Chapter Seven
I stand outside the ballet studio door for a moment longer than necessary, letting the cool hallway air linger against my skin like a brief reprieve from whatever awaits me inside.
I tell myself I’m prepared for this. That’s the narrative I’ve been rehearsing all morning, but the nerves creep in anyway, those familiar little tremors of doubt that know exactly where to find my weakest spots.
My gym bag strap cuts into my shoulder as I shift my weight, and there’s something almost comforting about the discomfort.
Here’s the truth I’ve been dancing around: This isn’t just about proving something to myself, though that would make for a cleaner story arc.
It’s about salvaging what’s left of a career that feels like it’s melting through my fingers faster than ice in August. Petra Montgomery is my last, best hope—melodramatic phrasing, I know, but sometimes life demands a little melodrama.
Whatever flicker of romantic intrigue I felt has been thoroughly extinguished by the sight of her with Gavin Bradford in real life and online.
She’s taken. No banter, no flirting, no wondering what her laugh sounds like when she’s not being a teacher.
I’m here to rebuild myself before the Sentinels decide I’m more liability than asset. Simple.
I exhale sharply, one of those breaths that’s half preparation, half prayer, then I push the door open.
Inside, Petra is already stretching by the barre, her movements so fluid they make me acutely aware of my own body’s current state of disarray. The studio is quiet. She turns when I enter, her blue eyes performing a quick assessment.
“You’re on time,” she says. “Good start.”
“Punctuality’s not my problem,” I reply, setting my bag down near the wall. “My body. That’s the problem.”
She tilts her head. “We’ll see,” she motions me over. “Let’s get started.”
I step onto the smooth studio floor, and immediately every cell in my body recognizes this as foreign territory.
I’m used to the sharp bite of ice under my skates, the way cold air hits my lungs like a slap, the constant negotiation between balance and speed.
Here, with the warm Marley floor under my feet and mirrors everywhere reflecting back versions of myself I’m not sure I want to see, I feel exposed.
“First position,” Petra instructs.
“First position?” I ask.
She walks toward me, stopping just short of what would be considered personal space in any other context. “Simple,” she says. “Stand there. Feet turned out, heels together. Weight evenly distributed.”
I glance down at my feet, which suddenly seem like they belong to someone else entirely, and awkwardly arrange them into what I hope approximates the right shape. “Like this?”
“Close,” she replies. “But more turnout.” She nudges my heels closer. “And lift your chest—you’re not carrying hockey pads on your shoulders.”
The proximity to Petra is doing things to my concentration that I’m absolutely not going to acknowledge. I comply, straightening myself, rolling my shoulders back, hyperaware of every detail: the authority in her voice, the faint scent of her freshly cleaned leotard.
“Good,” she says, stepping back to observe. I feel oddly bereft without her hands guiding me. “Now stay there. Don’t move.”
I resist the urge to fidget as she circles me. “Your weight’s too far back,” she observes, nudging my hip lightly. “Shift forward. And keep your chin up. You’re not looking for loose change.”
“Got it,” I respond, even though I don’t have it.
We move through the positions—first, second, third, fourth, fifth—and I follow as best I can, which is to say badly but with enthusiasm. My body, which has been conditioned for explosive movements on ice, feels stiff and uncooperative during the slow and methodical maneuvers.
“Relax your hands,” she says, her fingers brushing lightly against mine. “They’re not supposed to look like you’re gripping a stick.”
“Old habits die hard,” I mutter.
“Break them,” she shoots back without missing a beat, “or they’ll break you.”
The session stretches on, each movement more demanding than the last. It’s tedious in that way that feels rewarding, like solving a puzzle where all the pieces are parts of yourself you didn’t know needed rearranging.
Every time she adjusts me—a hip here, a knee there, the angle of my chin—I feel this small, ridiculous spark of accomplishment when I finally get it right.
For the first time in months, I feel like I’m building toward something instead of just trying not to fall apart.
“You’re motivated,” she observes after I successfully hold a plié without earning a correction.
“Have to be,” I say. “If this doesn’t work, I’m done.”
Her gaze lingers on me for a moment. “Alright,” she says finally. “Let’s keep going.”
By the end of the session, my legs are screaming obscenities and my hamstrings feel like they’ve been replaced with guitar strings tuned too tight, but there’s this sense of accomplishment in my spirit.
I’m not graceful, but I put in the effort, and I can tell she noticed.
That shouldn’t matter as much as it does.
“That’s enough for today,” she announces, stepping back and crossing her arms. “We’ll meet again later this week. I’ll kick things up a notch. Really test your mobility.”
“Great,” I say. “Looking forward to it.”
As we pack up our things, the studio atmosphere shifts, becoming more intimate as the work portion of our interaction ends. The mirrors seem less judgmental now, more like silent witnesses to our post-class interaction.
“So,” Petra says, glancing at me as she ties her jacket around her waist. “What’s your story, Liam LeClerc? Where are you from? I always start each year with students giving introductions of themselves, and I realize I never really got yours.”
I shrug and then lean against the barre because my legs have decided standing is no longer an option. “Not much of a story, really. Grew up in Ottawa. Stay-at-home mom; dad worked in a factory. He mostly put together modems.”
“Modems?” she says, her brow furrowing in curiosity. “Like, the internet kind?”
