Chapter Thirty-Two
We’re two weeks into our covert mission, Operation Cavalier, and I can finally feel that same flow state I get when everything clicks on the ice. There’s something about the repetition, the absolute, engrossing focus required, the full-body chess match of control that mirrors hockey at its purest.
This is beyond learning simple steps. Petra is helping me become fluent in a language my muscles are surprisingly eager to speak.
I land another clean grand jeté, the momentum carrying me forward. My hips have range now—specifically turnout and rotation—and my jumps have developed an extra spring. I feel both light and powerful.
Petra stands at the barre, dialed into every movement.
“Your turnout has gotten so much better. And your leaps—wow. You’re actually getting height now. Real, professional-dancer height.”
I’m breathing hard but grinning. The truth is, I feel it everywhere.
Not just in this borrowed studio, but on the ice too.
I’m quicker, more explosive, more capable of transitions that would’ve left me sprawling six months ago.
And my hamstring—the traitor that started this whole journey—is holding up like it’s been rebuilt by Swiss engineers.
“I’ve gotta say,” I admit, because credit is owed where it’s due, “this Cavalier role is actually making me way better on the ice. The jumps, the turns, all the hip and quad strength—I feel stronger out there.”
Petra beams. “That’s what I love to hear.”
I take a sip of water. “So, if you had to be a stickler about something…what needs work?”
She studies me with intensity. I can see her replaying my most recent variation in her head. “Well,” she says, her fingers tapping her lips, “your pirouettes still need some work.”
I groan. “Why did I ask?”
“Your leaping ability? Great. Your flexibility? So much better. Your posture? Honestly impressive. But your pirouettes…” She winces playfully. “Could be tighter.”
“Alright, Miss Petra, tell me how to fix them,” I sigh.
She bites her lip and steps beside me. “First, your prep position needs to be stronger. You’re hesitating before you push off, like you’re asking permission from yourself.”
I nod, absorbing every word. Not necessarily understanding but absorbing nonetheless.
“Second, your spotting—your head needs to whip around faster.” Her hands find my shoulders and grab them with authority. “You’re losing balance because your body is ahead of your focus.”
The warmth of her touch makes concentrating difficult in ways that have nothing to do with ballet. “Stronger prep. Faster spot. Got it.”
“Now try again.”
I plant my foot, feeling the coiled potential in my legs like a spring. I push off, turn smoothly, but again, the second rotation sends me wobbling as I fall out of the turn.
“Almost,” she says.
“I hate almost,” I mutter, because almost is the participation trophy of success.
“I know you do. And that’s exactly why you’ll figure it out…eventually,” she grins.
Later that evening, we’re in my kitchen with the smell of roasted garlic and cold-pressed olive oil making everything feel like a scene from Sicily.
We’re making Bolognese again because we’re now the kind of couple who has signature dishes.
The conversation flows as does the Merlot.
And while the water boils, I’ve got something else brewing besides sauce.
I wait for a lull in the conversation then put down the spatula.
“So,” I clear my throat. “Move in with me.”
Petra blinks, her wine glass suspended mid-journey to her mouth. “What?”
“Move in with me,” I repeat.
She laughs—not dismissive but delighted. “That’s…”
“What you wanted to hear?” I supply.
Her lips part, hesitation creeping in like doubt. “I mean, of course I want to. I just…I think Claire was planning to live with me for at least the first semester.”
I lean back, sipping wine with the smugness of someone who’s already solved the puzzle. “Already handled.”
Her eyebrow arches. “What do you mean already handled?”
“I spoke to Claire the other day. And since she already redesigned my place, I figured she might as well live here too.”
Petra’s eyes widen with the shock.
“I have that big spare bedroom I never use,” I continue.
“It’s basically a massive storage unit with a door.
I can move everything to the actual storage unit in the basement.
Claire can stay in that room until she finds her own place or discovers dorm life isn’t the social nightmare everyone says it is. ”
She stares at me, mouth slightly open, processing it all.
“You…you thought this through, didn’t you?”
I shrug. “I like solutions.”
“You’re really serious?” Her voice goes soft, hopeful in that way that makes me want to solve all her problems forever.
“Very.”
She exhales, leaning back as reality settles in. This is real. I want her here not just for sleepovers and weekend cooking experiments but for Tuesday mornings and Thursday nights and all the mundane moments that make up an actual life.
Her fingers find mine across the table, lacing together.
“Then I guess I’m moving in.”
I squeeze her hand. “Good. I wasn’t taking no for an answer anyway.”
She laughs, and her grip tightens like she’s anchoring herself to this decision.
Life feels perfect right now: we’re sitting in my kitchen that Claire made Instagram-famous, eating pasta we made together, planning a future that involves her clothes in my closet and her sister in my spare room.
It’s domestic in a way that should terrify me—the former bachelor hockey player who couldn’t even decorate his own apartment.
But instead, it feels like landing a clean grand jeté—that moment when everything aligns, when your body does exactly what you asked it to, and the landing is but a whisper.
We sit there, hands linked across the table, pasta cooling, wine warming, and I realize this is what recovery actually looks like.
Not just a healing body, but this—building a life beyond ice rinks and ballet studios, having a relationship that survives injuries and comebacks and all the drama that comes with professional athletics.
Outside, a siren wails in the distance. Trouble lurking elsewhere in New York, but not here.
At least, not tonight.