Dr. Connelly leans back against the counter, his expression softening. “Liam, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but this kind of recovery takes time. If you don’t focus on regaining flexibility and mobility, we’re looking at a permanent limitation in your ability to perform.”
My fingers curl into fists against my thighs, a physical manifestation of the fight I want to have with my own body, with time, with the cruel realities of professional athletics.
“What are my options?” I ask, after letting the silence stretch long enough to absorb the reality of my situation.
“We’ll continue with targeted physical therapy, but you need to incorporate consistent work to improve elasticity,” Dr. Connelly says. “And we can consider alternative approaches.”
“Alternative approaches?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow. “What does that mean? Like acupuncture or some holistic thing?”
“We should try a series of interventions like yoga and Pilates. We need to think outside the box of traditional remedies. You need interventions that force you to use muscles you don’t normally activate. Stretching and traditional rehab alone aren’t going to cut it.”
“Alright,” I say finally, sitting up straighter and meeting Dr. Connelly’s gaze. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“Good,” he nods, his expression turning serious. “Because this is your career we’re talking about. Half-measures won’t cut it anymore.”
As he leaves, I sit in the quiet training room, listening to the distant sounds of my teammates as they head onto the ice for practice. The familiar percussion of skates on ice, the sharp crack of sticks against pucks, the orchestrated beauty of a sport I’m beginning to realize I might be losing my ability to perform.
A knock interrupts my brooding. Rocky pokes his head through the door; his grin is already loaded with mischief.
“Well,” he begins, swaggering into the room with theatrical flair. “If it isn’t Mr.Swan Lakehimself. So tell me, was she impressed?”
“Who?” I ask.
“Don’t play dumb,” Rocky says, his grin widening with predatory satisfaction. “Your date. The mysterious someone who inspired you to take my ballet tickets. She must’ve been blown away by your cultured side.”
“It wasn’t a date,” I say, hoping the finality in my tone will discourage further questioning. “I took my niece.”
Rocky pauses, his smirk faltering for half a second before rebounding with renewed vigor. “Your niece? Really? That’s the story you’re going with?”
“It’s not a story,” I say, rolling my eyes and heading toward the door. “She wanted to go for her birthday, so I took her.”
“Just know that if you ever decide to trade in your skates for ballet slippers,” Rocky calls after me, “I want front-row tickets. You owe me, LeClerc!”
I pause at the doorway, shaking my head. “Orchestra tickets. You got it, Rocky.”
Chapter Five
“And plié, two, three, four…and up, two, three, four.”
Petra Montgomery’s voice carries through the studio like a gentle metronome, her movements flowing with grace. Hidden behind the door, I peek my head in just enough to see her move through the rows of tiny ballerinas, her discerning eye catching every wobbling knee, protruding backside, and crooked elbow like a master craftsman inspecting her work.
I’m witnessing a pastel fever dream where six-year-olds in mismatched leotards are attempting to defy gravity under the guidance of someone who seems to have figured out how to make the impossible look possible.
“Keep that back straight, Emma,” Petra says, gently tapping a shoulder. “Remember we want to make a diamond shape with our knees…Clara, point those toes! And back to first position, everyone. Imagine you’re drawing a perfect line with your foot— heel starts the tendu and toes lead back in. And one more time.”
The girls giggle as they adjust their stances, their enthusiasm undimmed by their obvious struggles with coordination. There’s something charming about their clumsy determination, something that reminds me of my own relationship with perfection, perpetually just out of reach but worth chasing anyway.
“Alright, my little stars,” Petra says, clapping her hands softly to draw their focus. “Now, let’s practice our relevés. Straight knees, strong tummies, and stay nice and tall like a Central Park tree. Remember, no tipping like trees in a storm.”
“Yes, Miss Petra!” they chorus, their high-pitched voices echoing through the studio.
I’ve been standing here for over three minutes, 185 seconds to be exact, working up the courage to enter what feels like a sacred space I don’t belong.But watching Petra demonstrate, rising angelically onto the balls of her feet with a controlled power that makes it look like she’s floating, I’m reminded why I’m here.
“Like this,” she instructs. “Up, hold…down slowly. Let’s try it together. Ready?” She circles the studio full of little ballerinas. “And relevé, two, three, hold…”
The girls follow her lead, their tiny feet wobbling as they attempt to balance. A few topple sideways and collapse into giggles, grabbing each other like tipsy bridesmaids on a dance floor. Their joy in the attempt, regardless of the outcome, strikes me as something I’ve lost somewhere along the way—the ability to find delight in the process rather than the result.
“Let’s try again, but this time, pretend there’s a crown on your head and lift really tall, tall, tall,” Petra says.