“Yeah,” I say. “This was back in the dinosaur days before Wi-Fi. Modems connected computers to the internet, but they made this god-awful screeching sound while doing it.”
She laughs and smiles in this way that makes me want to keep talking just to see what other expressions I can coax out of her. “Like in You’ve Got Mail. I love Nora Ephron.”
“Exactly,” I reply, filing away this bit of information about her taste in movies like it might matter someday. “That was Dad’s thing. He built the tools that connected people.”
“And now here you are, the big hockey star, connecting pucks with nets.”
“Or I was, anyway.” I look at her, curious about the woman behind the corrections and adjustments. “What about you? How does someone from…”
“Alabama,” she supplies.
“Wow, Alabama. How does someone from there end up performing ballet in New York?”
“It wasn’t exactly a straight line,” she admits. “I grew up in a tiny town called Fairhope. There wasn’t much ballet there, just one small studio. But my dad was Russian, and ballet was a big deal in his culture.”
“Like he was actually born in Russia?”
“Saint Petersburg. Born and raised… Well, at least until the Soviet Union fell. Then he and his mother, my babushka, fled to the States.”
Something clicks in my brain, pieces falling into place. “Wait,” I say. “Shouldn’t you have a Russian last name then?”
“Very perceptive,” she says, and then, in a soft voice, she continues. “Zakharov.”
I roll the syllables in my head, trying to piece together the sounds. “That’s…your dad’s last name?”
She nods.
I lean forward slightly, drawn in by this unexpected revelation. “So why—”
She exhales. “When he fled the Soviet Union, he wanted to start fresh. A clean slate.”
I stay silent, sensing this is one of those moments where listening matters more than responding.
“He had a thick accent, looked very Russian, and carried a name that immediately gave him away,” she continues. “And at the time, that wasn’t exactly an easy thing.”
I can only imagine the challenges, the small daily negotiations with identity that must have shaped him.
“So, when he met my mom, who’s from Alabama,” she goes on, her voice softer now, “he made a decision. He wanted his children to have her last name.”
I turn this over in my mind, feeling the gravity of what that choice must have meant. “But you still carried on his name somehow, right?”
“My middle name.”
I nod slowly, taking that in, understanding it’s both preservation and transformation. Names carry the story of where we come from but also the promise of where we hope to belong.
“But don’t misinterpret,” she adds, her expression turning more resolute, almost fierce.
“He was deeply proud of his Russian roots. He never tried to erase them, never let us forget where he came from. The one thing he was more proud of, though?” She meets my eyes.
“Having first-generation American daughters.”
Petra carries herself like someone who understands legacy, who knows what it means to be built from sacrifice, from hope. And suddenly I realize that every time she steps on stage, every time she dances, it’s not just for her; it’s for all the stories that brought her here.
“He was also a massive hockey fan,” she continues, pulling me back from my thoughts. “And he loved the idea of ballet, a discipline that demanded such strength and focus.”
My curiosity sparks. “Sounds like my kind of guy.”
“When I was a teenager, my parents started driving me to bigger cities for better training. My dad loved those trips, especially when they were to cities with NHL teams. New York was his favorite. He loved the energy here.”
I lean forward. “Does he ever make it to Sentinels games now? When he comes to visit you in New York, I mean.”
Her smile falters, and for a moment, her eyes drop to the floor. “He passed away recently,” she says, her voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of grief.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Thank you,” she replies. “He definitely went to Sentinels games when we visited here as kids. Hockey was his way of staying connected to where he came from.”
I nod. “Sounds like he was the type of guy who made things happen. Must be where you get it.”
She blinks at me, caught off guard, but her smile grows. “Maybe,” she says. “But let’s not turn this into a therapy session, LeClerc.”
“So the rest of your family is still where you grew up?”
“My mom’s still in Alabama with my little sister.
She’s a senior in high school, trying to figure out where she’ll go for college.
She’s applying to a few schools in New York actually.
I’m really praying she can move here because we were so close growing up, and the distance has made it challenging. ”
“Another ballerina?”
“She’s very artistic but more into design than dance.”
“Well, if she’s anything like you, I’m sure she’ll be making waves as a designer here in no time.”
Petra’s phone buzzes, breaking whatever spell has been building between us. “I should get going. Not really supposed to be in the studio this late, especially with people not in the ballet company.”
“Of course, yeah, let’s get out of here,” I say.
We put on our jackets, the mundane action feeling significant for some reason. “See you later this week?”
“That’s correct,” she replies, her tone slipping back into professional territory, though her eyes linger on me for a moment longer. “Come ready to work. No excuses.”
“I’ll be here,” I say. “Whether I can walk afterward is another question.”
“Take those back stairs on your way out,” she says as I head for the door.
Before leaving, I glance back. She’s turning off the studio lights, her movements mesmerizing even in this simple task, and I’m struck by how she makes everything look like choreography.
I descend the steps slowly, partly because my legs are staging a full revolt and partly because I’m not ready for this to be over.
The lactic acid floods my quads and hamstrings, promising a tomorrow full of wincing and cursing.
I’ll be sore in that special way where getting out of bed becomes a feat, where sitting down requires careful negotiation with gravity.
And yet, for the first time in months, I feel like I’m moving in the right direction. Like maybe the story I’ve been telling myself about being finished might need some serious revisions.