Chapter Thirty-Three
Petra’s been a permanent fixture at my apartment for long enough that her officially moving in feels less like a major life event and more like fate finally coming through.
Her morning routine has become the soundtrack to my day—the rustle of her getting dressed while I remain in bed catching a few more minutes of sleep, the way she opens cabinets like she’s trying not to wake me even though we both know I’m awake, the soft sound of her feet on my floor that somehow sounds different from any other person’s footsteps.
All welcome changes. All things that would be annoying if they were a product of someone else, but because they come from her, I find myself smiling.
This morning, I’m putting myself through agony on a foam roller while she gets ready.
The thing about living with someone is you learn their rhythms without meaning to.
She takes exactly two small sips of coffee before she’s ready to speak.
She checks her phone with the same expression every morning—part hope, part dread, like she’s expecting either a promotion or a catastrophe.
Her Birkenstocks have taken up residence next to my bed, perfectly tucked away and ready for her to slip into every morning.
We’ve achieved that level of domesticity where our stuff has started to merge into one ecosystem of shared space.
She kisses me goodbye, already mentally at Lincoln Center.
I watch her go as I finish plating my omelet.
I’m digging into my cupboard looking for everything bagel seasoning when my phone starts having a nervous breakdown: Texts.
DMs. Mentions. The kind of notification avalanche that usually means someone’s either dead or traded.
Rocky’s text catches my eye first: “I should have known you had this in you!” Then Dewey’s message appears: “You’re famous for ballet now ” Then more. From teammates, from former teammates, from people I haven’t talked to since my junior hockey days. My phone vibrates incessantly.
I open Instagram. And there they are: clips of Petra and me at our private sessions at the ballet studio.
Someone has edited together footage from our training sessions. I watch them all: me attempting pirouettes; Petra adjusting my arms; the moments where I actually nail something, and her face lights up with surprise and pride.
But worse, so much worse, are the intimate moments.
The kisses stolen between combinations. The way I pull her close like she’s the only thing that makes sense.
Her head on my shoulder when we’re both exhausted, laughing at something that probably wasn’t even funny but felt hilarious in our private bubble.
The comments mushroom as the clips go viral across all the social media platforms:
“brO IS DOING BALLET BYE BYE TO HOCKEY LOL”
“Next he’ll be wearing tights on the ice. What an EMBARRASSMENT”
“This is the most elaborate scheme to get laid I’ve ever seen!”
My stomach knots then convulses. Yes, this is about me getting embarrassed. But more importantly, this is about Petra. Her career and reputation. The careful line she walks between being taken seriously as an artist and being ridiculed.
I call her immediately. Straight to voicemail. She’s probably in the studio or in a meeting, or—
She would have seen this on her way to work. Walking into Lincoln Center with this bomb exploding across social media. Her professional world colliding with our private one in the most public way possible.
I try again. Voicemail. Again.
Rocky sends another message: “For what it’s worth, your technique actually looks pretty good ”
I stare at my phone, at the video that’s already been shared tens of thousands of times, of our private moments transformed into content for strangers to consume with their morning coffee.
Some violations you can’t undo. Some privacy, once lost, stays lost. And some girlfriends are probably having career-defining conversations right now because their boyfriend thought learning ballet was a good idea, and someone decided exposing it was a better one.
I sprint to the front door. I need to get to Lincoln Center. Need to find Petra and do something even if that something is just standing there, telling her I love her.
The subway ride to Lincoln Center takes forever.
Every stop an eternity. Every delay a personal insult.
By 66th Street, I’ve been serenaded, stepped on, and somehow entered into a staring contest with a toddler.
My phone continues its volcanic eruption of notifications, each one a reminder that the internet has opinions about my life choices.
A text from my agent: “We need to discuss how to handle this.”
I want to throw my phone onto the tracks, but that would probably just generate more content and delay my arrival at Lincoln Center.
When I finally reach the ballet theater, I’m blocked at the entrance by security.
I text Petra again: “I’m outside the theater. Can you come down?”
Still nothing.
I pace the plaza like a caged animal, watching dancers come and go, wondering if they’ve seen the video.
My phone buzzes. Finally, a response from Petra. But it’s only two words: “Not now.”
I stand there in the plaza, surrounded by passersby yet alone.
The video continues its viral march across the internet.
Memes are being born. And somewhere in that building, the woman I love is dealing with the fallout of my presence in her life being transformed into entertainment with possibly dire ramifications for her.
All because someone decided our private moments were public property.
I sit on a bench, watching the fountain, and do the only thing I can do—wait. Wait for her to be ready to talk. Wait for the internet to move on to its next victim. Wait to find out if this thing we’ve built can survive being exposed to the harsh light of public consumption.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I learned ballet to heal my body, to become stronger, and to return to hockey better than before. But in the process, I might have damaged something else entirely: the world of the person I care most about.