Pointe, Shoots, and Scores (Northwest Ice Division #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Winnipeg, Manitoba

June

W ords were sly things. So often meaningless and mundane, a day could be filled with innocuous words, then bam . Four little words could change her whole world.

“You cannot keep going.”

Bailey Donovan stared at the bank manager, struggling to comprehend. “What do you mean? My classes are full, and I have waiting lists, and I’m getting good views on my YouTube channel.” And at just over seven hundred subscribers, she was getting closer to the earning mark.

Mr. Mitsom sighed, and she knew it was way worse than she’d dared imagine. “You don’t earn enough money, Bailey. Your classes might be full, but you’re charging too little.”

“But you know I wanted to keep the dance classes affordable and accessible to all. That was always part of the plan.” Ever since she’d been forced to pivot to a new dream. Her grandmother had understood, even if others, like her dad, had always questioned why she’d do such a thing. “I just don’t understand. I thought we were doing okay.”

Mr. Mitsom tapped the papers on his desk. “The accounting seems up to date. But with the refurbishments you’ve done, it looks like you’ve eaten into your safety net. And considering your loan is with this bank, I need to advise that you consider alternative sources of revenue immediately.”

“But I’ve applied for every grant there is.”

His lips rolled in, and he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I know this is important to you.”

Try everything to her. No. She couldn’t have failed. She refused to believe it. Was her sister-in-law right in claiming she’d wasted her grandmother’s money?

“We need to see substantial increases in your repayments, otherwise we will need to call in our loan in two months.”

“Two months? But it’s summer, and class numbers always take a hit when school is out.”

“I’m sorry. But that’s the way it is.”

No. She couldn’t lose her dream. Not again. Losing her career a second time was unthinkable, especially when everything that had been said suggested it was her own mismanagement that had killed things this time, and not just her broken body.

She peeked up at him, catching a trace of smugness in the pity-smile he offered her, something that drew memories of previous ballet masters who used to regard her with that same sneer hidden behind a mask of caring. Something that drew fresh determination to prove him wrong.

She rose, eyed him firmly. She might look delicate, but there was no need to make the man think she was soft. Only a fool underestimated ballet dancers, who were some of the toughest athletes out there. “You’ll have your money in two months, then.”

“I hope so. For your sake.”

Challenge accepted.

She offered a nod, then left, before the shuddering inside made its way to her limbs. She opened the brass-handled glass door and escaped to the pavement and the rush of cars.

Bright sunshine beat down on her as she walked the blocks back to the studio, her black leather bag bouncing on her hip. Maybe she should’ve shown she meant business and dressed in a suit and not, well, in a floaty floral dress. Maybe she should’ve followed other people’s advice instead of her heart and what she’d thought was a God-given inclination to keep her fees low and classes open to all, regardless of their background or body shape. The temptation grew to wonder about the what-ifs: what would’ve happened if she’d never left professional ballet? Would she be living out her dreams, dancing on stages across the world, instead of now living her second-best life, with her shadowy one-day hopes forced into substance and airtime? No. She couldn’t afford to indulge in thoughts like that. Pity parties only led to the dark vortex of despair, and she had no time for that. Not anymore.

“Lord, what do I do?”

Her thoughts twisted and turned, never landing solidly enough to give answer. She could work more shifts at the Coffee Haus. She could shut up shop. She could end the lease and take a cheaper place in the suburbs. She could increase her fees. But increasing fees and moving locations wouldn’t help some of the students who lived nearer the studio, whose parents already struggled. At the moment, with her apartment within walking distance of both the studio and coffee shop, she barely needed her car. Maybe she could sell it…

Her insides knotted with an instant protest. Sell her grandmother’s car? Mom would have a fit. Her sister-in-law would have even more reason to hate her. No, for all kinds of reasons—not least the fact she loved the vintage vibes of the older-make Mercedes—she wouldn’t do that.

A weighty breath escaped, her shoulders slumping in a posture she’d instantly take exception to should one of her students do it. But right now she barely could stand upright. What should she do?

The pale pink sign of the Donovan Dance Studio slowed her steps. It was hard to believe she and Poppy James had started this from scratch just four years ago, before Poppy had returned to Calgary last year, when the business couldn’t quite support them both. Was Mr. Mitsom right? Had this been a giant mistake? Poppy’s absence meant Bailey had needed to drop classes, and not taking much of a wage herself meant she had been living on her savings, meager as they were. Yet having another teacher meant they could offer more classes again, and increase revenue that way. But she couldn’t ask Poppy to return. Could she?

