Spiral (Off the Ice, #2) (3)
The bartender offers a drink, but I refuse. “It’s all fabricated. I have no idea why they’re spinning it this way.”
“Because you’re popular. That social media video of you went viral, and the people want more. It’s great publicity, but not great for your career if you become the next playboy.”
“That’s not who I am.”
“I’m sure, but the only perception the league cares about is the fans’. You need to pick up your game and keep your hotel rooms empty.”
I run my hand through my hair, feeling a headache forming. “I understand.”
“Get that first one out of the way, and I can downplay the press we’re getting about you. Don’t make the organization question whether they should have signed you. You’re a strong player, Eli, I can vouch for that, but I can’t do it unless you back it with some proof.”
He takes the drink I had refused, downs it in one go, and walks off. The echo of his advice and a fading clink of emptied glasses circle my mind. The pressure is overwhelming.
If I stay in here another second, my head might explode. I don’t stick around to find out, and bolt for the double doors, signaling to Aiden that I need a break.
And maybe a solution to all my problems.
TWO
SAGE
BROKE BALLERINA.
It kind of has a ring to it.
“Auditions will be held again in the spring. We do not need any more background dancers.” Aubrey Zimmerman barrels through the rotating glass doors in a flurry.
Next year? That’s an entire dancing season gone. Another year older. Another stack of unpaid bills. Another has-been.
Broke, washed-up ballerina.
Not so catchy.
“Mr. Zimmerman, I’m here to audition for the swan queen.”
Either he hears the desperation in my voice, or my statement is so bewildering that it stops him in his tracks. My focus lands on the back of his balding head, glistening in the sunlight. He isn’t old in terms of years, but he looks rough for a thirtysomething-year-old. I guess that’s what years in this industry do to a person. Some days, I feel halfway there.
When he turns, his lips tip in a curve that makes me tilt my head to assess it. But then the sound that comes out of his mouth drops my shoulders.
Aubrey Zimmerman is laughing at me. “The swan queen? You’ve stopped the artistic director of Nova Ballet Theatre to declare yourself as the lead for Swan Lake?”
Well, when he says it like that, it sounds laughable. But even with the disdain dripping from his words, I stand tall. It took me three hours to get to this audition. Three. The man sitting next to me on the bus had a cold that I’m sure I caught when he sneezed on me. As if on cue, a chill runs down my spine, though that might be the product of Zimmerman’s icy gaze.
“Yes,” I squeak. I hope my posture is doing enough for my confidence, because my expression has dropped into the depths of hell.
He chuckles. “When I start taking orders from nobodies on the street, I’ll let you know. But thanks for the laugh. I really needed that today.”
Zimmerman answers his ringing phone, dismissing me as he mutters something about never holding auditions in the crack of Ontario. Huntsville was the only city with an open audition because auditions in Toronto are invite-only, so I arrived two hours prior but had to wait in the line that wrapped around the building. By the time I made it to the door, they ended auditions early. They didn’t bother offering the rest of us another audition time.
Irritation flares in my gut as I watch his retreating figure. His bald head and straight-set shoulders burn into my memory. At least I’ll have a new silhouette for my sleep paralysis demon.
A few passersby give me pitying looks that only make my plight worse. It’s the same look I got inside from the director’s assistant.
Nothing seemed to convince her to let me audition, not even the recounting of my dreadful commute and definitely not my childhood story about my love for ballet. It’s the story that got me booked in a winter showcase last year, and I hoped it would work again. Except that showcase was performed at high schools and colleges. It wasn’t exactly a grand production.
“Excuse me.” A voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn to a woman dressed in a blazer and a pencil skirt waving me down. “I think you dropped this,” she says, holding a single sheet of paper out for me.
I take the paper from her and see my name in familiar bold letters at the top. “This is my résumé. The assistant said I could leave it at the front desk.”
There it is again, that pitying look. “I found it on the floor by the recycling bin,” she informs.
Her words strike like a razor blade to the heart. A half whimper, half groan escapes me, and I plaster on a smile to distract her from how hard I clutch my résumé.
“You know,” she whispers, cautiously eyeing our surroundings. “The theater holds these auditions as a formality. Most ballerinas they’ve hired this season are ones who have major social media followings.”
My mouth parts in shock. They’re selecting dancers based on popularity? How is that ethical?
“You seem like a determined dancer, so I wanted to give you a heads-up,” she says before rushing inside.
Her heads-up only manages to heighten the doomed feeling in my gut. My ninety-three followers are chump change. If being hired is based on popularity, they’ll never consider me for the part. Despair clings to me as I toss my crumpled résumé in the trash and head to the train station, holding back a wave of tears I’ll be sure to release during my shower tonight. It isn’t until my phone rings that I shake off my depressing thoughts.