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

BROKE BALLERINA.

It kind of has a ring to it.

“Auditions will be held again in the spring. We do not need any more background dancers.” Aubrey Zimmerman barrels through the rotating glass doors in a flurry.

Next year? That’s an entire dancing season gone. Another year older. Another stack of unpaid bills. Another has-been.

Broke, washed-up ballerina.

Not so catchy.

“Mr. Zimmerman, I’m here to audition for the swan queen.”

Either he hears the desperation in my voice, or my statement is so bewildering that it stops him in his tracks. My focus lands on the back of his balding head, glistening in the sunlight. He isn’t old in terms of years, but he looks rough for a thirtysomething-year-old. I guess that’s what years in this industry do to a person. Some days, I feel halfway there.

When he turns, his lips tip in a curve that makes me tilt my head to assess it. But then the sound that comes out of his mouth drops my shoulders.

Aubrey Zimmerman is laughing at me. “The swan queen? You’ve stopped the artistic director of Nova Ballet Theatre to declare yourself as the lead for Swan Lake?”

Well, when he says it like that, it sounds laughable. But even with the disdain dripping from his words, I stand tall. It took me three hours to get to this audition. Three. The man sitting next to me on the bus had a cold that I’m sure I caught when he sneezed on me. As if on cue, a chill runs down my spine, though that might be the product of Zimmerman’s icy gaze.

“Yes,” I squeak. I hope my posture is doing enough for my confidence, because my expression has dropped into the depths of hell.

He chuckles. “When I start taking orders from nobodies on the street, I’ll let you know. But thanks for the laugh. I really needed that today.”

Zimmerman answers his ringing phone, dismissing me as he mutters something about never holding auditions in the crack of Ontario. Huntsville was the only city with an open audition because auditions in Toronto are invite-only, so I arrived two hours prior but had to wait in the line that wrapped around the building. By the time I made it to the door, they ended auditions early. They didn’t bother offering the rest of us another audition time.

Irritation flares in my gut as I watch his retreating figure. His bald head and straight-set shoulders burn into my memory. At least I’ll have a new silhouette for my sleep paralysis demon.

A few passersby give me pitying looks that only make my plight worse. It’s the same look I got inside from the director’s assistant.

Nothing seemed to convince her to let me audition, not even the recounting of my dreadful commute and definitely not my childhood story about my love for ballet. It’s the story that got me booked in a winter showcase last year, and I hoped it would work again. Except that showcase was performed at high schools and colleges. It wasn’t exactly a grand production.

“Excuse me.” A voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn to a woman dressed in a blazer and a pencil skirt waving me down. “I think you dropped this,” she says, holding a single sheet of paper out for me.

I take the paper from her and see my name in familiar bold letters at the top. “This is my résumé. The assistant said I could leave it at the front desk.”

There it is again, that pitying look. “I found it on the floor by the recycling bin,” she informs.

Her words strike like a razor blade to the heart. A half whimper, half groan escapes me, and I plaster on a smile to distract her from how hard I clutch my résumé.

“You know,” she whispers, cautiously eyeing our surroundings. “The theater holds these auditions as a formality. Most ballerinas they’ve hired this season are ones who have major social media followings.”

My mouth parts in shock. They’re selecting dancers based on popularity? How is that ethical?

“You seem like a determined dancer, so I wanted to give you a heads-up,” she says before rushing inside.

Her heads-up only manages to heighten the doomed feeling in my gut. My ninety-three followers are chump change. If being hired is based on popularity, they’ll never consider me for the part. Despair clings to me as I toss my crumpled résumé in the trash and head to the train station, holding back a wave of tears I’ll be sure to release during my shower tonight. It isn’t until my phone rings that I shake off my depressing thoughts.

“I have a last-minute job for you.” My uncle’s voice filters through the speaker.

“Is it babysitting for your players’ kids? They’re cute, but one bit me, and I still have a scar on my finger.”

Postgraduation, I was desperate for a job, but I had a rude awakening when I realized even a business degree couldn’t score me a career in this market. Yay for college education!

So my uncle, who works for the NHL, extended a few offers for me to help out his hockey team during the regular season. Including babysitting, dog-sitting, and the one time I cooked for the team last year.

They never asked me to cook again.

“Not this time.” He chuckles. “We need a dancer for our fundraiser tonight. We had a last-minute dropout, and I thought you’d like a gig where you can actually do what you love.”

My uncle has always been supportive of my ballet career. When I was younger, I used to dread looking in the crowd because of the lack of parents cheering me on, but he was always there.

“Thanks, but I’m not feeling very motivated—”

“It’s a thousand bucks for a thirty-minute performance.”

My throat dries, and my words catch. That’s three zeroes for half an hour of my time? I’m discouraged, not stupid.

“I’ll be there.”

Currently, my only source of income is the ballet classes I teach near the university. I haven’t cemented my career there either, because the sign-ups for my classes are embarrassingly low. Why have a perpetual soloist teach your kids when you can have experienced teachers who have booked numerous principal roles?

“I’ll text you the address.”

