Chapter 29 Sonya
SONYA
Later that week, I’m back at Hughes’ house inside some sort of boardroom space. The kind of setup fitted for an entire hockey team so they can sit around a massive table in a bunch of ergonomic chairs on wheels.
My back presses against a wall.
From my earlier internet sleuthing, I recognize Hughes’ sports psychologist, a physician, performance coach, physiotherapist and…massage therapist?
They clearly know each other since they’re chatting animatedly while I awkwardly stare at them. Cool. No worries. I wait to slide into my usual I’m-unfazed-by-everything mindset. It takes more effort than it typically does to pull off.
I can’t believe I’m here. Do I actually have it? These yips?
It’s such a ridiculous word to use, but also not the first time I’ve heard of it.
Obviously, every performer and athlete knows about these kinds of mental blocks, but it can’t be happening to me.
The possibility never even crossed my mind, because why would it?
I’m too strong to let this kind of thing happen, mentally and physically, so something else has to be going on.
But what?
I don’t know, and I’m getting desperate enough to find any answer at this point, because these last few days have been rough.
My knees throb.
That’s how many times I’ve fallen.
I also spent some time looking up the names of the people on Hughes’ team. They work for the Wings, but he personally hires them for himself for extra training.
The credentials attached to their names could fill a whole wall. And the cost to hire them independently? I could never afford it on my own.
Most dancers don’t go into ballet for the money, and your wages usually depend on the company. Sometimes you get paid per performance. Other times, it’s per contract per season. And when you’re starting out? It’s like you’re paid in pointe shoes and nothing else.
So once again, Hughes is helping me out in a way I’m struggling to digest. How am I going to pay him back? To balance all this?
…letting my team down. Failing anyone who needs me. Being selfish. Because I can and have been selfish. Even Oslo, I wish I was there but I don’t deserve it—
In the rage room, he played all that off as nothing, but I have a feeling it’s affecting him a lot more than he lets on. So like I told him, when we made our deal, I’m going to help him manage his stress. Whatever that looks like, it’s at least a way for me to balance the growing debt between us.
But first, he said we’d focus on me. On this meeting.
An older woman standing separately from the others gives me a wave, gesturing at me to come over.
I approach, keeping my expression as neutral as I can. “Hey.”
“I’m Iris.” She sticks out her hand, so I shake it. “You must be Sonya.”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Adrian’s personal assistant.”
“Blink twice if you need rescuing.”
She blinks three times—then laughs. “Was that twice? I think it was more. Either way, I’m just playing because I’ll never get another job as good as this one.”
“Coincidentally, that’s exactly what someone who has Stockholm syndrome would say,” I tell her dryly.
She laughs again. “I have to admit I was curious about you, about why he’d pull us together so quickly. But I think I already like you.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
Not noticing or caring, Iris gives me the sunniest smile.
It makes the wrinkles near her mouth settle into familiar grooves.
She takes off the backpack that was resting on her shoulders and starts pulling out…
shirts? I look down and see the stack she piles on the table.
But that’s not what makes my mouth drop open.
Labeled across the shirts in bold letters are the words: Project Nutcracker.
I grab one. “Who are these for?”
“Everyone,” Iris exclaims.
T-shirt material fists in my hand. “On whose orders were these made?”
Iris gives me a furtive glance. We both know the answer. Her boss gave the orders, of course.
I take in a forced breath, disturbed by how close my chin is to wobbling.
Really, I should have expected this. He’s the guy who wears silly headbands under his helmet and then pushes the rest of the team to wear headbands, too.
All while grinning ear-to-ear as if we’ll always win in life as long as we band together like we’re in some sort of perpetual summer camp.
Doubt is a fire spreading inside me as my thoughts spin. I must be showing my worries on my face, because Iris puts a hand on my arm. “Hey. Wait. Whatever you’re thinking isn’t it. The shirts aren’t for no reason—”
I pull away. “Please tell me, Iris. What are custom-made ballet-themed shirts going to do to help me?”
If I expect Iris to gulp or back down because of my tone, that’s not what happens. Her spine straightens. “He’s the captain of a billion-dollar franchise for a reason. Wait and see,” she tells me firmly.
With that, she goes and joins the rest of them.
I’m left alone. By myself. And it’s completely fine.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand—hiding it—because my chin needs to get it together.
There should be no wobbling. It needs to calm down, and if it doesn’t, I blame the fact that for these last few days, my ballet has continued to suffer.
If that wasn’t happening to me, I’d be closer to getting back to my normal self.
Strong. Unaffected. Unapproachable. Unbothered.
“It’s time to start.”
The deep tenor of his voice cuts through everything.
Adrian Hughes is here, and he walks to the front of the room. He’s wearing a suit, tailored to fit his tall, broad-shouldered frame. Seeing him again, my pulse whooshes up to my ears. It must be because I don’t like how dressed up he got for this.
His team quickly grabs their seats. I decide to stand where I am, my arms folded.
“In a little under a month,” Hughes begins, “there’s an audition for Bob Pepita’s new ballet.
Invitations to try out for it have been extended to only the strongest dancers around the world.
Sonya is one of them. Our goal is to assess her for yips as quickly as possible.
If we can produce an assessment report for her within a week, that would be ideal.
