Spiral (Off the Ice, #2) (9)
The director pops her head into my shared dressing room when we’ve finally changed out of our tight costumes. “Get some water, then it’s time for notes.”
By the time I’ve unwrapped my hair, wiped off some of my makeup, and peeled whatever’s left of the gems on my face, I head down to where we get our performance notes.
A lack of musical phrasing, expressions, and coordination seems to be the theme for today’s constructive criticism.
“Sage, I need you to pick an emotion and stick to it. Either hypnotized, infatuated, or playful, it’s your call.” She moves on quickly, and I make a mental correction for next time, already applying the note to what I missed in my performance.
As I shuffle out of the metal doors and into the warm afternoon air, I spot my uncle by his car at the end of the lot. When I reach him, he engulfs me in an enthusiastic hug. It’s moments like this when I don’t ponder an alternate universe where my entire family would be in the audience, cheering me on and waiting with flowers. The reality of their absence is so stark that even conjuring up a fake scenario can’t distract me from it.
The most recent memory that’s been trailing my thoughts every night before I try to sleep is from when I was fourteen. I took a not-so-legal dishwashing job at the local café to help cover my ballet lessons, and I stashed my earnings under my bed. Just when I had saved enough for a new pair of pointe shoes that wouldn’t blister my toes on every plié and a leotard that actually fit my growing body, it all vanished, along with my parents. All that remained was a heavy burden of disappointment pressing down on my chest, and a dusty cardboard box.
“You did amazing. Best I’ve ever seen you,” my uncle says.
“You say that every time.”
He chuckles, shrugging innocently. “There was something different about you this time. It’s like you had something to prove.” His gaze practically lasers right through me.
I shift my focus to rubbing off some of the blue eyeshadow that stains my fingers. To escape the third degree about whether my life is falling apart, I pull out my phone and excuse myself. I don’t know whether I’m prompted by recklessness or impulse, but I dial the number that’s been taunting me all day.
The line rings a few times, and when it’s finally answered, it’s not the rookie’s voice at all.
“Hi, can I speak to Elias?” I say awkwardly into the phone.
“Who is this?” the throaty voice asks, and somehow I feel like I recognize it. He sounds gruff and exhausted, as if he’s been answering calls all day, and I’ve happened to catch him after a particularly bad one.
“Sage,” I inform. “Elias gave me this number at the league’s fundraiser.”
There’s a pause and some shuffling. “Auction Girl. Yeah, this is Mason, his agent.”
I’m hit with a boatload of irritation. He put his agent’s number in my phone? You’ve got to be kidding me. He practically insisted on going on a date, and then he crushed the smidge of hope I had for him.
“Can you give him the phone?” I mutter.
“Nope. He’s training at the arena today. You’re out of luck, kid.” The patronizing response grates against my ears.
“I can send him a text and I can coordinate a call if he wants to correspond.”
“No, don’t worry about it.” When I hang up, there’s a restless fire kindling somewhere under my ribs. I turn to my uncle, who’s standing by his car. “Can I get a ride?”
It’s obvious he finds this surprising, because I always insist on taking the bus. The less I rely on people, the less I’m let down.
“Sure, but I gotta stop by the arena first,” he says quickly.
I smile. “That’s what I was hoping for.”
He drives to the music playing from some old radio station, and pretty soon I can see the blue and white of the arena illuminating the downtown core.
When he pulls into a spot in the underground staff parking, he turns to me. “You can stay here or come up with me.”
“I’ll come up. It’ll be nice to see some of the staff again.” And a certain hockey player.
We take the elevator up and head straight to my uncle’s office. As he’s studying a file, I pretend to look interested in some of the news articles he has framed on his walls. The Thunder’s Stanley Cup wins, Sean’s youth hockey league articles, and my first ballet review. My uncle turns to his computer, so I inch back toward the door.
“The bathroom is around the corner, right?”
He’s not paying attention when he nods, so I slip out of his office and down the hall.
With determination fueling each step, I head toward the arena dressing room where the guys are changing after practice. The halls are deserted, and I don’t encounter any security. I burst through the doors of the locker room. Not even the sight of naked guys, who startle at my sudden arrival, can throw me off.
Only a handful of the players are in here, and I recognize Socket, the goalie, gawking at me. I don’t bother scanning the room further because it’s not difficult to spot my quarry from the overgrown hair at the base of his neck and the unmistakably broad shoulders. He’s too busy rifling through a gym bag to notice me.
“You.” I’m pointing at Elias’s naked back, but when he turns, I’m not prepared for his wet chest. Water droplets skid down his smooth skin, and in a sort of trance, I watch their descent. They disappear past his happy trail, soaking into the towel he has wrapped around his waist.