Spiral (Off the Ice, #2) (17)
“By stooping to their level?”
Her brows pinch. “It’s a clean break, and I promise I am nothing like Lana the stalker. If we’re successful, you’ll stay here and be the best rookie Toronto’s ever seen, and I’ll get to travel with Nova Ballet Theatre.” She leans back in her chair. “Do you need me to throw in a test drive? A little glimpse of what it’s like to date me?”
“You’re not a car dealership, Sage. This is real life, and I don’t date.” My blank stare makes her smile fall into a frown.
“All the more reason for everyone to believe us,” she contends.
“I don’t lie either.”
“Fine, I’ll do the talking. You just have to stand there and look pretty.”
“The answer is still no.”
A storm brews on her face, and she stands. The screech of the chair breaks our back-and-forth. “I’m not one to be put off by rejection, but you could at least pretend to think about it.”
I rub a hand over my face. “Trust me, it would never work. No one would believe this could be anything long-term.”
She scoffs and steps back, looking offended. “You know what? Forget it. It’s clear what you think of me.”
My brows rise in surprise.
“No one would believe us being together because I’m me and you’re you, right? You think because my life is such an imploding mess that I’m trying to sink my nails into the nearest famous athlete, and people would immediately sniff out that I’m some gold-digging washed-up ballerina.”
Her harsh words leave me stunned. Pushing my chair back, I loosely touch her biceps to stop her. “That is not at all what I meant.”
Her gaze flickers with something so vulnerable it leaves a hot, uncomfortable sensation to burrow inside my chest. Like fucking heartburn.
“I have to go.” She yanks her arm from my grasp. “Good luck with life, Eli.”
For some reason the nickname sounds all wrong when it comes from her. She walks out of the coffee shop, pink bow fluttering in her curly hair. I feel a deep, regretful storm in my gut, and just when I think to go after her, someone walks up to me.
“Eli Westbrook?” A tall guy, probably a student at the university, stares at me in disbelief and obnoxiously blocks my path. “Holy shit, man. I didn’t think I’d ever see you here. Well, not after you guys beat us in the Frozen Four qualifiers.”
It’s then I realize I’d forgotten to put my hoodie and sunglasses back on in my hurry to stop Sage. Though even if she did hear me out, I don’t think I could rectify the situation. She wants to put up a farce to help us both out, and I’d never be able to pull that off. It would be a disaster waiting to happen.
My lips form a tight smile, as my mind is still distracted by Sage’s words that continue to loop in my head.
“Can you sign this?” He pulls off his Toronto Thunder hat. “You’re who I want to be when I graduate.”
There’s a light spark in my chest when I turn to the bright-eyed kid, who doesn’t look much older than a freshman. My smile is genuine when I take his hat, and he shuffles through his bag for a marker.
He chuckles to himself in disbelief as he hands me a black Sharpie. “You’re an inspiration to all the guys in my frat. I mean a million-dollar contract without trying and unlimited girls, you are living the life. You got any tips?”
The words fall with a thump on my chest, and every muscle in my body contracts. The minuscule spark from earlier dies out and plunges me back into darkness. My smile dissolves into a flat one, and I sign the hat and hand it back to him.
“Nice meeting you,” I mutter, heading straight inside my car and out of the parking lot.
EIGHT
SAGE
WHEN LIFE GIVES you lemons, it douses you in acidic juices that burn your skin too.
When I ruffled through my mailbox earlier, I expected to find flyers and coupons, but a white envelope stuck out in between the junk mail. I tore it open and found bold, red letters that read REJECTED.
The small ballet company I applied to a few weeks ago that exclusively performs for nursing homes seemed like a great opportunity. They are so old school the application required a mail-in audition tape. But the gig was stable, and I thought it might be nice to finally settle down. What a joke that was.
Inside my apartment, I toss the letter in the trash and head straight for the shower. To ease my impending meltdown, I light a lavender-scented candle in the bathroom. Shedding my clothes, I twist the handle only for it to clatter to the floor and land on my toe. I sit there, naked in the tub, clutching my foot with a quiet sob that I muffle with my hand.
My neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Fielder, get grumpy when I disturb one of their afternoon naps with my crying sessions. According to them, women only cried when their husbands went off to war. Personally, I’d like to think they celebrated instead.
However, there’s no cause to celebrate for me, because along with Elias boiling me down to an undatable mess, I have to face my very first rejection.
After a long, pitiful attempt at playing handyman, I turn the faucet only to the cold setting. I take the quickest shower of my life. Even in the freezing shower, and with my body in survival mode, flashes of Elias’s disbelief from earlier play in front of my eyes. It was humiliating.