She opened the door, turned on the lights, and made her way into the studio. The long, mirrored room with wooden barre was as neat as ever, a faint scent of disinfectant hanging in the air. Little kids were notorious for sharing germs, which was one of the reasons she was fanatical about cleaning, and didn’t babysit these days. After battling too many colds, she’d suffered pneumonia when her body couldn’t keep fighting it anymore, the week off work something a sole business owner could ill afford. Poppy had been here then, which meant she’d covered Bailey’s classes. And while Bailey loved kids, and babysitting could lead to good money, illness wasn’t something she could risk again. Especially when she now needed to be focused and earning as much as she could. Heaviness propelled her to slump over, her spine stretching as she touched the floor and closed her eyes.

What should she do? Her days were already filled with everything from her personal passion, classical ballet, to tap, modern, jazz, even ballroom. She ran classes for all ages, from tiny tots to seniors, who ranged from those needing refresher tips on how to waltz to more basic movements. She might’ve once felt forced into this career, but now felt like it was her calling. She loved to teach, and showing the least confident or coordinated person how to find and move to the rhythms of music was always a joy. But was offering more classes the answer?

She moved into a side stretch. Maybe she should just do more shifts at the coffee shop. She had less classes over summer. She could possibly combine a few, swap some students around to allow more time to earn. Or did she need to get more creative with how she advertised and marketed the studio? Maybe she could ask Poppy, whose brother Franklin James was a famous NHL player, or so Bailey’s brother said. She didn’t follow hockey—such a rough, uncouth sport—but Poppy had been excited about Franklin’s recent wedding to a sports broadcaster. Surely his new wife Hannah would know a thing or two about how to garner interest.

Her eyes opened, her nose wrinkling. But she’d never liked exploiting connections to push ahead. Using people wasn’t her scene. Maybe she was too soft to run a business, but there had to be another way rather than piggybacking on someone else’s success. But what was it? What could she do?

The questions kept circling, pecking at her like seagulls after crumbs, like she remembered when she’d danced in England and had visited Brighton’s seashore. The cheeky birds had crept closer, wanting a sample of her hot chips and mushy peas, getting closer and closer until Mark, her English ballet friend, had chased them away with a series of grand jetés. Dance had an answer to everything. Which reminded her…

She moved to switch on the speakers, and pressed play on her phone’s playlist. The quiet oboe of Swan Lake filled the space, crowding out the fears as she closed her eyes, swaying, then stepping into an arabesque, elevating her right leg behind in derrière.

Dance—and God—had always combined to calm her soul. She figured dance, like any of the creative arts, was an expression that the Creator God fully understood, as much as people who made music or poetry or painted. Dance was an expression of the soul.

She spun her way across the room in manèges, a series of pirouettes that brought release and a smile, and reminded her that just as she’d relearned these movements and could now trust her body to do manèges, so she could trust God for her future. It was just a matter of pausing, waiting, sensing what God wanted her to do.

The music ended, the room filling with silence again. She drew in a deep breath, then slowly released, pausing, stilling her heart to listen.

“Lord, I need a miracle. What do You think I should do?”

* * *

Lord, what should I do?

On the heels of Luc’s prayer, his heart filled with peace.

It was an easy yes. This was something he’d barely dared dream about. But first, he had to make sure he was actually awake and that this wasn’t just a dream. “Are you sure?”

Winnipeg’s coach and general manager nodded. “We’ve been watching you for a long time now, Luc, and been impressed by the way you’ve really stepped up in recent years. And now with Linzey’s retirement, it seems the right time to reward someone who’s been a part of the organization for these many years and helped carry the team, and been a face for the franchise in recent times.”

“You really want me to be the captain?”

More nods. “It seems most fitting that it falls on you.”

Wow. Luc Blanchard leaned back in his chair, excitement popping in his veins like microwaved popcorn. His parents would be so proud. The other guys too. He’d never dared imagine that his love for the game would result in this huge honor. Captain of a Canadian pro hockey team? If he’d been a weaker dude, he might’ve shed a tear. Instead he grinned and nodded. “I don’t really know what to say, except thank you. And I’m really honored to have this opportunity.”

Coach Frantzen smiled. “I’m sure you’ll be a popular choice with the guys.”