I locate the nearest Uber because the three-hour bus ride would not cut it tonight. Besides, the money I’ll make would be enough to justify this one ride.

Note to self: One bad situation doesn’t have to become a bad day.

HOURS LATER, I’M immersed in the backstage whispers and last-minute run-throughs, and I find myself shedding the weight of today’s rejection along with my clothes. As soon as I slip into my leotard and my pointe shoes, there’s a tingle that electrifies my body as I wait for my cue.

The first delicate notes of Ravel’s Boléro hit my ears as I follow the other dancers onto the stage and find my position behind the second row. Silhouettes of the audience are visible under the bright lights gleaming off the polished wood stage, and just like that I’m absorbed into the one thing that never fails to help me escape. My thoughts disappear like mist when I glide in perfect formation with the other dancers, mirroring each step as I learned it only an hour ago.

I have a peculiar talent for replicating dances quickly, and that’s probably the reason my uncle was so confident that I could fill in for the last-minute dropout. My focus is on the music, but my gaze wanders the audience for a glimpse of him. It might be the eight-year-old girl in me, but when I see my uncle to the left of the stage, close enough that the bright lights don’t block him, I smile.

The group converges into a tableau, and as the finale approaches, we dive into grand jetés and lifts, the stage a mix of swirling tutus and poised ballerinas. The applause pulls me back to reality, and somewhere, somehow, I hope Aubrey Zimmerman knows that I won’t give up easily.

When the curtains close, encouraging words and high fives fly around the group, giving me the same rush of excitement I’d felt at the age of eight, the first time I found ballet.

Up until then, my only focus was making sure the housework was completed and my younger brother, Sean, had everything he needed. I guess that feeling of responsibility comes with being mature for your age. At least, that’s what every adult I encountered has had to say to me. Soon enough, you start realizing that’s not a compliment. It’s a curse.

But the one thing that would never be a curse? Ballet.

When I was younger, the trip to the convenience store by our house was the highlight of my Sundays, but it became the beginning of the rest of my life. The checkout counter was cluttered with magazines of famous faces and gossip wild enough to scandalize someone’s grandmother, but on that particular day, only one stood out to me. Under the dust and fraying edges of the plastic cover, I saw a poster. The poster. Misty Copeland graced the cover of the newest production of Swan Lake, elegant and as beautiful as ever. I knew then that whoever she was and whatever she did, I wanted to be her.

The poster still hangs on my wall.

“Sage!” I turn to find my uncle climbing the steps backstage. “You keep dancing like that, and I’m sure they’ll hire you full-time.”

I shake my head. “I’m not stealing the poor girl’s job, Uncle Marcus.”

“I can pull a few strings,” he offers, a glimmer of hope in his eyes, just like every other time he’s tried to help me out. All my life, my uncle has felt obligated to care for my brother and me, but I’ve refused. We aren’t his problem, and I never want him to see us as one.

“My auditions are going great. I’ll secure that spot at NBT pretty soon,” I lie.

His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Never doubted you for a second.” His phone vibrates before he silences it. “Get changed, and I’ll have some food ready for you.”

I give him a quick squeeze before darting backstage.

After changing my clothes for the fundraiser, I find a plate waiting for me at my uncle’s table, filled with all my favorites. It isn’t until I’m scarfing down seconds that I remember I need to call Sean.

My little brother is attending boarding school a few hours away. It’s been a difficult adjustment, but I promised to call him every night. Excusing myself from the table, I try to find a quiet corner, but with the auction starting, it’s impossible.

Outside, the rain brings a breeze to cool my skin in my black silk dress. It’s the only nice dress I own, so I was sure to pack it when I headed over here tonight. No one needed to know it was also my prom dress. And my commencement dress.

The phone rings a few times before it’s sent to voicemail. I can’t help the prick of disappointment that pierces my heart. That’s two days without a phone call, and both times it’s been because of my crappy schedule. I text him instead.

Am I the worst sister ever? Promise, I’ll call earlier tomorrow. I miss you, kid.

I stare up at the dark sky and try not to pity myself. That’s when I notice a couple arguing in the corner. Their proximity suggests they’re having an intimate conversation, but the guy backs away, his stance rigid and unwelcoming.

“I’m not interested,” he says.

It’s assertive, but not assertive enough to get the girl away from him. She is completely oblivious to his withdrawn attitude.

Definitely not a couple.

“You will be,” she says, pure determination in her voice.

“Look—Lana, is it?” She must nod, because he continues. “You seem like a nice girl, but I don’t know you. Showing up at my hotel and to my work events isn’t helping your case.”

She laughs. It’s a pretty, soft one that most guys would probably love, but he only stands there like a statue. His dark suit suggests he works with the Toronto Thunder, but his height and physique would be wasted if he isn’t an athlete.

“I can only play your games for so long,” she purrs. This girl cannot take a hint.

“Does that game include showing up naked to ambush me in my hotel room?”

My eyes widen as I stifle a gasp, feeling tense as I eavesdrop on this embarrassing conversation.

However, Lana must not feel it, because she scoffs. “You’re seriously turning me down?”

