4. Elena #2
Five minutes early. Of course he was. I grabbed my coat and bag, checked my reflection one last time, and headed down to the lobby where Dominic was waiting near the entrance, his hands in the pockets of a black wool coat that made his shoulders look even broader than I remembered.
He smiled when he saw me, that dangerous almost-smile that transformed his face from merely handsome to something that made my breath catch.
“You look beautiful,” he said, his voice low enough that the doorman couldn’t hear. “Ready?”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He held the door open, his hand finding the small of my back as I passed, the touch light yet possessive, a claim being staked with casual confidence. “I hope you’re hungry.”
We walked through the cooling evening, the city alive with Saturday night energy, restaurants and bars spilling light and laughter onto the sidewalks.
Dominic kept up a steady stream of conversation, questions about my training, my favorite roles, how I’d ended up in Boston, yet I noticed he revealed little about himself beyond surface details.
He was from Southie originally, had played hockey since he was five, had been drafted by the Admirals at nineteen.
The facts were biographical, impersonal, the kind of information available in any press release.
When I asked about his family, his expression shuttered. “Not much to tell. My father worked construction. My mother cleaned houses. They wanted me to have opportunities they didn’t. Hockey was the way out.”
“Do you see them often?”
“My father died three years ago. Heart attack on a job site. My mother moved to Florida after that. Said she couldn’t stand another Boston winter.
” His voice was flat, emotionless, as though he were reciting someone else’s history.
“We talk occasionally. She’s proud of what I’ve accomplished, even if she doesn’t understand it. ”
“I’m sorry about your father.”
“Don’t be. He got what he wanted, his son made it out of Southie. The fact that he didn’t live to see the full extent of it is just timing.” He glanced at me, his expression unreadable. “Your turn. Tell me about your family.”
“My mother is Danish, my father American. They met when he was studying abroad in Copenhagen. I grew up between two countries, never quite belonging to either.” The words came easily, a story I’d told so many times it had become performance rather than confession.
“They’re both academics, literature professors.
They wanted me to follow in their footsteps. Ballet was my rebellion.”
“Some rebellion. You’re one of the best dancers in the country.”
“That’s the point. I wanted to be excellent at something they couldn’t understand, something that existed entirely outside their world of books and theory.” I paused, surprised by my own honesty. “I wanted to prove that the body could be as articulate as the mind.”
“You’ve succeeded.” His hand was still on my back, guiding me through the crowded sidewalks with unconscious authority. “Though I’d argue you’ve proven something more interesting, that discipline and artistry aren’t opposites. That control and beauty can coexist.”
The observation was perceptive enough to make me look at him more carefully. Dominic Russo was not just a hockey player with good looks and presumptuous confidence. There was intelligence behind those hazel eyes, an understanding of nuance that complicated my initial assessment.
We arrived at a restaurant in the North End, a small Italian place tucked between a bakery and a wine shop, the kind of establishment that didn’t advertise because it didn’t need to.
Oleana, the sign read in elegant script.
Dominic held the door open, and we stepped into warmth and the scent of garlic and fresh bread and something rich simmering in olive oil.
The interior was intimate, maybe fifteen tables, all of them occupied by couples leaning close in candlelight.
The host greeted Dominic by name, led us to a corner table that offered both privacy and a view of the room, and disappeared with promises of wine and the chef’s recommendations.
I settled into my chair, hyperaware of Dominic across from me, the way the candlelight caught the angles of his face, the intensity of his focus now that he had me exactly where he wanted me.
“You come here often,” I said. Not a question.
“Often enough. The owner is a friend. He takes care of me.” Dominic leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed yet somehow coiled, like an athlete between plays. “I wanted somewhere we could actually talk, without the noise and performance of a trendy place.”
“You don’t like performance?”
“I like it when it serves a purpose. On the ice, performance is strategy, you make the other team think you’re going one direction while you’re actually going another.
