Spiral (Off the Ice Book 2)
Spiral: Chapter 17

WHEN PERFORMANCE DAY rolls around, the preshow jitters are running rampant.

Elias got in early this morning, and I only knew that because my insomnia was in full force. The latest video I posted online was liked by all types of accounts, two of them being the NHL and Toronto Thunder page. But the one that had my hands clammy was a like from the official NBT page after multiple people tagged them in the comments. I’ve made it clear that my goal is to dance for the company, and now that I know they’re aware of my existence, I’m terrified.

But my thoughts are divided between the possibility of fulfilling my dream and the picture Elias posted last night.

Yesterday, Summer and I were having a self-care night and watching a Turkish drama she insisted I would love. She was right, because I was glued to the TV by the second episode. It was something I’d never done with someone else before, and it felt nice. Relaxing, even.

When I told her about my performance next week, she was willing to delay her flight back to Dalton to attend. Obviously, I didn’t let her do that, but the thought swelled my heart.

Then, as she was showing me embarrassing videos of their friends in college, she gasped. Elias had posted the picture of him and me with the star-infused under-eye masks, the one I took the first night he came over. Our heads are right next to each other, and he’s staring at me while I’m smiling. He captioned it the best part of my day.

I had a physical reaction to seeing those six words under a picture of us posted by his own volition. Not even because they led to my followers ascending into the five-digit category, but because I felt hot, my hands got sweaty, and I had to continuously remind myself that it was fake. Summer’s teasing didn’t help the heat burning my cheeks.

This morning, Elias was sound asleep, so I slipped out to head straight to the studio for a quick practice session. Now, the organized chaos backstage in the auditorium of Rosedale High School gets my adrenaline pumping.

I sent the address to my uncle, and I hesitated, then deleted the same text I was about to send Elias. He’s exhausted from his away game, that much was clear from him sleeping in, and I’m sure he only said he’d attend to be nice. He’s doing more than enough by posting me.

My dress feels tight, and I hope it’s tight because of my nerves and not because I’ve gone up a size. I push the automatic thought away. I don’t think like that anymore. But it only took a few bad ballet directors during my teenage years to make those thoughts run constant. It’s been hard keeping them out, but I try. I don’t give myself food restrictions or focus on a certain size.

I wear my clothes, my clothes don’t wear me.

When there’s a knock on my dressing room door—which doubles as the janitor’s storage closet—I finish sticking a final gem on the corner of my eye and open the door. I’m expecting to see our stage manager or the dancer I’m sharing the small room with, but it’s Elias.

My breath whooshes out of me, and I stare at him, completely stunned. He’s in dark jeans and a black T-shirt under a thin midnight blue jacket. The cotton fabric of the shirt underneath stretches across his chest, and I secretly wish it would spontaneously tear off. His body crowds the threshold, and he holds a bouquet of pink and white peonies.

“You’re here,” I say breathlessly. His eyes roam the green costume and the delicate chiffon with silver embroidery. I’m wearing a jewel-encrusted crown and a moonstone necklace to emulate Titania, the fairy queen.

He clears his throat. “I said I would be.”

I eye the flowers. “Are those for me?”

Elias doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze soaks into me, burning a path in a slow perusal of every inch of my skin. My heart thumps wildly against my rib cage.

“Elias.”

His gaze flicks to mine, and he quickly hands me the flowers. I assess the pretty bouquet, smelling the sweetness with a hint of citrus.

I shoot him a pointed glance. “What happened to the no-flowers rule?”

“I didn’t like it.”

I scoff. “That’s not fair. What about the rules I don’t like?”

“Why?” He takes a step closer. “You think you’ll need a good luck kiss?”

A hot flush ignites a chaotic fire beneath my skin. I swallow, letting my gaze fall to his lips. “Wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

The silence breeds anticipation in my thumping heart.

“Might be,” he whispers before he moves to the vanity lighting the room. “So, what’s your pregame ritual?”

He fiddles with my makeup and notepad. “I usually make notations of the choreography and run through each position in my head. But it always feels like I miss a few anyway.”

