Chapter Forty-Four
We’re barely offstage when I grab Petra’s hands, my heart pumping, my breath coming in bursts.
“We did it!” I shout. “And did you see it? Did you see that? And the final sequence—Did you see it?!”
“Liam.” She places both hands on either side of my face with her tender touch. Her smile carries awe and affection in equal doses. “I was there. I saw it. It was incredible.”
I grin, soaking in her words like they’re the only review that matters.
But she’s looking at me now, really looking, and I can see it dawning in her eyes.
Not just awe at what we accomplished, but at the fact I showed up.
Gave up everything that mattered to me professionally to give her something that mattered more.
And just as I’m about to lean in for a kiss, reality sucker-punches me in the stomach.
The game. My team. The playoffs I just abandoned for a ballet stage.
Before I can spiral into a self-induced panic, Zoe and Lila burst into the backstage hallway, arms flying around us in a tangle of excitement.
“Uncle Liam!” Lila squeals with the pure enthusiasm only children can achieve. “That was amazing!”
Zoe looks at Petra. “You were mesmerizing!”
“Thank you. So nice to meet you finally!”
“I couldn’t think of better circumstances to meet the woman who got my brother into tights,” Zoe says before embracing Petra in a hug.
Then Zoe’s phone buzzes. Her expression shifts from amusement to something that makes my pulse spike.
“Liam…” she says as she looks at her phone.
I freeze.
“The Sentinels came back,” says Zoe.
My eyes widen. “What?”
“They tied it at three. Dewey Carter scored three goals in the third period. It’s not over, Liam!”
I blink, processing the information. “Overtime?”
She nods with the vigor of someone delivering a miracle. “Yes, the third period just finished. You can still make it for overtime!”
I whirl around, brain shifting from artistic mode to tactical planning mode. “Should I cab it there?”
“Too much traffic,” Petra says.
“Subway?” I ask.
“Can’t risk delays,” says Zoe.
My mind races through increasingly desperate options. Helicopter? Teleportation?
“I have a motorized scooter,” Petra says, her eyes gleaming. “I keep it at the theater. From when I had a foot injury. It should be charged.”
I don’t hesitate because hesitation is for people who aren’t wearing ballet costumes while their team plays overtime games.
“Where is it?”
The wind whips against my face as I fly down Broadway on the pink motorized scooter that wasn’t designed for someone my size racing through Manhattan traffic in a Cavalier costume.
I grip the handlebars tight, weaving through the traffic. The scooter is fast, but the streets are chaos—a symphony of horns, curses, and the general hostility that makes New York traffic famous.
I weave between lanes like I’m in a video game where the stakes are my career, and my life for that matter. A delivery truck lurches forward, missing me by millimeters. A bus roars by me, its headlights temporarily blinding me while I navigate by pure instinct and prayer.
Times Square is Dante’s tenth circle, the one he didn’t write about because it was too horrifying. Flashing billboards assault my retinas while unsuspecting tourists step into my path.
“Move, move outta the way, move it or lose it, everybody!” I shout.
A delivery guy on a motorized bike screams profanities as he nearly clips me. I don’t have time to respond in kind. I’m a man on a mission, wearing tights, racing through Manhattan on a device that likely has flowers on it somewhere.
Sixth Avenue approaches, and I blow through a yellow light.
Madison Square Garden appears like a beacon of hope or possibly just a place to suffer a final humiliation.
I skid to a stop, tires screeching along the pavement as I burst through the players’ entrance.
The sprint through the corridors becomes a blur of stunned security guards doing double-takes, staff members questioning their eyesight, and at least one janitor who drops his mop.
“Was that LeClerc dressed as a…ballerina?”
I ignore everything except forward momentum, yanking the locker room door open to find my team preparing for overtime. The room goes silent. Every head turns with synchronized confusion.
Dewey, still drenched from his third-period heroics, looks me up and down.
“Uh,” he manages. “Are you wearing a cape?” I rush to my stall. Gloves. Pads. Jersey. I transform from ballet dancer to hockey player in record time. I grab my helmet, snap it on, and race toward the ice with my team, leaving a trail of tulle, confusion, and a touch of glitter in my wake.
The game isn’t over yet. Madison Square Garden awaits, and in the stands, twenty thousand people stand anxiously, possessing no idea that their overtime entertainment just arrived via a hot pink scooter.