Chapter Five #2
The silence that follows feels like it stretches for years. Petra studies me with her sharp blue eyes, and I have the uncomfortable sensation of being dissected by someone who sees things I’m not even aware of myself.
“You want me to teach you ballet?” she asks finally.
“Yes,” I say simply—because sometimes the most absurd requests require the most straightforward answers. “Not to be good at it or anything like that. I just need it to help me move again. To get my body healthy again, so I can return to the ice.”
Petra’s lips curve into a smirk as if she’s already envisioning all the ways this is going to be entertaining for her and potentially torturous for me. “You realize this is going to involve a lot of effort. And a lot of me making you look ridiculous.”
“I’m willing to look foolish,” I say. “Hell, foolish can be the goal! I welcome it if there’s a chance it gets me healthy again.”
“You’ll be sore in muscles you didn’t know you had,” she says. “And you’ll hate me after your first plié.”
“I already hate pliés,” I admit. “But I’ll survive.”
Her smile grows. “We’ll see. No complaints, no shortcuts, and absolutely no trying to turn pliés into squats.”
“Deal,” I say, straightening up.
Petra extends her hand, and when I take it, I’m struck by how small it is compared to mine, yet there’s a strength in her grip. “Welcome to beginner’s ballet, Mr. LeClerc. Let’s see if we can turn you into something resembling flexible.”
Relief washes over me. “Thanks,” I say, then add with what I hope is a charming grin, “but for the record, if I pull some other muscle in your class, it’s your fault.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Petra says. “We have forms for you to sign to cover us.”
“I guess I’ll see you next week,” I say.
“Make sure you bring proper attire—white shirt, black tights, and black slippers,” she calls after me.
I pause, about to make a joke then realize that other than the slippers part, I wear a white shirt and black tights under my hockey gear. Maybe this isn’t so different after all.
I exit the room, and the door of the ballet studio clicks shut behind me, leaving me alone in the softly lit hallway that suddenly feels like a decompression chamber between two different worlds.
I let out a long breath. Something about the way Petra agreed to help me—her no-nonsense tone, her piercing blue eyes cutting straight through my defenses—has left me feeling oddly lighter.
Hopeful, even. I haven’t felt hope in months.
It feels good, better than I remembered.
I walk toward the elevator, my footsteps echoing gently in the quiet corridor. I don’t know if ballet is the answer to fixing my body, but something about Petra makes me believe it’s worth a shot. It’s hard not to absorb some of her confidence, even if it isn’t my own.
Reaching the elevator, I press the down-arrow button as my thoughts drift back to the way Petra looked at me when I explained my injury.
Not with pity, like so many others have, but with a mix of curiosity and challenge like she was already planning how to break me down and rebuild me stronger.
And then there was her smile: quick, knowing, like she could see through all my excuses and straight into the part of me that’s still holding on no matter how hard I try to hide it.
Is she the kind of person I need not just as a teacher but as something more?
The thought surfaces before I can stop it, and I immediately try to push it back down.
This isn’t about that. This is about my hamstring and my career and getting back to the only life I know how to live.
But even as I tell myself this, I can’t quite shake the image of her moving through that studio, gliding through it, or the way her eyes lit up with what might have been genuine interest when I explained why I was there.
I’ve spent months buried under medical charts and rehab schedules, reduced to the sum of my scar tissue. People look at me and see a broken promise, a headline that didn’t pan out. She looked at me like I’m still worth fixing.
The elevator dings, and I straighten up. But when the doors slide open, instead of merciful emptiness, I’m greeted by a small army of people wielding iPhones like tiny weapons.
“Gavin, over here!” one person shouts with desperate enthusiasm.
“James Bond, I love you!” another chimes in.
When I spot Gavin Bradford—Hollywood’s current golden child—standing in the center of this chaos like he was born for it, everything clicks.
He stands with the confidence of someone who’s never questioned whether he belongs anywhere, flashing that trademark smile that probably has its own insurance policy.
I hover in the elevator doorway, watching Gavin work this crowd like a maestro conducting a symphony of adoration.
I’ve been around plenty of cocky guys in hockey, but Gavin operates in a different atmospheric layer entirely.
He exits the elevator as both he and his swarm of admirers shuffle right by me.
He delivers one final grin—calibrated for maximum impact—before raising his hands in that universal gesture of benevolent dismissal.
“Alright, folks,” he says, “thank you, but the building can only handle so much star power before the lights blow out.”
I retreat into the now-empty elevator like someone backing away from a wildlife encounter, shaking my head at the surreal theater of celebrity.
Then I remember: Zoe loves this guy. The thought sparks something approaching optimism. Maybe I can redeem myself in her eyes with one decent photo of him.
I fumble for my phone, finger hovering over the camera as the elevator doors begin their slow conspiracy against me. Through the narrowing gap, I aim desperately, trying to capture something, any scrap of proof that might redeem my spectacular failure as an uncle.
The doors are nearly closed when I finally manage to snap a picture. But what appears, captured in my frame, makes my stomach churn.
There, just outside the studio, Petra plants a kiss on Gavin Bradford’s lips. Not a friendly peck. Not a polite European greeting. This is a kiss that suggests they’ve had extensive practice.
The elevator lurches downward, carrying me away from the scene like a stagehand yanking the curtain mid-show. I wait for a hollow drop in my stomach, the familiar thud of disappointment to break my spirit once more.
But something else rises instead, and it feels electric.
Almost like optimism. Because speaking with Petra lit me up in a way nothing has in months.
And if a kiss with Hollywood’s golden boy is what I’m up against?
Fine. At least it means I’m awake again, wanting something badly enough to feel the sting.
Hope is a fragile, fleeting thing, but its current rushes through me now. And for the first time in forever, the future doesn’t feel like a sentence. It feels like a dare.
Now, I think. Where do I find a pair of black ballet slippers?