Chapter 62 Sonya
SONYA
I don’t have to open the envelope to know that the number written down is wild enough to make my eyes water.
Madame Kozlova knows, too. She’s basically mid-orgasm on the stage, waiting for when Adrian walks up and announces how much he’s donating.
She didn’t anticipate something though. And I recognize many other people don’t either. I probably didn’t for the longest time.
The fact that my talkative, socially brilliant hockey captain is not only charming, but a master strategist. That’s why I’ve got the envelope in my hand. It’s mine to give. She’ll have to receive it from me.
Adrian is beside me with his knowing smirk. My pulse skips a beat from meeting his encouraging blue eyes, as it did every single time he said my wife tonight. It happened a lot. Like he fit it into practically every sentence he said.
I didn’t hate it.
I didn’t hate it so much.
I even forgot it was pretend more than once.
Madame Kozlova finishes her greetings and declares it’s time for a special announcement, looking directly at Adrian. Instead, I push back from my seat and—
I could do it alone. I’m strong enough. So strong.
“Sonya.” Adrian leans closer. “Darling, you’ve got this.”
I’ve survived a lot of hard things in life—and this isn’t as close to being as difficult as some of them.
It doesn’t matter that I hate this, how closely connected the dance world is, and that optics matter.
Who gets cast in Bob Pepita’s ballet isn’t all about talent.
The level of promotability and attention you bring to the role is also a factor.
Because he’s right.
I can do this.
So why, while I’m switching the envelope to my other hand, do I reach out to him?
Without missing a beat, Adrian interlaces his fingers with mine, as if he couldn’t ever do otherwise.
I ask silently for him to come with me.
Are you sure? he asks, mouthing the words.
I nod.
We walk.
Blood pounds in my ears, and winding through a ballroom within the belly of a historical building built with grand pillars, pointed arches, ribbed vaults and flying buttresses, a realization clicks into me.
I don’t feel less strong, doing it this way.
It’s bizarre and soundlessly monumental. I haven’t shrunk. The warmth of having the right person at my side isn’t sapping away my strength and independence, but fortifying it.
My chin lifts, and my shoulders are pushed back as we go onto the stage. Madame Kozlova hands Adrian her microphone. Her face reddens when she sees him pass it along to me. Even more so when he steps back and joins her at the side.
I’m left in the center and the floor is mine.
She obviously expected him to make the announcement. It’s too late now, though. To interfere and say something would cause a scene.
Looking out, a sea of curious faces greets me.
The whole room has gone silent.
The pressure starting in my chest is familiar and inexorable. My back and chest buzz, though deeper in my gut something claws. I open my mouth and close it. I’m frowning, shaking myself a little.
This is it. I shouldn’t fuck it up.
As soon as I donate a significant amount in front of all these influencers, shockwaves will ripple. I’ll be online everywhere. It increases my chances that I’ll get chosen as the first South Asian principal dancer. My dream might become reality. Finally.
That’s the plan.
Except, my throat isn’t cooperating.
No problem. What should help is my worst-case scenario trick.
Like a very mini version of it right now.
I’ll catastrophize collapsing on stage, the roof falling in on us, a freak incident of my dress bursting at the seams. People not caring what I have to say.
People booing me off the stage. How nothing will move the needle as a whole audience of powerful people, most of whom don’t look like me, dismisses me.
They won’t care about my voice, no matter what I do.
See, I should do all that. It’ll strengthen myself mentally because I’ll remember I’ll survive this and go on no matter what.
My breath hitches, then rushes out between my teeth.
The problem is that I don’t want to.
Maybe living in the margins of expecting the very worst out of every situation and bulldozing through it because it’s never that bad isn’t good enough anymore.
I flex my fingers on the microphone.
Maybe I want to keep some room in my heart for unimaginably good things to happen. A reason to dare to reach for more. Hope and optimism in the face of those worst things happening to me.
I think about Madame Kozlova. How this company is the same one that pushed me out when I wasn’t perfect enough for them. I also think about how they tried to make me feel, walking into this room today. Invisible.
My mouth flattens.
I raise the microphone higher. “I’ve been falling a lot while dancing because I have the yips. It’s another word for having performance blocks.”
The crowd rumbles with abrupt confusion and sidelong glances at each other.
“Here’s the thing,” I continue. “They happen in every sport out there, no matter how highly trained you are.” I squeeze the microphone even tighter. “Sometimes we just fail.”
I sense movement behind me as if Madame Kozlova wants to stop this, but I’m not interrupted. Adrian must be blocking her.
I continue. “The thing with performance blocks is that there’s no single pill you can take or a single strategy that fixes you. You have to come at them in all these different ways.”
Now that I’m talking, I can’t stop.
“I spoke to Adrian’s performance coach, and my own therapist actually. Do you know what I learned?”
Somewhere, in the very back of the audience, someone yells, “What is it?”
I follow the voice. Then I widen my stance as encouragement swells in my gut. It’s Nina Hart. She’s standing up and nodding at me in this encouraging way.
“What I’ve learned,” I repeat, “is that…support matters. When you have a coach or a mentor, they can be your safe space and help you navigate coping strategies. That kind of support can protect your mental health. It can keep you going. That’s the right reaction.
Not judgment or distance. Just someone who stays to be there by your side. ”
Finally, I glance back and see Madame Kozlova.
“Unfortunately, I didn’t get that kind of support when I was at my studio.”
She’s rigid with fury. Frozen, because at this point, I’ve already said so much. The cameras are on me. If she grabs the microphone out of my hands, it won’t translate well.
I set my jaw and hold my chin even higher.
“This isn’t to say, there’s no donation today.
Especially when there are so many wonderful dancers at this company that deserve funding.
But they also deserve to be mentored through difficulties.
Especially if they look like me, because we don’t always get second chances. My husband and I—“
I check on Adrian. Then exhale. There’s such a distinct gleam in his eyes. Pride.
Gratitude swells, spreading through me.
“—that’s the kind of company we want to support,” I say.
“Because if we build towards something better, maybe the next girl who gets the yips won’t think it’s the end of her career.
There can be protocols in place and resources that protect, so what happened to me doesn’t happen to anyone else.
No one should be tossed aside for struggling.
They should be seen, supported, and given a way forward. ”
“Inappropriate behavior.” My dance mistress’ voice is loud enough to echo. “I see your time away has made you worse, Sonya. You don’t understand decorum—”
“That’s enough.” It’s Adrian. He’s moved towards me, coming to my side, protecting me.
Cameras flash on us.
Madame Kozlova tries blocking us. “She has no idea what she’s talking about!”
Okay. Now we’re definitely going to go viral.
“Actually,” says Adrian, loudly enough that his voice is picked up by the microphone.
“My wife is classically trained, incredibly talented, the hardest working athlete I’ve ever met, and one of the very few dancers selected to audition for Bob Pepita’s last ballet.
She knows exactly what she’s talking about and has made it very clear what kind of company we want to support.
Will you meet those conditions, Madame Kozlova? ”
My dance mistress wrestles the microphone out of my hands.
So that’s a no.
I let her have it.
Because I’m next to Adrian Hughes. The most dramatic player in the league. And I know exactly what to do.
I hold the envelope with the check in it up and say, “If you change your mind, you can contact us. We would love to support you.”
And then I rip it in half.
A gasp ripples through the crowd. I don’t pay it any attention. Adrian’s laughing and kissing the side of my temple. Then he offers me his arm. “Shall we get out of here, Mrs. Hughes?”
“Fucking gladly.”