Luc exhaled. He sure hoped so. Not everyone was a fan of his—apparently his Christian values were a little extreme, according to some, like ex-teammate Sean Hart, who’d been one of the pros caught up in a betting scandal last year and been booted out of the NHL. Not that he cared. Speaking up and being vocal about what was right, as well as being someone who occasionally dropped the gloves to stand up for his teammates, was likely what had helped tip him over the captain-worthy line as far as the coach was concerned.

“There’s just one thing.” The GM glanced at Coach Frantzen who nodded.

Okay…

“We’d like to keep this on the down low for the moment, then make an announcement at training camp.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“And while most locals know who you are, your name isn’t as widely known across the NHL as some.”

Luc placed both palms up. “Hey, I know I’m no Brent Karlsson or Zac Parotti.” He didn’t have the national profile or endorsements those two did.

“We don’t need you to be a Karlsson or a Parotti. You being a Luc Blanchard is fine with us. But we figured there was room to grow your profile a little.”

“Sure. Whatever you like. I’m your man.”

Coach Frantzen chuckled. “Well, I sure hope you’re going to be so agreeable when you hear this.”

“If it’s visiting more hospitals or media opps, I’m in. You know I love doing that kind of thing.”

“We do, hence why we’ve tapped you for this.” Another glance passed between Coach and the GM.

Uh oh. But he’d made a habit of speaking before letting fear sneak in, and that wasn’t about to change now. “So what is it? Like I said, I’m happy to do whatever it takes.”

“Your media profile needs lifting.”

“You want me posting on Instagram and TikTok?” He hoped his face hadn’t given away his dismay. “I think it’s only fair that you know I’ve never been real great at that kind of thing.”

“Oh, we know.” The GM glanced at the papers on the desk, and tapped one. “Our social media team have sent through your numbers, and there’s definitely room to improve.”

He winced internally. He hadn’t posted on Instagram in over a year. “Um, well, I’m happy to do whatever it takes to see that improve. But hey, if we’re talking TikTok, I gotta admit I’m not on it. And anyway, I’m not great at dancing or any of that kind of stuff.”

The GM’s eyes gleamed. “But if you were asked to?”

“To dance?” His nose wrinkled, as his words from Franklin and Hannah’s recent wedding wiggled back to memory. “I really feel like that’s a sight better left unseen.”

Coach grinned.

No. They didn’t want him to dance. Did they? “Look, I really hope being captain isn’t dependent on this, because I am terrible. I have two left feet. And I’m sorry, but I think everyone who’s trying to look cool by doing those dumb dance moves just because everyone else is doing it, well, I think that looks cheesy and unprofessional.”

The GM laughed.

Luc’s stomach fell. Man. He really should’ve checked into this. Was the GM a secret TikTok star or something? “Sir, I’m sorry if that sounds offensive or something, but—”

“One of the things we like about you, Luc, is that you say what you think. But we want you to hear us out for a moment longer. And don’t worry, we don’t need you dancing on TikTok or anything quite like that.”

Phew. He wiped his brow in an exaggerated movement. “For a minute there I thought you were wanting me to dance, and…”

His words faded as both men crossed their arms, their faces blanking. Years of working with both men told him this was news he really didn’t want to hear.

The GM cleared his throat. “How’s your mom’s health these days?”

“Mom?” He blinked at the sudden change of topic. “Um, she’s good. Been in remission for four years now. Thanks for asking.”

“We know you’ve been a big supporter of charities that fight cancer, and we wanted to present another opportunity for you.”

“Sure, I’m in. What is it?” Thank goodness it wouldn’t involve dancing. He wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy.

The GM smiled. “We’ve had a television show reach out and offer fifty thousand dollars as the initial sign-up fee, plus another twenty-five grand to the charity of the person’s choice, with another twenty-five if they reach the final.”

“A TV show?” His gut moved uneasily. “What kind of TV show?”

They exchanged another glance between them. “A, er, celebrity-type show.”

“And I’m guessing you’re wanting me to be the celebrity?”

They nodded.

His nose wrinkled. “You mean a reality show?” More nods. “What type of reality show?”

Coach Frantzen’s teeth glinted as he smiled. “Before you say no, just remember, that’s potentially fifty K that could go to a good cause. Plus, it would definitely help boost your profile and name recognition. Show that you’re a little more nuanced than just a skilled truck on skates.”

Nuanced? He wasn’t exactly sure he knew what that meant, but figured that didn’t matter so much as the more important thing that had crystallized in his brain. “What type of reality show?” Luc repeated.

“One your mom would probably approve of,” Coach Frantzen said.