He nods, quietly taking in the tiny space. A knock sounds, and my stage manager pops his head in. “We’re on in five, Sage.”

When the door closes, the air feels tight again. I worry I’ll be too short of breath to perform if he stays here a second longer. But when he enters my bubble, I let him.

Elias leans forward, and everything else ceases to exist. The noise of the dancers in the hallways, the dragging of props by the stage crew, and the PA system announcing the time till curtain up. At this moment, it’s only him and me. And the cardiac event I’m having.

But instead of claiming my lips like I hope, he kisses my forehead. “Good luck,” he whispers, then walks out before I can comprehend any of it.

My mind is in a whirlwind when I make it to the side stage and wait for my cue. But the second I hear the first notes, I focus only on dancing.

The blinding stage lights flush me in white and make the sparkling fabric in my dress shimmer as I move into my first position. This time when I glance out into the crowd, I see my uncle right up front, smiling as always. But the face that sends a dart to my chest is Elias’s. His gaze sticks to me like magnets to steel, and I feel a static charge envelop me.

When my act is complete, I watch the rest of the show from the side stage, and I’m still high from my performance when my old teacher, Madame Laurent, taps my shoulder.

“Sage, I’ve seen your clips online. My students absolutely love you,” she gushes.

After a performance, it’s hard to reel in my emotions, so my eyes water when I hug her tight. Amy Laurent has been a constant in my life from the age of eleven to eighteen, so she’s seen me grow through all the big phases of my life.

“How have you been?”

Her sweet query makes me smile because I remember her as the strict ballet teacher who always pushed me to the limit. “Auditioning. I’m waiting to secure an audition for Swan Lake.”

“Your goals haven’t changed, but you have,” she says thoughtfully. “And the moment they see you dance, you’ll be in. I’m sure of it.” Then she cocks her head. “Is the hockey player in the front row your boyfriend? I’d like to meet him after the show.”

I nod, and I’m hoping she doesn’t see what just a mention of him does to my face.

Shortly after, we assemble back onstage for our final bow and performance notes from our directors. When I head to the main lobby of the school, I spot my uncle.

“You killed it. Amy was ecstatic to have you perform the guest role,” he says.

For the longest time, I thought Madame Laurent and my uncle would make a great couple. He was in a relationship a few years back, so I never said anything. But now is perfect.

“She’s single, you know.”

“I see your teenage dream of us getting together hasn’t gone away.”

Uncle Marcus broke up with his fiancée a few years ago. He never talks about it, and I never ask, but I’ve always had a feeling it was because of us. I doubt that any woman would be okay with her partner neglecting her for the children of his drug-addicted half brother.

“Never.”

He gives me a stony look. “Come on, I’ll drop you at home.”

It’s then I realize he has no clue about my disastrous apartment fire or that I’m living with his rookie. “I’m going to stay a bit.” I try to ignore the conversation we should be having.

He’s impassive. “It’s hard to miss a six-foot-four hockey player in the crowd, Sage.”

My face feels hot. “I meant to tell you.”

“Before or after he announced it in an interview on live television?”

I wince.

“I know you’re an adult, and you can make your own decisions. But just let me be a part of some of them, yeah? Even if I’m not particularly enthused about this one.”

“He’s a good guy, Uncle Marcus. You haven’t even given him a chance.”

“Trust me, I’ve given him a chance.”

As if on cue, Elias comes up behind me, sliding his arm around my waist like any regular boyfriend. That doesn’t stop my breath from hitching though.

“Eli,” my uncle acknowledges.

“Marcus,” Elias returns.

“Text me when you’re home, Sage,” my uncle says before he walks out the doors.

Elias watches my uncle’s descent with a grimace. “You two need to figure something out,” I say, turning to him fully. “So, what did you think?”

“About?”

I knock a playful hand to his chest. “Everything. Rate me.”

Elias finally looks at me, and his slow perusal makes me regret asking.

“The outfit, a solid ten. The makeup, another ten. But the performance …” He trails off.

When I’m going to smack his arm, he captures my wrist and pulls me right to him.

