Chapter Eleven
KATERINA
Today marks the fifth day since I said “I do” to my brother’s teammate.
I wake up to an empty apartment.
Scottie left yesterday morning for a four-day road trip—Vancouver, Calgary, Edmonton—apologizing like he was abandoning me on a deserted island instead of going to do his actual job.
“I hate leaving right now,” he’d said, standing in the doorway with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. “Text me if you need anything, okay?”
“Scottie, I’ll be fine,” I’d told him, leaning against the doorframe, trying not to show how tired I am from waiting to get the callback from the auditions and stress and pretending I’m not terrified of my father’s last message.
“I know you’ll be fine,” he’d said. “But text me anyway. If you’re bored. Or hungry. Or can’t figure out the thermostat. Or you just want to complain about people. I am an excellent complaint receptacle.”
He hesitated then, like there was something else he wanted to say, some last-minute confession or reassurance, but instead he’d just smiled and then stepped into the hall with a slight wave.
Now he’s in Canada, and I’m alone in a glass box in the sky.
I force myself out of bed and into a routine. I shower and then pull on leggings and a practice top. I twist my hair into a bun that pulls at my scalp in a familiar, comforting way.
When I check my phone, there’s still nothing from Pacific Northwest Ballet. The website says callbacks will be posted “next week.” We’re three days past the audition; it feels like three months.
I refresh the page anyway. Still nothing.
There is, however, a notification from the WAG group chat, which has been buzzing at a steady, chaotic pace since Juliet added me.
I open it.
Vivi: Game night at Penelope’s place. Watching the boys play in Calgary. Wine, snacks, screaming at the TV. Who’s in?
Peyton: I’m in. I’ll bring chips and dip.
Cammy: I’ll be there. I need to yell at refs. I’ll bring the wine.
Isla: I’ll bring cookies. The good kind.
Vivi: Kat. You coming?
I stare at her message longer than is reasonable.
Game night.
I’ve been to post-show dinners, galas, donor receptions—rooms full of people in expensive clothes trading shallow compliments and secrets with the same fake smiles and hidden agendas.
I’ve never been to “game night.”
I’ve never been invited to something casual and loud and purely for fun. Growing up, hockey was just Luka’s thing. Then ballet consumed everything. I saw his scores, not his games.
The alternative is sitting here alone, refreshing the PNB website and replaying my father’s text in my head until my chest feels hollow.
My fingers move before I talk myself out of it.
Me: What time?
Vivi: 6pm. I’ll send the address. You’re coming. No backing out.
My phone buzzes a second later with the address and a string of heart emojis.
Well, that’s settled.
The morning and early afternoon become a blur of more auditions and open classes, the way they always do—one studio bleeding into the next.
Each director’s office is decorated with the same framed posters and rehearsal photos of dancers who have already made it.
I can’t stand still and wait to hear from one company.
I need to keep my options open. Being a working ballerina is better than sitting on the couch, and I don’t have long before my visa renewal is up.
Seattle’s dance scene might be smaller than New York’s, but it’s just as sharp. Just as hungry. Every studio I walk into is filled with women who look like me: long limbs, tight buns, eyes that flick over each other like we’re all problems to solve, obstacles to move past.
I dance until my toes throb inside my pointe shoes, until I’m faintly aware of the sting of rubbed-raw skin but keep moving anyway and think to myself how I wish Scottie were home for another foot rub, though I’m not sure I wouldn’t end up jumping him the second time.
His hands are talented, and I am curious about how talented the rest of him is.
“Thank you, we’ll be in touch.”
“Lovely lines, but we’re going in a different direction.”
“You have beautiful control, but we’re looking for something… fresher.”
By the third “no,” the words start to blend together until they all sound the same: not you.
I hold my chin up, thank them, and leave.
By two o’clock, my muscles feel like they’re held together with dental floss, and every breath makes my ribs ache. I limp home, drop my bag by the bedroom door, and sink onto the living room floor with an ice pack pressed to my feet.
All of it balances on a knife’s edge that all falls apart if I slip up.
My phone buzzes beside me.
Scottie: How’d the auditions go?
The warmth that flushes through my chest is immediate and disorienting.
He’s in Canada, preparing for a game, and he still remembers the schedule of auditions I rattled off in our last text. He’s probably in a hotel room or a bus or a locker room somewhere, surrounded by teammates and noise, and he still thought to check in.