Uh-oh. “We’re not talking cooking, are we? I’m not great at that. I mean, I love to eat, but I really only cook basic stuff.”

“Yeah, it’s not cooking.” The GM cleared his throat. “It’s called Dance Off Canada .”

Luc closed his eyes, fighting the temptation to swear. If he wasn’t trying to shine a light for Jesus he probably would’ve dropped a word others often used in the locker room after a loss. “Are you kidding?”

“Nope.”

“Come on, just think about it as a good cause, good promotion, and a great opportunity to learn a new skill,” Coach Frantzen said. “What do we like to say around here about great opportunities?”

“Great moments are born from great opportunities,” he mumbled. How many times had those words tumbled from his own mouth? “I just don’t think this’ll result in any great moments. It’ll only show everyone how bad I am.”

“I seem to remember a few quotes about that too. Something Eric Lindros once said about how ‘it’s not necessarily the amount of time you spend at practice that counts’…”

“‘It’s what you put into the practice’.” Man. They really weren’t letting him off easily. “But if I fail and I’m a laughingstock, then the other teams will treat me like a joke.”

“You don’t have to do it. But it is for a good cause. We got the phone call today, and they’re eager to put a new celeb into place as soon as possible.”

“I’m not even that much of a celebrity.”

“Something that can change after national TV exposure.”

Dear God, no. Lord? You’re not really feeling this, are You? Please say no …

But the peace from earlier seemed to have fled, which led him to suspect that maybe God had something up His heavenly sleeve.

“Aren’t you worried about my conditioning?” he asked Coach Frantzen.

“Look, can I be frank? If you’re as bad as you think you are, you won’t be there for long. Just long enough to get your name out there, and to get twenty-five grand for your charity.”

“I need to think about this, talk to my agent.” He sighed. “How long until you need an answer?”

“Tomorrow.”

Another word begged to tumble from his mouth. “You’re kidding.”

The GM shook his head. “They’ve already started filming promotional material. They’d need you later this week.”

“Where?”

“Toronto.”

“No way. I can’t drop everything.”

“Do you have plans?”

Well, no. Now he’d gotten his trip to his MPFG sponsor kids in the Philippines and Franklin’s wedding out of the way, summer had stretched before him, blissfully empty. He swallowed. “Are you saying I’d have to move there?”

The GM shook his head. “That’s the best part. Normally they’d be filming all of it in Toronto, but I checked, and they can actually film most of your rehearsals here in Winnipeg.”

“Why?”

The GM shrugged. “With the Royal Winnipeg Ballet based here apparently it’s known as a dance town.”

Huh. First time he’d heard the Peg called that.

“Which is why it could work well for you. You don’t need to fly to TO except for the weekend filming, and if you’re as bad as you think, it doesn’t sound like you’d have to do that for long.”

“Man.”

“Is it doable?” the GM asked.

Luc’s nose wrinkled. “It’s doable, but not wantable,” he admitted.

“What if I said the club is prepared to match the charity earnings as incentive?”

That’d be fifty grand to Hockey Fights Cancer or a similar charity. Fifty grand to help those who had helped his mom beat that vile disease, and support those struggling with it, and those looking for a cure. He exhaled. “You really want me to do this?”

“We think it’d be good for your profile, and good to get people thinking about hockey in Winnipeg for a change, instead of associating it with the other major cities.” Like Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver, Calgary, and the big E. “Show them some of your natural charm—”

Luc snorted.

“—and have fun. You could boost your social media numbers at the same time too.”

Or maybe get on some of those platforms, at least. That wasn’t exactly the way to sell it to him. He liked his privacy. Although being captain would mean having to give a lot of that up, anyway. He bit back another sigh.

“Come on. It’s a dancing competition. How hard can it be? And don’t forget, it’s for a good cause. You can always spin it that way if you’re embarrassed about what people might think of you.”

He winced internally. He’d had a lifetime of not bothering about what other people thought. Embarrassment was only another name for fear, after all. He shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”

The GM straightened, his ever-subtle signal for drawing the meeting to a close. “Talk it over, with your agent, your family, and your mom.” He winked. “It could be a lot better than you think.”

Or it could be the worst thing ever.

Lord, this can’t be from You. Help me out. Please!

The guys in both his team and online Bible study crew would never let him live it down. Just like he’d mock the heck out of them if their roles were swapped.

Man. He pitied the poor woman he’d be paired with. If he agreed to do it. But how could he say no?

Lord? Help!