“Yes, Liam. The fifteenth. One. Five. Do you want me to text you the date, or can you remember it?”
“I got it; I got it.”
“Good. Now can you get them?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you. I’ll text you details of the trip. Love you.”
“Love you too, bye.”
I stand and walk to my kitchen where I open the refrigerator and look for something to snack on that may magically solve my ticket problem. Halfway through a bag of beef jerky, I make the call I don’t want to make but have to.
“LeClerc, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Rocky picks up on the first ring.
“I need a favor.”
“Shocker. Lay it on me.”
“Nutcrackertickets for December fifteenth.”
Rocky snorts. “You know we have a pretty important game that night, right?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Thanks for the reminder, Rocky. I had completely forgotten about the biggest game of the season.”
“Just making sure you’re still grounded. Why do you needNutcrackertickets on game night?”
“For my sister and niece.”
Rocky hums. “For family, huh? I suppose I can pull some strings.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Hey, by the way,” he adds, “does this have anything to do with a certain ballerina—”
“No,” I cut him off.
“Okay. But if it did, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
I sigh, rubbing my face with my palms. “Just get the tickets, please, Rocky.”
“I got you.”
I set my phone down on the counter, fingers lingering on the cool marble surface. My gaze drifts to the window where New York sprawls in all its chaotic glory, lights flickering like synapses, energy flowing like blood through concrete veins. Something about this moment feels different. Like tectonic plates shifting beneath the surface of my post-Petra life.
And now, just when I’d convinced myself to leave the past in its grave, Petra resurfaces. Not directly—that would be too simple. Instead, she haunts the edges through a ticket request, through my niece’s preference for tutus over hockey jerseys, through the cosmic joke ofThe Nutcrackerhappening while I’m fighting for our season.
Maybe it means nothing. Just a coincidence in a city full of them. Or maybe it means everything. Maybe the universe is less comedian and more choreographer, setting up movements I don’t understand yet.
I stand in my kitchen, where Petra and I cooked together, where we laughed and kissed, where we fought, and where we fell apart.
The fifteenth is coming whether I’m ready or not. Game night andNutcrackernight, my world and hers, existing in the same city on the same night. Parallel universes, no longer one. We make plans like promises to ourselves, but life keeps its own calendar. The best we can do is show up to our appointments on time and hope the universe keeps up its end of the bargain.
Maybe I’ll make the playoffs. Maybe Lila will love the ballet. Or maybe none of that will happen, and this is just another moment where life reminds you that control is an illusion, and the universe’s favorite hobby is irony.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Petra’s footsteps click down the corridor like a metronome counting beats toward destiny. Walking down the hallway to Alexei Volkov’s office feels less like a commute and more like a countdown, every step inching closer toward a conversation that will have career-defining implications. Her breath maintains its steady rhythm while her pulse is anything but steady, thumping hard and heavy in her wrist, in her neck, everywhere.
