifically to make human beings feel insignificant. The vast room operates on the principle that power requires space.
Nilas sits behind his mahogany desk in a large leather chair like it’s a throne, fingers steepled. He doesn’t invite her to sit. Instead, he deploys silence like a weapon, letting it stretch until the air itself feels hostile.
When he finally speaks, his voice is cutting: “Tell me, Petra. Are you trying to ruin your career?”
Her breath catches, but she holds herself rigid, a statue pretending not to feel the foundation faltering. “No, of course not.”
