12. Bracing for Failure #2
“Money, Eleanor,” Gabriel replies dryly. “Lots and lots of it for one lucky girl.”
Dillon grimaces. “Seriously? Another setup?”
Gabriel rubs his face like he’s trying to erase the entire situation. “Yep. Dad wants to pass off his business. He won’t even consider Henry since he went off and married Ashlynn. August is still too young… It’s a circus over there.”
“I’m sorry, man. You know you’re more than welcome to stay with me for a while if you need to,” Dillon offers gently.
The tension in Gabriel’s face softens. “Thanks. But that’ll probably just aggravate the old man more. I’m hoping the season keeps him distracted enough to leave me alone.”
Dillon dips his chin, a sympathetic smile on his face. “Well, you know where to find me.”
Gabriel nods, jaw tight, like if he opens his mouth, nothing but profanity will spill out. I wouldn’t blame him. Who arranges their kid’s relationships like some medieval auction? It’s like a pot of hot oil waiting to boil over. Messy, reckless, and bound to burn someone.
Before I can dwell on it any further, Nik claps his hands, signaling the start of class.
Lily darts over toward us, clearly in a rush, and accidentally brushes against Gabriel as she passes, knocking him slightly off balance.
“Watch it, will ya, Lily?” he mutters, irritation bleeding through.
She whips around, eyes wide like he’s just insulted her entire family. Then she glances between Dillon and me before jerking a thumb back at Gabriel. “What’s his deal?”
Dillon blows out a breath. “Don’t ask.”
Lily peeks back over her shoulder again, and though Gabriel isn’t looking at her, his expression only seems to darken. Her features soften just a touch, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she edges closer to me and whispers, “Hey, I’ve got something to ask you after class.”
My heart starts racing. “Oh?” Nothing good ever comes from that phrase.
She must hear the shift in my breathing because she quickly adds, “Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad.”
Pressure builds in my chest. Just as I’m about to respond, Nik’s voice cuts through the studio.
He steps in front of the podium and casually leans back against it, arms folding across his chest. “Happy Friday, everyone.”
His gaze sweeps across the room. When it lands on me, he holds it. It’s steady, unreadable and for a beat longer than he does with anyone else. Then he moves on.
“I know it’s the first weekend of the season,” he continues. “And while most of you have heard this before, I’ll say it again.” His tone shifts, firmer. “Do not spend your weekend drinking and partying. If anyone comes in Monday morning hungover, you can consider yourself cut from the program.”
A quiet stillness falls over the class.
“I don’t expect that to be a problem,” he adds, voice easing slightly. “But let this serve as your reminder.”
Then his eyes drift back to mine, brief, but enough to make my pulse jump. “But most importantly,” he says, “rest. Rejuvenate. Come back Monday ready to work.” He finally looks away, and I find my breath again.
“It won’t be long until we begin casting for our upcoming variation, which will be announced soon.”
That’s it. The line that makes my shoulders stiffen and my mind race. Casting is coming, and I’m not sure which is harder to ignore—my nerves… or Nik’s eyes.
“Let us pray,” Nik says, bowing his head.
Beside me, Lily, Dillon, Gabriel, and everyone else lower their heads. Except me. I stay still, my eyes open, watching him.
It isn’t that I mind it, exactly. I just don’t understand it. Why he does it. What it means to him. What it’s supposed to mean to me. Maybe one day, if I ever find the nerve, I’ll ask.
His voice is calm and steady. “Lord, thank You for another day allowing us to move our bodies. Let our practice and dance glorify You. Let us produce fruit today, Lord. Amen.”
A quiet chorus of Amen curls around me.
I don’t say it. I’m not sure I can.
But something about the way he prays, like it actually matters to him, stirs something in my chest that I can’t name.
As warm-ups start, I let my body settle into the familiar rhythm.
My hand rests lightly on the barre, fingertips just grazing it as I move through the positions.
First, second, third, fourth, and fifth.
I glide through the combinations with ease, stretching until the tension in my muscles melt away.
No corrections. No interruptions. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll go unnoticed for the entirety of the class.
Except I’m not that lucky.
During the fourth combination, just as we start the rond de jambe à terre, I hear it.
“Eleanor.” Nik’s voice cuts through the studio like a rubberband snapping. “Relax.”
I give a quick nod, trying not to let the heat rise to my cheeks.
He nods back. “Again.”
I reposition. Chin lifted. Shoulders down. My arm extends in a gentle curve. I take a deep breath and move. Down into a plié, then extend my leg outward in a clean arc. But I feel it, just as I begin to sweep my leg behind me, my hip catches, pulling the movement off-center.
Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.
I finish the motion anyway, bracing myself for whatever’s coming. I lift my eyes.
Across the room, Nik runs a hand along his jaw, eyes narrowed slightly. He doesn’t exactly look angry, but almost calculating. His gaze locks onto me, then shifts away. “Break. Be back in fifteen,” he calls.
A murmur of relief passes through the room as dancers rush toward the door.
“You—stay,” he says, pointing at me as he walks toward my end of the room.
My heart sinks somewhere into my stomach.
Everyone filters out of the room quickly. Once we’re alone, Nik’s gaze grips mine with a focus that is almost unsettling. Maybe he is frustrated with me.
“Tell me, what did you do wrong?” he asks, hands settling on his hips.
I lift my chin, more prideful than I should be. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me that?” I arch a brow, challenging him.
A dry smile cuts across his face. Unamused. “I saw your face the moment it happened. Don’t play games, Eleanor. Tell. Me. What. You. Did. Wrong.”
I exhale sharply through my nose. “My hip caught, okay? There—happy?”
He shakes his head, a humorless laugh slipping out. “No, I’m not happy. You’ve been doing the same thing all week, and you still haven’t fixed it.”
I drop my gaze and shrug. Of course I failed. Again. I’ll never be good enough. Not for this program. Not for anything.
Then, softly, he says, “Let me help you.”
I blink, caught off guard. “What?”
“Let me help you,” Nik repeats, his tone easing. The edge in it softens, but doesn’t totally disappear. “You’re not incapable, Eleanor. You’re just terrified of not being perfect. And that fear is sabotaging you.”
I bristle, arms folding across my chest like a shield. “I’m not afraid.”
His brow rises slightly, skeptical.
I hate how easily he sees through me.
He steps closer, still respectful, giving me space, but close enough that I can catch the faintest trace of cologne and sweat.
“You push so hard to get everything right that you don’t give yourself room to learn.
Your hip isn’t locking up because you’re weak.
It’s locking up because you’re bracing for failure before you’ve even started the move. ”
I avert my gaze, jaw clenching. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think I do,” he whispers.
The silence that envelopes the room is thick, heavy, and nearly unbearable.
Then he adds, “I see how hard you’re trying. I see it, Eleanor. But you don’t have to prove anything to me. You’re already here.”
A lump forms in my throat. Already here. Those words ricochet inside my head like a distant bell tolling through a dense fog.
Nik comes up behind me. “I’m going to guide your hips. Is that alright?”
I let the silence stretch before giving a faint nod.
His warm, steady hands rest gently on either side of my hips. “Now, relax. Stop fighting the movement. Let the energy spiral from the ground up. Don’t force it—feel it.”
I inhale slowly, and try again.
This time, the rond de jambe à terre flows smoother. Not perfect. But smoother.
His breath comes out in a puff, just beside my ear. “Good. Again.”
We run through the movement several times before it starts to feel natural. His hands remain steady, firmly guiding my hips, and correcting my alignment as we go. But his closeness makes it nearly impossible to concentrate.
“Here,” he says quietly, brushing his hand along my ribs and arm before gently taking hold of my wrist. “Try loosening this.” He gives it a slight shake.
“It’ll help your movement here.” His other hand lightly squeezes my hip for emphasis.
“When you’re not obsessing over perfection or failure, everything flows more freely. ”
I nod, trying to absorb his advice without focusing on the way his hands feel on my body.
“There. Good,” he says, stepping back. “Now try it without me.”
I move through the combination again, and this time, it clicks. The motion is effortless. Smooth, but still refined. A smile tugs at my lips.
Nik claps behind me. “See? I knew you had it in you.”
I turn to find his smile beaming down at me. For a second, I want to hug him. Something entirely unlike me. But, like a splash of cold water, I’m reminded that he’s my coach and how that would be wildly inappropriate.
Instead, I offer a faint smile. “Thanks to you.”
“Like I said this morning, you dance better when your brain’s turned off.” He winks, then turns and heads back to the front of the studio, just as the others trickle in from break.
“Ohmygosh, what was that about?” Lily half-walks, half-runs toward me, whisper-shouting like she’s unable to hold it in another second.
“I just needed some help with my rond de jambe à terre,” I respond with a shrug. “No big deal.”
Though, it is, in fact, a big deal. I just can’t tell her that because then the entire class will know. Honestly, I don’t even know what just happened.
“No big deal? Are you kidding? That was a big deal. Nik doesn’t just call for random breaks. Spill. Now.” She crosses her arms over her chest, tapping her foot like a drill sergeant.