Yes! I catch the word before it slips past my lips, barely holding myself back from interfering. But when his head hangs, and his shoulders sag, my legs propel me forward.

Confrontation is clearly not his strong suit. Lucky for him, it’s mine.

But the double doors screech open, and an employee dressed in black and wearing an earpiece steps outside.

“Eli, you’re up in five,” he says, waving him inside.

I halt, and Eli breathes a sigh of relief before slipping past the woman. His attention lands on my frozen figure, lingering for a split second, like he’s realized I was eavesdropping the entire time, before he disappears inside. Lana watches his retreat with a fire in her eyes, and when her gaze lands on mine, I pivot and slip past the doors too.

The auction has started when I drop back into my seat just as my uncle excuses himself to head to the bathroom. I glance to my right and choke on my saliva.

Aiden Crawford is sitting at my table—or I’m sitting at his. Either way, I’m freaking out. Not for myself, but for Sean, because he is going to flip when I tell him about this. I don’t pay too much attention to hockey, but from my uncle’s praises of Aiden Crawford, and the jersey with his name that Sean wants for his birthday, I know he’s a big deal.

“Are you okay?” His deep voice forces me to look at him again, only to see him holding out a glass of water. I nod a little too vigorously and drink the water to hide behind it.

“You’re Sage, right? Marcus told us his niece was performing tonight. I’m Aiden.”

I shake his outstretched hand, trying to clear my throat. “My brother’s a huge fan.”

“Yeah?” He smiles. “I can get—shit!”

My head rears, but when I look at Aiden, his eyes are fixed behind me. Following his gaze, I see Lana, the girl from outside, holding a bidding paddle and looking happier than she did a few minutes ago.

The auctioneer’s voice snatches my attention to the stage. “Next up, folks, we have a date with Toronto Thunder’s very own defenseman Elias Westbrook. Get those bidding paddles ready, and let’s see who’ll be the lucky winner!”

I’m shocked to see the guy from outside standing onstage, his jaw clenched and posture stiff. Safe to say, he didn’t willingly sign up for this.

The auctioneer’s voice slices through the hall, loud with excitement. “Let the bidding commence—who’s ready for an unforgettable night with Elias?”

“Sage? How do you feel about doing me a favor?” Aiden suddenly says.

I pull my gaze from Elias to find Aiden’s sheepish smile. What favor could I possibly do for Aiden Crawford? “Depends on what it is,” I say warily.

“This is going to sound crazy, but I need you to outbid her.” Aiden points at Lana, and my eyes widen. He hands me a paddle and types something into his phone before showing me. It’s a sum. A large sum.

“M-me,” I stutter, dumbfounded. Although, the request is reasonable considering what I witnessed outside.

Green eyes lock on mine. “Look, I promised Eli I’d have his back, and that girl cannot win a date. She—”

“Ambushed him in his hotel room?” I say, and he pauses. “I overheard them outside,” I clarify.

His tense shoulders drop. “Good, so you know her winning wouldn’t be good. I’ll pay for it, but since I’m a part of the organization, I can’t bid. Will you do it?” he asks again.

I fidget with the paddle, just as Lana shouts, “Two thousand!”

Did she say two? As in thousands of dollars? The amount Aiden typed is more understandable now. However, I’m not confident that my mouth could perform the motor function necessary to say that number out loud.

At another table, two older women whisper, paddles in hand like they’re preparing for war. “Twenty-two hundred,” someone else interjects.

A trickle of relief cools my panic as I turn to Aiden. “Someone else might outbid her. He seems pretty popular,” I say, desperate for an out.

Aiden nods. “Hopefully, but if not, I will need you to bid.”

“Twenty-five,” a woman shouts, only for two equally eager women to raise the amount. My jaw drops with each increase, and my palms get sweaty when I realize I’ll have to raise my paddle pretty soon.

The auctioneer repeats the number, eyes scanning the room for more.

“Twenty-eight.” Lana’s smooth voice carries an authority that has the overeager women backing off. Uh‑oh.

“Wow! Twenty-eight hundred dollars, ladies and gentlemen. Can we top that?”

Elias stands there with an air of confidence, dark hair perfectly styled, and his muscular form cloaked in an expensive suit. It’s no mystery why these women are throwing around two grand for one dinner with him.

Yet, I can’t ignore the subtle tightness in his body as tension radiates off him in waves. He manages to stare ahead, doing his best not to engage with a very smug Lana.

“Going once …”

Aiden nudges my paddle, and I swallow, scrambling for an excuse. “I don’t even know him,” I whisper.

“Going twice …”

“Please?” Aiden shoots me a killer straight-teeth smile that has me chewing my lip in contemplation. Damn, he’s good.

I sigh, knowing Sean would berate me for refusing to help his idol. My arm shoots up. “Five thousand!”

Elias Westbrook whips his head around to look at me. I force a wobbly smile as more people stare, but I can’t seem to look away from the deep brown eyes that survey me with curiosity and a hint of recognition.

The auctioneer goes around the room three times before he smacks the gavel. “And sold to the beautiful woman in black!”

I won. Holy shit, I won.