“Right or left side?” she asks. The clinical nature of her question catches me off guard.
“Right,” I say, surprised by her immediate focus on specifics. “Tore it twice. Scar tissue’s a nightmare. And now, no matter what I do, it feels like it’s just…stuck. I can’t skate without pain, and the longer this goes on, the worse it gets.”
Petra leans back against the barre. “So…naturally, you thought: ballet. That’s the missing piece,” she says. I can’t tell if she’s mocking me or genuinely trying to understand my logic.
“Not exactly,” I say, giving her a look that I hope conveys I’m aware of how insane this sounds. “My doctor said I needed something unconventional. Something that forces me to use muscles I don’t normally activate. And after watching you and your colleagues the other night…well, I figured if anyone knows how to move with control, it’s you.”
She blinks, momentarily thrown by the directness of the compliment.
“Look, I’m desperate,” I continue, trying to project more confidence than I feel. “I know I’m not your usual student, but I’ll work hard. I need to fix this, or I’m done. Hockey’s all I’ve got.”
The silence that follows feels like it stretches for years. Petra studies me with her sharp blue eyes, and I have the uncomfortable sensation of being dissected by someone who sees things I’m not even aware of myself.
“You want me to teach you ballet?” she asks finally.
“Yes,” I say simply—because sometimes the most absurd requests require the most straightforward answers. “Not to be good at it or anything like that. I just need it to help me move again. To get my body healthy again, so I can return to the ice.”
Petra’s lips curve into a smirk as if she’s already envisioning all the ways this is going to be entertaining for her and potentially torturous for me. “You realize this is going to involve a lot of effort. And a lot of me making you look ridiculous.”
“I’m willing to look foolish,” I say. “Hell, foolish can be the goal! I welcome it if there’s a chance it gets me healthy again.”
“You’ll be sore in muscles you didn’t know you had,” she says. “And you’ll hate me after your first plié.”
“I already hate pliés,” I admit. “But I’ll survive.”
Her smile grows. “We’ll see. No complaints, no shortcuts, and absolutely no trying to turn pliés into squats.”
“Deal,” I say, straightening up.
Petra extends her hand, and when I take it, I’m struck by how small it is compared to mine, yet there’s a strength in her grip. “Welcome to beginner’s ballet, Mr. LeClerc. Let’s see if we can turn you into something resembling flexible.”
Relief washes over me. “Thanks,” I say, then add with what I hope is a charming grin, “but for the record, if I pull some other muscle in your class, it’s your fault.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Petra says. “We have forms for you to sign to cover us.”
“I guess I’ll see you next week,” I say.
“Make sure you bring proper attire—white shirt, black tights, and black slippers,” she calls after me.
I pause, about to make a joke then realize that other than the slippers part, I wear a white shirt and black tights under my hockey gear. Maybe this isn’t so different after all.
I exit the room, and the door of the ballet studio clicks shut behind me, leaving me alone in the softly lit hallway that suddenly feels like a decompression chamber between two different worlds. I let out a long breath. Something about the way Petra agreed to help me—her no-nonsense tone, her piercing blue eyes cutting straight through my defenses—has left me feeling oddly lighter. Hopeful, even. I haven’t felt hope in months. It feels good, better than I remembered.
I walk toward the elevator, my footsteps echoing gently in the quiet corridor. I don’t know if ballet is the answer to fixing my body, but something about Petra makes me believe it’s worth a shot. It’s hard not to absorb some of her confidence, even if it isn’t my own.
Reaching the elevator, I press the down-arrow button as my thoughts drift back to the way Petra looked at me when I explained my injury. Not with pity, like so many others have, but with a mix of curiosity and challenge like she was already planning how to break me down and rebuild me stronger. And then there was her smile: quick, knowing, like she could see through all my excuses and straight into the part of me that’s still holding on no matter how hard I try to hide it.
Is she the kind of person I need not just as a teacher but as something more?The thought surfaces before I can stop it, and I immediately try to push it back down. This isn’t about that. This is about my hamstring and my career and getting back to the only life I know how to live. But even as I tell myself this, I can’t quite shake the image of her moving through that studio,glidingthrough it, or the way her eyes lit up with what might have been genuine interest when I explained why I was there.
I’ve spent months buried under medical charts and rehab schedules, reduced to the sum of my scar tissue. People look at me and see a broken promise, a headline that didn’t pan out. She looked at me like I’m still worth fixing.
The elevator dings, and I straighten up. But when the doors slide open, instead of merciful emptiness, I’m greeted by a small army of people wielding iPhones like tiny weapons.
“Gavin, over here!” one person shouts with desperate enthusiasm.
“James Bond, I love you!” another chimes in.
When I spot Gavin Bradford—Hollywood’s current golden child—standing in the center of this chaos like he was born for it, everything clicks. He stands with the confidence of someone who’s never questioned whether he belongs anywhere, flashing that trademark smile that probably has its own insurance policy. I hover in the elevator doorway, watching Gavin work this crowd like a maestro conducting a symphony of adoration. I’ve been around plenty of cocky guys in hockey, but Gavin operates in a different atmospheric layer entirely.
