Spiral (Off the Ice, #2) (39)
I clink my nonalcoholic beer with his bottle, and he takes a swig before walking off to sing along to the song playing over the speakers. Sitting back in my chair, we’re all laughing when a few others join the off-key chorus. And even as I’m sitting there having a good time, my phone feels heavy in my pocket, so I pull it out and send a text.
SAGE
Elias: How much longer before I can bail?
Sage: You’re ridiculous.
Elias: I’m serious.
Sage: You’re having fun, I know it. Stop texting me and socialize.
Elias: Fine, but at least tell me you’re having fun too.
Texting her turns into my own personal torture because she sends me a picture. Summer’s in the background with a face mask, and Sage beams brightly. She has a towel on her head and those eye patches with tiny gold stars under her eyes. I’m assuming it’s a self-care night because she’s got a foot up on the couch with the foam separators and a bottle of nail polish, and she’s wearing only a white T-shirt. She looks stunning, and I have half a mind to ditch the team plane and take a red-eye back home just to watch her do something as mundane as painting her toes.
Elias: Jesus. I’m in public, Beaumont.
Sage: Huh? I’m just wearing a baggy T?shirt.
Elias: And you wear the hell out of my T?shirts.
The text bubbles pop up twice before finally disappearing. I’m still stuck in our texts, staring at the picture of her for an unhealthy amount of time. When I scroll, I notice the one she sent the other day for me to post with the generic caption. Instead of using the picture she sent of us leaving the Pint from a few weeks ago, I find another one that makes me smile. I open the app and post the picture. Shoving my phone back in my pocket, I turn my attention back to the guys and try to focus on something other than her for once.
SEVENTEEN
SAGE
WHEN PERFORMANCE DAY rolls around, the preshow jitters are running rampant.
Elias got in early this morning, and I only knew that because my insomnia was in full force. The latest video I posted online was liked by all types of accounts, two of them being the NHL and Toronto Thunder page. But the one that had my hands clammy was a like from the official NBT page after multiple people tagged them in the comments. I’ve made it clear that my goal is to dance for the company, and now that I know they’re aware of my existence, I’m terrified.
But my thoughts are divided between the possibility of fulfilling my dream and the picture Elias posted last night.
Yesterday, Summer and I were having a self-care night and watching a Turkish drama she insisted I would love. She was right, because I was glued to the TV by the second episode. It was something I’d never done with someone else before, and it felt nice. Relaxing, even.
When I told her about my performance next week, she was willing to delay her flight back to Dalton to attend. Obviously, I didn’t let her do that, but the thought swelled my heart.
Then, as she was showing me embarrassing videos of their friends in college, she gasped. Elias had posted the picture of him and me with the star-infused under-eye masks, the one I took the first night he came over. Our heads are right next to each other, and he’s staring at me while I’m smiling. He captioned it the best part of my day.
I had a physical reaction to seeing those six words under a picture of us posted by his own volition. Not even because they led to my followers ascending into the five-digit category, but because I felt hot, my hands got sweaty, and I had to continuously remind myself that it was fake. Summer’s teasing didn’t help the heat burning my cheeks.
This morning, Elias was sound asleep, so I slipped out to head straight to the studio for a quick practice session. Now, the organized chaos backstage in the auditorium of Rosedale High School gets my adrenaline pumping.
I sent the address to my uncle, and I hesitated, then deleted the same text I was about to send Elias. He’s exhausted from his away game, that much was clear from him sleeping in, and I’m sure he only said he’d attend to be nice. He’s doing more than enough by posting me.
My dress feels tight, and I hope it’s tight because of my nerves and not because I’ve gone up a size. I push the automatic thought away. I don’t think like that anymore. But it only took a few bad ballet directors during my teenage years to make those thoughts run constant. It’s been hard keeping them out, but I try. I don’t give myself food restrictions or focus on a certain size.
I wear my clothes, my clothes don’t wear me.
When there’s a knock on my dressing room door—which doubles as the janitor’s storage closet—I finish sticking a final gem on the corner of my eye and open the door. I’m expecting to see our stage manager or the dancer I’m sharing the small room with, but it’s Elias.
My breath whooshes out of me, and I stare at him, completely stunned. He’s in dark jeans and a black T-shirt under a thin midnight blue jacket. The cotton fabric of the shirt underneath stretches across his chest, and I secretly wish it would spontaneously tear off. His body crowds the threshold, and he holds a bouquet of pink and white peonies.
“You’re here,” I say breathlessly. His eyes roam the green costume and the delicate chiffon with silver embroidery. I’m wearing a jewel-encrusted crown and a moonstone necklace to emulate Titania, the fairy queen.