Elias removes a paper from his pocket. It’s the notes from my dressing room with my dance sequence. “An eleven. You were amazing. I googled all the moves, and you hit every single point.”

I’m unsure what to make of this. “Why would you do that?”

He must understand what I mean, because his brown eyes hold mine. “Because you second-guess yourself and think you’re doing terribly onstage when you’re not. Just in case you forgot, I wanted to be the one to remind you.”

His words cause physical reactions in my body. But he mistakes my shiver from his compliment for being cold and slips off his jacket to slide it over my shoulders.

I pinch the jacket tighter around me, and when I reach into the pockets there’s a familiar pack of shiny gems. “What’s this?”

“Your extra glue and crystals.”

It’s the pack I left at home. “Why did you bring them?”

“You told me that one time they came off before you even got onstage and how upset you were. I didn’t want that happening again.”

A foreign feeling grips my heart, and to escape it, I engulf him in a tight hug. My hands barely make it around his shoulders, but Elias easily lifts me off my toes, and I melt into his arms.

Back on my feet, I keep smiling. “A hug like that and I might forget this is fak—”

He cuts off my words when he seals his lips to mine.

The kiss is gentle and tentative, like he’s surprised to feel my mouth on his, ready and reciprocating without even a hint of delay. My fists tighten in his shirt, wanting him closer despite the sweltering summer breeze. He tilts my head to deepen the kiss, and my nerves jumble into a tangle of colorful Christmas lights. He fists the back of my hair, and the sting accompanies the hot lust igniting my core. My mind works overtime to make sense of the possessive touch, the action like a dusty puzzle piece you find on the floor to finally complete the picture.

Elias Westbrook likes to be in control.

If my own wasn’t so erratic, I’d be shocked to find his heartbeat hammering under my palm. The sigh that leaves me is of pure pleasure and satisfaction, but his answering moan is tortured. The quick, teasing sweep of his tongue leaves a tingle in my mouth that begs for more.

When he pulls back, I’m disoriented. Like I’ve gotten off a roller coaster and have to lean against something to get my bearings straight. But if I leaned against Elias, I’m sure I’d rip my clothes off and ask him to take me in the school bathroom or something equally as stupid.

There’s a flash of white that brings me back to earth. A teenager stands in the crowd of families and shamelessly points his phone at us.

My gaze slips back to Elias’s blank expression, and for a second, I think I imagined the kiss. But the smudge of shiny lip gloss on his mouth tells me it was real. I want to cover him with glossy lip-shaped marks and claim him like an animal.

“You must be the boyfriend.”

Amy Laurent’s voice makes me stiffen, and I push away from Elias. He shakes my former teacher’s hand, and nods proudly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ve been teaching Sage forever, and I’ve never seen her this free when she dances. It’s nice to see, and I’m hoping it’s partly thanks to you.”

“It’s all her. She’s a whole new person on that stage.” Elias pulls me into his side, and she watches us with a wide smile that has to hurt her cheeks.

“Come on, we need a group picture,” Madame Laurent says.

The dancers bring in their partners, and parents, as they crowd around us.

When the dancers are shuffling to take a picture, I can’t hold back. I clutch the fabric of his shirt and yank. “What happened to no PDA?” I whisper when he leans down.

I can see his Adam’s apple bob before he answers. “It felt necessary at that moment.”

“So, it wasn’t fake?” My heart thumps wildly.

“No.”

“No?”

“You were a second away from blurting that this is fake, with people all around us. Filming us with their phones. I’ve seen articles about this being a PR stunt and didn’t want to add fuel to that fire.”

I deflate. He was trying to shut me up, but even as my hope withers, my mind latches on to the last part of his sentence. “You’re still reading those?”

He shrugs.

Even with my lips still tingling from that kiss, I’m irritated that Elias still lets headlines get to him. He doesn’t deserve it, and I want to be the one to show him that.

Elias takes a seat on the bench beside Madame Laurent, then he loops an arm around my midsection to pull me into his lap. I stiffen.

His lips brush against my ear. “Relax.”

My wobbly smile barely holds, then the flash goes off, and I realize Elias didn’t look at the camera at all. His eyes are on me.