“Then explain to me,” his voice rises, “why the hell I woke up this morning to see one of my dancers—one of my soloists, no less—reduced to nothing more than a viral spectacle?”
Petra’s throat goes desert-dry, but Nilas is just warming up. He rises from his desk and begins to circle her.
“This company has operated for decades under an unwavering standard of excellence, discipline, and most importantly, discretion. We are not a publicity stunt. We are not fodder for online gossip.”
She starts to speak. “I didn’t—” but he cuts her off with a sharp hand gesture.
“Don’t interrupt me.”
The words land with the heft of institutional authority.
He continues orbiting her. “The rehearsal studios are for company members only. That is a strict policy, one that every dancer before you has had the respect to uphold. But you? You waltzed your little hockey player onto sacred ground, using the company’s space as if it were your personal playground.”
The dismissive way he says “little hockey player” makes Petra’s nails bite into her palms hard enough to leave crescents.
“Did you think no one would find out? Did you think that because you used the back entrance, you were somehow above the rules?” His mockery possesses the cruelty of someone who’s been waiting for this moment. “How naive. How utterly disappointing.”
Each word is a precisely placed blade, designed to cut without killing—yet.
“Your actions have made a mockery of what I am trying to build. I am deeply,deeplydisturbed that you felt entitled to behave in such a manner.” His voice drops to that low register that makes threats sound like prophecies. “And frankly, if I were you, I’d be questioning whether you even have a future here at all.”
The walls seem to contract, the oxygen thinning like they’ve climbed to peak altitude without moving.
“You should have taken the Saint Petersburg offer when you had the chance.”
The cruelty of it—throwing her sacrificed opportunity back at her like a weapon—is breathtaking.
“If I were you,” he murmurs as if delivering a final, killing blow, “I would be asking myself a very important question: Are you still useful here? Because as of now, you are suspended pending further review.”
A knock at the door interrupts before the silence can fully crystallize into despair.
Nilas sighs. “Go,” he says to her.
Petra turns to leave, desperate for air, when something catches her eye. A flash of purple on a chair in the corner, peeking out from under his jacket.
Purple mittens.
She knows those mittens. Only one person in the company wears mittens like that. One person who’s been visiting Nilas’s office with increasing frequency.
Meanwhile, Liam has to get to practice so he leaves Lincoln Center and heads back underground, boarding the 1 train as it rattles through its underground path. The notification barrage continues, even deep under Manhattan where the Wi-Fi is suspect.
The messages and comments blur together: “Bro…have you seen this?” “Liam LeClerc: NHL forward by day, ballet prince by night???” “This can’t be real…is it???”
Whoever did this understood exactly how to maximize damage. The subway lurches to his stop.
The walk from Penn Station to the locker room usually takes five minutes. Today it stretches before him like a death march. Each step brings him closer to what will undoubtedly be the single most humiliating moment of his professional career, and he’s had some doozies, like that time he accidentally scored on his own goal during the playoffs three years ago.
His phone keeps buzzing with the insistence of a cardiac monitor, each notification another spike in his anxiety chart. He’s stopped looking.
The thing about locker rooms is they’re not big on the occupants being ballerinas.
He pauses outside the doors, listening to the familiar sounds of pre-practice chaos. His hand hovers over the door handle. He could turn around. Go back home. Hide under his covers. But his contract doesn’t have a “mortification clause.”
So, he pushes open the locker room door, stepping into what will either be his finest hour of taking chirps on the chin, or the moment he finally understands why witness protection exists.
The locker room has transformed into what can only be described as the world’s worst adult ballet recital.
Dewey Carter grips a hockey stick as if it’s a ballet barre, attempting a plié with little success. “Knees over toes, right?” he calls out.
