Spiral (Off the Ice, #2) (92)

I pull him into a hug and wrap my arms tightly around his waist. Elias has been beating himself up over giving his birth dad money behind his parents’ back, so this decision has to give him some relief. But deep down, I can tell he’s been worried over what might come next.

“Whatever happens, I’m proud of you.”

He hugs me back before he whispers, “We can’t stand here forever, Sage.”

“I’m nervous,” I admit.

Elias pulls away, reaching for his wallet. My curiosity mounts as he extracts a small square from one of its pockets. He flips it over, revealing a Polaroid. Eight-year-old Sage wearing a bright smile and a blue tutu at her first recital.

“That’s mine,” I say, reaching for it, but he snatches it away.

“Mine now.” A soft smile plays on his lips as he looks down at the picture. “The first time I saw this at the studio, all I could think about was how determined you are. You put your everything into this, and now you have exactly what this eight-year-old girl dreamed of.”

“But what if—”

“No ifs. You promised her the world. Now, go make sure she gets it.”

With my facade of confidence—one that ballerinas have ingrained in them—and Elias’s words keeping me afloat, I walk into the building. The walls are covered in pictures of famous ballerinas and awards. In the distance, there’s a hushed whisper of anticipation as other dancers head inside. I follow the signs, and the elevator takes me up to the highest floor. The doors open, and the familiar scents of rosin and hardwood fill my nose.

When I step into the studio, it’s everything I imagined. Soft, gentle light fills the space, dousing the polished wooden floors and mirrored walls in a warm glow. Ballet barres line the perimeter, and speakers are fitted into the walls. The air hums with excited energy as dancers flit around the room, and I feel a sudden rush of belonging.

When our choreographer, Adrien Kane, introduces himself to the room, everyone quiets.

“Good morning, company. Let’s get started.”

We’re immediately told to line up by character, and of course with my name being first on the call sheet, I stand first. All eyes lock on me, and a lash of insecurity bites at me.

It doesn’t budge when we move on to the rest of the cast. Adam, who will play Prince Siegfried, is my scene partner. He’s not towering over me; he’s probably just shy of six feet with a lean figure. His black hair and symmetrical features make him appear every bit a prince.

He only gives me a nod in acknowledgment. I chalk up his standoffishness to nerves, maybe the same ones winding through my gut. My alternate is Ashley. Her piercing blue eyes lock on mine like a predator to prey. There’s an unsettling coldness in her gaze that trickles down my spine. I push the feeling aside. She’ll have to pry this role from my cold, dead hands.

Playing Rothbart is Jason, who welcomes me with a crushing embrace. The heaviness coiling my lungs eases a little. “No one expected a newbie to bag the principal role,” Jason says.

“I guess I got lucky,” I say.

He chuckles. “Zimmerman doesn’t do luck, and we all heard about your audition. That kind of reaction from the three of them is almost unheard of.”

The words are so matter-of-fact that I don’t bother thanking him. For the first time, I actually agree that I earned this.

“But watch out for those two,” Jason whispers, nodding to Adam and Ashley, who are tucked away to the side. They’re engaged in conversation, but even as they talk, their eyes dart around the room in assessment. “They’re envy personified, and no one wants that around.”

I pry my eyes away from them. “Envious of who?”

“You.”

His words reveal the target on my back that I was too blind to notice.

“She’s my alternate. She has to be talented to score that role,” I offer.

“She is. But she’s also the daughter of a trustee.”

In an instant, I sense the role of the swan queen slipping from my grasp. Yet, before I can dwell on the weight of that realization, we’re thrust into a test rehearsal of the pas de deux between Adam and me.

As Adam lifts me according to the choreographer’s directions, his hands are steady. I’m relieved to not be paired with someone who struggles to lift me. It’s never fun to have a partner who complains about your weight or height—I’ve experienced both.

We stumble through the routine, making more mistakes than I’d care to admit. I assume we’ll have ample time to iron out the performance, but my hope dwindles when Zimmerman enters. His presence throws me off-balance. A whispered exchange between Adrien and him leaves me with a sinking feeling, and when Zimmerman exits, disappointment gnaws at me.

I can’t shake that feeling, and nerves make me cling to the sidelines, hesitant to fully dive in and embody my role. Adrien isn’t happy with the progress of the performance. After our third hour, he gives us a fifteen-minute break.

Jason catches me in the corridor. “Don’t focus on the end goal right now. All that matters is that you’re improving. You’re good. Don’t doubt it.”

“You’re awfully nice for someone who just met me.”

He shrugs. “Why waste time? We’re going to be seeing each other’s faces all year.”

Despite his reassuring words, a lingering sense of dread clings to me like a shadow, and sticks around until the end of our first rehearsal.