“You’re doing this yourself.”
“Yes.”
She nods, then glances at the folded paper in my grip. “I got you this appointment, and I didn’t realize your situation with your mother. Let me take care of this one. I can’t do the rest—I have limited funding for the ballet—but this? For you? No question.”
She holds out her hand for the bill.
I stare at her. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. I want you to dance again, Violet. I think it would be a damn shame if the world never saw you on a stage again. Think about telling your mother about the water therapy. Get the nerve pain under control. I’m sure some of it would be covered by her insurance.”
An ache fills my chest. So tight, I don’t know what to say for a long moment. But slowly, I extend the paper toward her. She takes it, reads the total, and nods to herself. She stashes it in her cupholder.
“Promise me one more thing.” She grins. “When you’re back on your feet, call me.”
I nod and climb out of the car in front of the hotel. I lean down once I’m out and meet her gaze. “Thank you for everything.”
She frowns. “This feels like a goodbye.”
“It is for the next six weeks. Maybe more. Who knows if I’ll be good enough by then. Maybe I’ll need another six, or eight, or twelve to get back in dancing shape.”
Bitter. I’m so fucking bitter, I taste it on my tongue like ash.
“We’ll get you there,” she says.
I close her door and turn away. The damn lump is back in my throat, cutting off my words, and the backs of my eyes burn. I make it into the hotel, get my key card after giving the receptionist my name, and trudge upstairs.
The game started fifteen minutes ago, which means I should be alone. Thankfully. I swipe the card and trudge inside. The room is nicer than I thought it would be. Two queen beds, the drapes pulled back to reveal a beautiful view of the ski mountain.
I text Willow to let her know I’m back and contemplating crashing.
Willow
There’s a sky bridge on the third floor that will take you to the stadium. Paris is taking attendance and has already asked where you are.
I groan and turn right back around.
Five minutes later, I’m in the stadium. Luckily, Willow waits for me right on the other side of the booths, and she hands the guy my ticket. I smile at her as he allows me through.
“How was it?” she asks. “Did he tell you anything good?”
My smile wobbles. I don’t know whether to feel hopeful or defeated. Right now, the two emotions are warring in my head—and defeat is winning.
“Oh, no.” She stops us. “Do you need a hug? Or a distraction? Or—”
“Distraction,” I manage. “Definitely a distraction.”
She nods. “Okay, well, let’s go watch the Hawks kick some Knights’ ass, right?” She lets out a loud whoop, drawing some stares.
The Knights are red and white, and the attendees all wear those colors. We work our way around the outside of the stadium, passing kiosks selling popcorn, beer, ice cream.
“Wow,” I mutter. “We got the good view in our room, huh?”
She shakes her head. “This town is crazy for hockey.”
I don’t bother to acknowledge that Crown Point is, too. We just hide our crazy a little better.
We find our seats, and I catch Paris rotating back to count heads. I wiggle my fingers in her direction, and she scowls.
“She takes her job seriously, huh?”
Willow snickers. “The girls have been pushing back on her as dance captain, so she’s gotta get her kicks somewhere.”
“How is that anyway?”
“Dance?” She seems taken aback. We’ve been going by the policy of let’s just not talk about it. In the beginning, I wanted to know everything. The new routines, the new people. Even though I wasn’t in Crown Point, I felt like I had to keep being a part of it. And then, further into my recovery, I realized that things weren’t going my way.
Obviously, I have no problem continuing my friendship with half the girls on the team. When you’re in it, you eat and breathe and sleep dance team. They’re my circle of friends. And somehow, they’ve managed to make me feel like the same girl who showed up to practice with them every day without ever talking about it.
Maybe they conferred with Willow before I came back. My best friend is astute and a good judge of character—unless a guy is involved—so she probably would’ve been able to toss anyone negative out.
“There you are,” Amanda greets me. “You haven’t missed much. Just a lot of blustering.”
Six rows down, the hockey players whizz past our seats. I try to spot Greyson, but I don’t see him immediately. It takes a minute for me to orient myself with their royal-blue jerseys, striped with silver, versus the mostly white jerseys of the Knights, accented with red lettering. At home games, the Hawks wear their light-colored uniforms.
Miles is in the net. Steele and Jacob skate in front of him, coming out to defend against the Knights’ offensive line. One of their players has the puck, and he speeds toward our side. Jacob intercepts him, and the two collide. They both go down.
A whistle blows.
Immediately, the Knights player hops up. He seems steaming mad, his teeth gritted, and he shoves Jacob. Our defenseman slides backward, then narrows his eyes and rushes forward. Jacob grabs the Knight by the front of his jersey and yanks his helmet off—and uses it to smash the guy in the face.
I lean forward in my seat. Chaos breaks out.
I catch a glimpse of the blue jersey with Devereux on the back rushing into the fray.
The refs blast their whistles and dive into the middle of the fight. After a few painstaking seconds, the players are all separated. Jacob lost his helmet, too, and grins at the Knights with a bloody smile.
“Oh, shit,” Jess mumbles.
The referee waves his hand, sending everyone to their benches. He skates to the center of the rink to confer with the others, and finally announce that the Hawks will be penalized. A two-minute power play for the Knights.
There are screams and chants from the crowd—except our section. Even I’m outraged enough to know that we didn’t start that fight. We’re just being penalized for finishing it.
Greyson skates by the glass, his gaze searching the crowd. I don’t know if he finds me, if he’s even looking for me, before he’s back at the center line.
Knox and a Knight square off. Jacob is noticeably absent, stuck in the penalty box for the duration of the power play—or until the Knights score.
I suck my lower lip between my teeth. I suck at watching hockey, mainly because the rules are foggy. It’s exciting, sure, and I like actively watching it. But understanding it is the main struggle.
I’m stuck wondering if Greyson was involved. Did he land a hit? Did he get hit?
The ref drops the puck and skates out of the way as the Knight center takes control. His team quickly sweeps forward, taking advantage of the shortened defense. Steele covers the best he can, shooting it out of range before another Knight wing brings it back.
Within a minute, they score.
The crowd erupts.
The white-and-red players do a mini victory lap, clapping each other on the backs and smiling broadly behind their masks. Greyson skates to the bench and takes a seat. I watch him across the rink as he picks up a water bottle and sends a stream of liquid into his open mouth.