Spiral (Off the Ice, #2) (12)

“She’s your inspiration?”

“She’s my everything. I want to do what she’s done.”

“But better,” I add.

She snorts, looking at me like I have a few screws loose. “This is Misty Copeland we’re talking about. If I can do half as good as her, I’ll be happy.”

I shake my head. “You won’t get anywhere if you think like that. You need to know you can be better than the greatest. That’s how you achieve even a fraction of their success.”

She sits back, seemingly digesting my words and watching me with a look of curiosity, the type of look I haven’t gotten from anyone in a while. A look that tells me she’s seeing something in me that she hadn’t before.

When the server comes with a dessert menu, I sit back to watch her order. Sage lists off the tiramisu and hazelnut éclair. Her decisiveness is attractive, and that she doesn’t shy away from food like I’d expect from a dancer makes me smile. Even athletes count calories or cut weight before a season, so it’s refreshing to see someone who’s not policing their meals.

“Are you judging me for getting dessert?”

A quizzical look settles on my expression. “Why would I judge you?”

She shrugs. “Some people do. You can’t be a ballerina without the perfect body ingrained in your brain.”

I can tell my earlier appraisal might be true, but it didn’t come without struggle.

The dessert comes out only a few minutes later, and it’s pretty fucking difficult looking at anything else but the girl who raves about every spoonful she puts in her mouth.

When her phone rings, she excuses herself, and I take the time to tip the servers before I wait for her by the elevator. She’s smiling wide when she walks back toward me.

“Sorry, that was my brother,” she says. “He’s in boarding school a few hours away, and I didn’t want to miss his call.”

We walk out of the elevator and through the back entrance. When she steps onto the stairs, she’s clutching the railing with a pained look.

“If I could strangle one person with the straps of these heels, it would be the designer.” She limps a little.

Staring down at the tight straps of her black heels, I notice how they dig into her skin.

“Why do you wear them?” I ask.

“Because they’re pretty.”

“But they make your feet hurt.”

“I’m a dancer. My feet always hurt.”

“So, you want them to hurt more?”

She laughs. “You won’t get it. It’s like the time in high school when I spent hours gluing all these pretty gems around my eyes for The Nutcracker, and by the time I got onstage they had all fallen off. I cried for hours afterward, and my uncle had no idea why it was such a big deal.”

“Marcus, right? He’s your uncle?” Suddenly, it makes a lot of sense that he’s not her father. As far as I know, Marcus doesn’t have kids. But the new information doesn’t relieve me in the slightest.

“Yup, the only normal-functioning adult in my life.”

She’s still smiling when her heel gets caught in a divot and she trips. I shoot out a hand and grasp her wrist, pulling her upright again.

“You’d think for a ballerina, I’d be more graceful on my feet, huh?” She exhales through a chuckle.

I look down at her feet. Before I can voice my concern about her raw skin, she bends down and frees her lilac-painted toes from the confines of the strappy heels. The moment her bare feet touch the concrete, she lets out a sigh of relief.

“What are you doing?”

“I can’t walk in these.”

As she attempts to continue our walk to my car, I gently wrap loose fingers around her wrist. “We’re in an alley. You could step on a needle, for all you know.”

“Lighten up. This is how humans were meant to walk.” Sage twirls in her spot, and my gaze drops to her feet again. Then I step in front of her, blocking her path. She appears bewildered. “What’s happening?”

“Get on. You’re not walking barefoot in an alley.”

Her confusion is palpable. “You want to carry me?”

“Yes. Now, get on.”

I anticipate her refusal, but then her hand slides up my back, each movement sending tingles racing down my skin. She effortlessly hoists herself up, and my hands hook under her thighs as they squeeze around me. The light vanilla scent wafting off her is closer than ever.

Her arms tighten around my shoulders, and her laughter rings in my ear as I move. I’m smiling as I speed out of the alley, and she giggles with each stride. When we’re finally at the car, there’s a crowd along the main roads, so I open her door, and she climbs in as I quickly go around to the other side. Anywhere else, and I’d be free to walk around, but in Toronto, the fans are dialed into hockey, and they can spot any player roaming the city from a mile away.

“Where to?” Sage asks when I’m pulling onto the highway.

I glance over at her. “I’m dropping you at home. You live in Weston, right?”

“It’s creepy that you know that,” she says. “But it’s nine thirty, Grandpa. Take me somewhere else.”

I’m hesitant, but the way she deflated at the mention of going home sent unexpected disappointment through me. For some reason, I want this date to be good for her.