” With a click of the a button, Hughes turns a projector on.
Lights dim and a slideshow starts. There are references to studies about performance blocks in athletes. Highlighted excerpts are shared.
“This is just what I’ve found so far,” Hughes says.
My heart gives an erratic thump. He researched all of this himself?
He continues. “I want to introduce everyone to Sonya. The yips might be new to her, but she’s a master athlete when it comes to ballet. Trust her when she tells you if something is working or not.”
Iris starts passing around sheets of paper. I’m not given one, and that’s because Hughes announces, “Those are the non-disclosure agreements my lawyer emailed you about. You must sign these before Sonya speaks to you.”
My stomach does a tumbling thing, because the way he’s phrasing everything… It’s like I’m in charge. As if I’m the one in control of all this.
“The timeline to figure this out isn’t a lot,” someone says.
“I’m aware.” Hughes clicks the projector off. “Just like I know ballet isn’t anyone’s specialty here. But do you know what I also know? What everyone sitting before me is capable of accomplishing.”
Shock moves through me. His manner is steely and businesslike, and not at all what I was expecting.
“You are who I call when everyone else tells me ‘you can’t’ because I know failure doesn’t scare you,” Hughes says. “You don’t get discouraged because it’s too hard or it’s never been done. No, you get hungrier and try harder, and you win.”
He pauses for a beat, then continues. “You win because you get the best out of others because you give the best of yourselves. You are my people. There is no one else I have more faith in.”
His team of experts have leaned forward in their seats.
“You got this,” he tells them with absolute certainty. “You’ll help her.”
I’m not ready for blue eyes to meet mine, or the energy charge that ricochets through my body, covering my skin with goosebumps.
This is so dangerous in a way I can’t explain.
The thought trickles into my brain like melting ice.
I don’t recognize the man across the room. Where is the flirty playboy? His goofy immaturity with all that arrogance? Those sparkling blue eyes creasing with constant amusement?
All the boxes I’ve put this man inside are rattling. I mean, his face is still infuriatingly attractive and overwhelmingly self-assured, but that’s not…all I see…
I see…a…
Don’t think it, don’t think it, don’t think it.
The word hums inside me.
Captain.
He’s not grinning or even smiling that usual patronizing, teasing smirk. His face is completely serious.
A slow warmth rises behind my ears, impossible to ignore. This is bad.
He’s not supposed to be dependable or trustworthy. Even though it doesn’t escape me that he’s been showing up in ways I didn’t ask for, but have needed just the same. The hospital, outside my dance studio, taking me to a rage room, trying to see if I have the yips.
Could it be that I haven’t figured out who Adrian Hughes is, after all?
An alarm stirs deep inside me, but I don’t want to think about it.
Thankfully, people start clapping, and the noise jerks me into action. I tear my gaze from Hughes and observe everyone else.
Iris is passing Team Nutcracker shirts around. People are taking off their sweaters and blazers and putting them on as if everyone is part of a team. My team. NDA forms are being signed, returned to Hughes, and then people are coming to me to shake my hand.
“Hey, I’m really excited to be here,” says his sports psychologist. “Thank you for having me.”
“We’re going to figure this out,” says the performance coach. “You can count on us.”
I point to the shirts. “You don’t have to wear those if you don’t want to.”
“Is it okay if I do?” says Hughes’ massage therapist. She’s touching the material. “It’s really good motivation. So we remember what we’re all here for.”
“How did he convince you all to help?” I blurt out.
It’s like I need them to admit this is for money. Bribery. Influence or power. I’ll take any of those answers.
“He told us your story,” answers the physiotherapist.
What story?
“If you land this audition, you might get promoted to principal dancer, right?” asks the performance coach.
“He told you that?” My tone is one of complete disbelief. I don’t think I’ve said it out loud to him. The reason why this audition means so much to me. How it’s my chance to become the first South Asian ballerina to be promoted to principal dancer.
“No, my wife loves ballet so she guessed it.” She gestures frantically.
“But she won’t be told any confidential details about Project Nutcracker, I promise.
She’s actually been following Bob Pepita’s career on her own.
Was it last month where she told me the rumors that this is his last piece?
It’s wild to think a master like him won’t create again. The chance to dance for him would be—”
“Irreplaceable,” I mumble.
“Yeah. The wife and I are going to scout tickets when they come out, but I know they’ll be impossible to get—”
“I’ll find a way to reserve some,” I find myself saying, feeling so out of my depth and scrambling to find a way to repay them, too.
“Um—for all of you.” I look at the team of experts around me.
We’ve formed a loose circle. “For helping me, regardless of what happens. I can do that. I can get you tickets. And anything else you need.”
“Our reward is that we’re going to succeed,” says the massage therapist.
A chorus of agreements ring out.
“Let’s do it!”
“We’re going to help you make history, Sonya!”
“Count on us!”
Everyone is nodding fiercely at one another. Some of them fist bump. I glimpse more than one brow furrowed with genuine determination.
And suddenly, across the room, I catch Hughes looking at me. Those piercing blue eyes.
He smiles.
My heart skips a beat. I have to move fast and cover my mouth with my hand to prevent the most catastrophic, most ghastly, worst imaginable thing from occurring.
Me smiling back at him.