Across from him, two players attempt changements—not well.
“Wait, are we landing in fifth position or fourth?” one player asks the other.
Will Kelly stands attempting a pas de bourrée. “So, is this all in the legs, or more of a core thing?”
Liam stares at his teammates, these monuments to traditional masculinity, earnestly attempting ballet as they study the clips playing on their respective phones.
“What the hell are you guys doing?” Liam says.
Dewey, still clutching his stick-barre like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, nods firmly. “You’ve been holding out on us, Clerky. If ballet could do what it did for you on the ice, you gotta help us learn some.”
Will Kelly pipes up: “You looked like a different player last game. Faster, stronger, more balanced. We thought it was just the training staff, but…” He gestures toward the viral video playing on loop. “Turns out you were becoming a literal ballerina.”
The absurdity of it—instead of mockery, they want tutorials—breaks something loose inside Liam.
“Alright,” Liam says, surveying the carnage of attempted ballet around him. “First of all—stop mangling the plié. My god.”
“Alright, Baryshnikov, then help us figure it out,” Dewey says.
And just like that, Liam isn’t the guy exposed in a viral video. He’s the guy with the secret weapon. The training edge everyone wants.
The locker room has become his kingdom, and ballet—improbably—has become the team’s new religion. Liam stands in a locker room full of hockey players performing horrific tendus, having accidentally started what might be the NHL’s strangest training revolution.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The butter in my cast iron pan sizzles, and the smell of rosemary emanates through the kitchen as I flip the chicken breast and add a little more seasoning. I’m riding the high from earlier. Former teammates are now calling me, asking for more videos and pointers. One former teammate Venmoed me a thousand bucks with the request I send him a twenty-minute tutorial of key barre work he can practice daily.
This viral disaster isn’t a disaster after all. I lean against the counter, checking my phone. Nothing from Petra yet.
When I hear the door creak open, I call out from the kitchen: “I have great news, Petra!”
Silence, so I continue.
“That video? The one that leaked? Actually the best thing that could’ve happened. Dewey and all the boys want you to give them lessons too! It’s like we started a revolution or something.”
Still nothing.
I wipe my hands on the dish towel—the one Claire insisted we needed because “real adults don’t dry their hands on their jeans”—and step into the living room where Petra stands just inside the doorway, still wearing her coat, hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her hair looks like she’s been running her fingers through it, dishevelment that comes from barely contained panic. Her eyes are red-rimmed, which means she’s been fighting tears and losing.
My stomach drops.
“Petra—”
“Nilas is threatening to expel me from the company. He suspended me today with the possibility of terminating my contract.”
“What?”
“He called me into his office today. Said I embarrassed the company. That I disgraced everything they stand for. That I might not have a future there anymore.”
My jaw tightens. “That’s insane. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Didn’t I?” She starts pacing, that restless energy that comes when standing still feels like drowning. “I knew it was risky to bring you to the studio. I knew it wasn’t a good idea. With the cameras there. Deep down, I knew if something got out, it could ruin everything.” She turns to face me, and her expression is something I’ve never seen before: fractured. “But I ignored my instincts. I was foolish, and now I might have just destroyed everything I worked for. Everything.”
I move toward her, slowly. “Petra, slow down—”
She steps back, creating distance between us. “You don’t get it.”
“Then help me get it. I mean, I literally had the entire team begging me to get them signed up for lessons with you.”