Off the ice, it’s usually just people lying to each other with better lighting.
” His gaze held mine. “I don’t want to perform for you, Elena. I want to know you.”
The declaration should have been romantic.
Instead, it felt like a challenge, as though he were daring me to be honest, to drop my own performance and reveal whatever he thought he’d glimpsed on that terrace last night.
The problem was that I’d been performing for so long—for Victor, for audiences, for Marcus’s unwanted camera, for the version of myself I presented to the world—that I wasn’t entirely sure what existed beneath the carefully constructed facade.
The wine arrived, a Barolo the sommelier assured us was exceptional. Dominic tasted it, nodded his approval, and waited until our glasses were filled before raising his in a toast.
“To new beginnings,” he said.
“To figuring out what we’re doing,” I countered.
His smile was genuine this time, reaching his eyes. “I know what I’m doing. I’m pursuing a woman I can’t stop thinking about. You’re the one who seems uncertain.”
“Maybe I have reason to be uncertain.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the fact that you’re very intense, very confident, and very used to getting what you want.” I took a sip of wine, letting the tannins coat my tongue, buying time to organize my thoughts. “I’m not sure I want to be something you acquire.”
“Is that what you think this is? Acquisition?”
“Isn’t it?”
Dominic was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing the stem of his wine glass, his expression thoughtful.
When he spoke, his voice was lower, more serious than I’d heard it.
“I saw you across that ballroom last night, and something clicked. I don’t know how else to explain it.
You were standing there looking like you’d rather be anywhere else, and I thought, there’s someone who understands what it’s like to be good at something that demands everything from you.
Someone who knows what it costs to be excellent. ”
“That’s a lot to assume from across a ballroom.”
“Maybe. Maybe I’m wrong, and you’re perfectly content with your life, and I’m just projecting my own dissatisfaction onto a beautiful stranger.
” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, closing the distance between us.
“Tell me I’m wrong, Elena. Tell me you’re happy, and I’ll pay for dinner and walk you home and never bother you again. ”
The challenge hung between us, sharp and unavoidable.
I could lie, could tell him I was perfectly content, could end this before it began and return to my carefully controlled existence of rehearsals and performances and Marcus’s photographs accumulating in my kitchen drawer. The safe choice. The smart choice.
“I’m not happy,” I heard myself say. “I’m good at what I do, and I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve had, and I love dancing more than almost anything.
I’m not happy, though. I’m tired, and I’m lonely, and I’m so sick of performing that sometimes I want to walk away from all of it and disappear somewhere no one knows my name. ”
The confession surprised me as much as it seemed to surprise Dominic. His expression softened, some of the intensity giving way to something that looked almost like tenderness.
“Then let me be the place you don’t have to perform,” he said quietly. “Let me be the person who sees you, not the prima ballerina or the public persona or whatever role you’re playing for everyone else. Just you, whoever that is.”
“You don’t know me well enough to make that promise.”
“Then let me get to know you.” He reached across the table and took my hand, his fingers warm and calloused against mine. “I’m not asking for forever, Elena. I’m asking for a chance. Dinner tonight. Coffee tomorrow. Whatever you’re willing to give me while I prove that I’m worth the risk.”
The waiter arrived with our first course, forcing us to separate, to return to the performance of polite dining.
We ate and talked, the conversation flowing more easily now that I’d cracked open the door to honesty.
Dominic told me about hockey, about the violence and grace of the sport, about the way a perfect play felt like choreography executed at high speed.
I told him about ballet, about the tyranny of Victor’s expectations, about the satisfaction of nailing a difficult variation after hours of repetition.
We discovered shared obsessions: the pursuit of perfection, the willingness to sacrifice everything for excellence, the understanding that greatness required a kind of monomania most people couldn’t comprehend.
We also discovered differences: where I sought beauty, he sought dominance; where I valued precision, he valued power; where I performed for audiences, he performed to win.