Of course, he did. I’m starting to realize that this is who he is. The kind of man who checks in.
Me: Not great. No callbacks yet.
I watch as the bubbles of his text start and then stop, three times before his reply comes through.
Scottie: Their loss. You’re incredible.
I huff out a sound that might be a laugh. He’s never even seen me perform. Not yet.
Me: You’ve never seen me dance.
Scottie: Don’t have to. I know quality when I see it.
I roll my eyes, even as my mouth curves.
Me: Shouldn’t you be focused on your game?
Scottie: Not until tonight. Right now I’m focused on making sure my wife knows she’s a badass.
My wife.
Five days ago, those words made my stomach knot. Now they just make something in me tip forward, like I’m standing too close to a ledge and curious what would happen if I stepped off.
Me: Good luck tonight.
Scottie: Thanks. I overheard Vivi tell Trey that you’re going to watch the game with the girls tonight.
The girls. Something I’ve never been a part of before. I wasn’t allowed to have girlfriends… not in the typical sense. I was allowed to "socialize" with the daughters of well-to-do families that my father wanted me to rub elbows with at social events.
I get a little nervous at the idea of it–hoping they’ll like me after they get to know me.
I’m not the bubbly, outgoing type as they are.
I’m not quick to chat and share about myself.
I’ve been groomed away from that, and in dance school, every girl you see is your competition. It makes it hard to make friends.
Me: She invited me.
Scottie: Good. The girls will take care of you. And maybe you’ll become a hockey fan.
Me: Don’t hold your breath, husband.
Even typing out the letters of “husband” makes me feel like I’m a poser. But I have to try. Because like he said, for better or worse, we’re in this together.
Scottie: We’ll see. They have a way of turning unsuspecting women into WAGs before they even know what’s happening.
I set my phone down, but the smile doesn’t leave my face.
I should be icing my feet and resting my body and mentally preparing for tomorrow’s round of rejections, but instead I’m thinking about wine and snacks and a loud living room full of women who seem ready and willing to pull me into their group.
And Scottie, on a sheet of ice hundreds of miles away,checking in to see how I’m doing as if we’re a real couple…
one solid unit that moves together, not separately or independent of each other.
It’s nice to feel anchored to someone. Like I’m no longer out here all alone, capable of being taken away with any powerful gust of wind.
Penelope’s house smells like butter and sugar and something baking in the oven that makes my eyes prickle with homesickness for a home I haven’t had since my mother passed.
The moment she opens the door, the noise hits me. A house full of women, laughter, overlapping voices, the distant murmur of pregame commentary from a giant TV somewhere deeper in the house.
“Katerina,” Peyton launches herself at me with the confidence of someone who’s decided we’ve been friends for years instead of days. “You made it!”
“I did,” I manage, trying not to wobble in my boots as she crushes me in a hug.
“Come in,” Penelope says, tugging me out of my coat with practiced hostess efficiency. “Toss your shoes off wherever and get comfy. Wine’s already poured, snacks are everywhere, and the men are on a screen where they can’t track mud through my kitchen.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
I hear the sound of thunder on the second story and look up at the ceiling.
“The kids,” Penelope says, waving it off. “It’s like a circus with all the Hawkeyes babies running around. They have snacks, movies, and a babysitter up there, probably getting them all ready with a game of green light, red light, but there’s no doubt they’ll come down to say hi at some point.”
The living room looks like a war room for sports wives. Blankets piled on couches, throw pillows everywhere, coffee table covered in chips, dips, charcuterie, something chocolate, something cheesy, and three different kinds of cookies.
Vivi waves a bottle. “Wine?”
“Yes,” I say. “Please.”
She pours me a glass big enough to cause concern and hands it over as if this is perfectly normal.
I settle onto the couch between Isla and Peyton. Isla tucks her legs under her and leans into my side like we’ve been doing this for years.
“So,” Isla says, eyes sparkling, “how’s married life treating you?”
“Strange,” I admit.
“Strange good or strange bad?” Peyton asks, already grinning.
“Just… strange.” I swirl the wine in my glass. “He’s very… present.”
They all blink at me.
“Present?” Peyton echoes.
“He pays attention,” I clarify. “He remembers things. He asks questions. He notices when I’m tired or sore or… quiet. I wasn’t expecting that… I guess because it’s all…” I look around the room at the girls' eyes all on me, “...well, you know. Temporary.”