Spiral (Off the Ice, #2) (8)

My parents have been great about not looking at the tabloids, so I don’t worry about them seeing anything nefarious. When the very first defamatory headlines surfaced, they called me immediately, and I had to explain it was the media trying to sensationalize. That was an awkward phone call, but better than having them believe that I’ve hooked up with half of Toronto in the few weeks that I’ve been here.

When another text comes through, it’s from Aiden, telling me it’s time to bail. I don’t waste another second and head straight for the doors.





FOUR


SAGE




“FIVE MINUTES.” OUR stagehand’s shrill voice catches my attention just as the lights power on one at a time. The glare forces me to squint as the bright lights attack my exhausted eyes and rebooting brain. The rest of the dancers trickle onto the stage for the first act.

Cursing under my breath, I take a deep inhale and redo the satin ribbons on my pointe shoes for a third time. The mundane task is second nature at this point, almost automatic, but today, my mind has been drifting off. Specifically, to the number that sits in my phone waiting for me to call it.

Elias Westbrook might be the first guy I haven’t been able to break down in my head, and that fact is practically gnawing at me. So far, I’ve decided he’s the slightly obsessive-compulsive type, the kind that keeps the house tidy and has a specific place for everything. Even for those little plastic bread tags that keep the loaves fresh. He probably has a strict schedule he never deviates from and eats the same thing every day. Like oatmeal.

But there’s a look to him that tells me if I had known him at another point in his life, my assessment would be proven incorrect. That’s where I hit a brick wall in my slightly psychotic hyper-analysis, and now there’s a very curious part of me that wants to pry until I uncover all his secrets.

Maybe I have a proclivity for wanting to peel back the layers of people I find intriguing. It’s partly due to the plethora of my own problems. Daddy issues? Mommy issues? Eldest daughter issues? Take your pick.

It’s been two days since the fundraiser, and the rookie’s been at the forefront of my brain. Even though I learned my lesson about athletes when I dated Owen Hart.

Owen and I met when I was a freshman and dated until my senior year. When I was studying at Seneca College in Toronto, he got called to play hockey for the developmental team of the Vancouver Vulture’s. The last half of our underwhelming relationship was long distance.

Owen wanted me to follow him to Vancouver, but I would never move away from Sean. I chose to study at a cheap local college after paying for Sean’s first year at York Prep. When my uncle found out I got into the University of Toronto, he offered to pay for both our educations. I couldn’t let him pay for me. However, even my stubbornness wouldn’t let me turn down his offer to help Sean. In turn, my uncle’s help allowed me to stay in the dingy college dorms instead of scraping my last penny to afford off-campus housing.

That last year of my relationship with Owen was my breaking point, because with the long distance he became overbearing and controlling. He didn’t like how much time I dedicated to ballet or to Sean. At the same time, Owen felt he was perfectly reasonable in his pursuit of hockey, despite his failure to get called up. He’s the reason I didn’t make friends in college during our on-and-off relationship. Even my roommate requested a dorm transfer after hearing us fight on the phone every night.

For some, the breakup would be fresh, considering it happened just a few months ago, but every cell in my body wants to move on. I wouldn’t say I’m actively going through a breakup, but maybe a therapist would debunk that and tell me crying in my rusty shower every week isn’t a coping strategy. But I’m not crying over him.

So, going on a date with someone who, quite frankly, is the hottest guy I’ve ever had in my phone sounds like a solid idea to me.

“Hustle, Beaumont,” the director urges.

I snap out of my reverie, and with my pointe shoes on right, I fall into line with the rest of the dancers. As a soloist, I’ve taken on any and every role to remain an active ballerina. So, when my old ballet teacher invited me in for a guest spot as Titania in their company’s annual A Midsummer Night’s Dream showcase, I couldn’t refuse. Today is the first day of the school shows that we use as practice performances before the big night. It’s nothing fancy, and I don’t get paid, but it helps keep me motivated.

Fixing my gaze ahead, I await my cue as two of the principal dancers acting as Hermia and Lysander complete their sequence, and that’s when I see him.

Marcus Smith-Beaumont sits in the crowd, watching the performance with a tender smile, a prideful gleam in his eyes that makes me fight the burning sensation in my own.

The guest spot of Titania, the queen of the fairies, is ethereal and solely aided by the play’s use of a love potion to entangle her in a spell where she falls in love with Bottom, a donkey-headed character. Our pas de deux is romantic, despite the donkey costume he’s wearing that garners laughs from the audience. My chest heaves as we make our last moves in the ensemble dance and the act loops to its end, until the curtains close.

I watch the rest of the performance on the backstage monitor, itching to take off my uncomfortable outfit that somehow makes my headache worse. When one of the dancers offers me an ibuprofen, I take it. The final act finishes, so we all head back to the stage for our bows.