Spiral (Off the Ice Book 2)
Spiral: Chapter 4

“FIVE MINUTES.” OUR stagehand’s shrill voice catches my attention just as the lights power on one at a time. The glare forces me to squint as the bright lights attack my exhausted eyes and rebooting brain. The rest of the dancers trickle onto the stage for the first act.

Cursing under my breath, I take a deep inhale and redo the satin ribbons on my pointe shoes for a third time. The mundane task is second nature at this point, almost automatic, but today, my mind has been drifting off. Specifically, to the number that sits in my phone waiting for me to call it.

Elias Westbrook might be the first guy I haven’t been able to break down in my head, and that fact is practically gnawing at me. So far, I’ve decided he’s the slightly obsessive-compulsive type, the kind that keeps the house tidy and has a specific place for everything. Even for those little plastic bread tags that keep the loaves fresh. He probably has a strict schedule he never deviates from and eats the same thing every day. Like oatmeal.

But there’s a look to him that tells me if I had known him at another point in his life, my assessment would be proven incorrect. That’s where I hit a brick wall in my slightly psychotic hyper-analysis, and now there’s a very curious part of me that wants to pry until I uncover all his secrets.

Maybe I have a proclivity for wanting to peel back the layers of people I find intriguing. It’s partly due to the plethora of my own problems. Daddy issues? Mommy issues? Eldest daughter issues? Take your pick.

It’s been two days since the fundraiser, and the rookie’s been at the forefront of my brain. Even though I learned my lesson about athletes when I dated Owen Hart.

Owen and I met when I was a freshman and dated until my senior year. When I was studying at Seneca College in Toronto, he got called to play hockey for the developmental team of the Vancouver Vulture’s. The last half of our underwhelming relationship was long distance.

Owen wanted me to follow him to Vancouver, but I would never move away from Sean. I chose to study at a cheap local college after paying for Sean’s first year at York Prep. When my uncle found out I got into the University of Toronto, he offered to pay for both our educations. I couldn’t let him pay for me. However, even my stubbornness wouldn’t let me turn down his offer to help Sean. In turn, my uncle’s help allowed me to stay in the dingy college dorms instead of scraping my last penny to afford off-campus housing.

That last year of my relationship with Owen was my breaking point, because with the long distance he became overbearing and controlling. He didn’t like how much time I dedicated to ballet or to Sean. At the same time, Owen felt he was perfectly reasonable in his pursuit of hockey, despite his failure to get called up. He’s the reason I didn’t make friends in college during our on-and-off relationship. Even my roommate requested a dorm transfer after hearing us fight on the phone every night.

For some, the breakup would be fresh, considering it happened just a few months ago, but every cell in my body wants to move on. I wouldn’t say I’m actively going through a breakup, but maybe a therapist would debunk that and tell me crying in my rusty shower every week isn’t a coping strategy. But I’m not crying over him.

So, going on a date with someone who, quite frankly, is the hottest guy I’ve ever had in my phone sounds like a solid idea to me.

“Hustle, Beaumont,” the director urges.

I snap out of my reverie, and with my pointe shoes on right, I fall into line with the rest of the dancers. As a soloist, I’ve taken on any and every role to remain an active ballerina. So, when my old ballet teacher invited me in for a guest spot as Titania in their company’s annual A Midsummer Night’s Dream showcase, I couldn’t refuse. Today is the first day of the school shows that we use as practice performances before the big night. It’s nothing fancy, and I don’t get paid, but it helps keep me motivated.

Fixing my gaze ahead, I await my cue as two of the principal dancers acting as Hermia and Lysander complete their sequence, and that’s when I see him.

Marcus Smith-Beaumont sits in the crowd, watching the performance with a tender smile, a prideful gleam in his eyes that makes me fight the burning sensation in my own.

The guest spot of Titania, the queen of the fairies, is ethereal and solely aided by the play’s use of a love potion to entangle her in a spell where she falls in love with Bottom, a donkey-headed character. Our pas de deux is romantic, despite the donkey costume he’s wearing that garners laughs from the audience. My chest heaves as we make our last moves in the ensemble dance and the act loops to its end, until the curtains close.

I watch the rest of the performance on the backstage monitor, itching to take off my uncomfortable outfit that somehow makes my headache worse. When one of the dancers offers me an ibuprofen, I take it. The final act finishes, so we all head back to the stage for our bows.

The director pops her head into my shared dressing room when we’ve finally changed out of our tight costumes. “Get some water, then it’s time for notes.”

By the time I’ve unwrapped my hair, wiped off some of my makeup, and peeled whatever’s left of the gems on my face, I head down to where we get our performance notes.

A lack of musical phrasing, expressions, and coordination seems to be the theme for today’s constructive criticism.

“Sage, I need you to pick an emotion and stick to it. Either hypnotized, infatuated, or playful, it’s your call.” She moves on quickly, and I make a mental correction for next time, already applying the note to what I missed in my performance.

As I shuffle out of the metal doors and into the warm afternoon air, I spot my uncle by his car at the end of the lot. When I reach him, he engulfs me in an enthusiastic hug. It’s moments like this when I don’t ponder an alternate universe where my entire family would be in the audience, cheering me on and waiting with flowers. The reality of their absence is so stark that even conjuring up a fake scenario can’t distract me from it.

The most recent memory that’s been trailing my thoughts every night before I try to sleep is from when I was fourteen. I took a not-so-legal dishwashing job at the local café to help cover my ballet lessons, and I stashed my earnings under my bed. Just when I had saved enough for a new pair of pointe shoes that wouldn’t blister my toes on every plié and a leotard that actually fit my growing body, it all vanished, along with my parents. All that remained was a heavy burden of disappointment pressing down on my chest, and a dusty cardboard box.

“You did amazing. Best I’ve ever seen you,” my uncle says.

“You say that every time.”

He chuckles, shrugging innocently. “There was something different about you this time. It’s like you had something to prove.” His gaze practically lasers right through me.

I shift my focus to rubbing off some of the blue eyeshadow that stains my fingers. To escape the third degree about whether my life is falling apart, I pull out my phone and excuse myself. I don’t know whether I’m prompted by recklessness or impulse, but I dial the number that’s been taunting me all day.

The line rings a few times, and when it’s finally answered, it’s not the rookie’s voice at all.

“Hi, can I speak to Elias?” I say awkwardly into the phone.

“Who is this?” the throaty voice asks, and somehow I feel like I recognize it. He sounds gruff and exhausted, as if he’s been answering calls all day, and I’ve happened to catch him after a particularly bad one.

“Sage,” I inform. “Elias gave me this number at the league’s fundraiser.”

There’s a pause and some shuffling. “Auction Girl. Yeah, this is Mason, his agent.”

I’m hit with a boatload of irritation. He put his agent’s number in my phone? You’ve got to be kidding me. He practically insisted on going on a date, and then he crushed the smidge of hope I had for him.

“Can you give him the phone?” I mutter.

“Nope. He’s training at the arena today. You’re out of luck, kid.” The patronizing response grates against my ears.

“I can send him a text and I can coordinate a call if he wants to correspond.”

“No, don’t worry about it.” When I hang up, there’s a restless fire kindling somewhere under my ribs. I turn to my uncle, who’s standing by his car. “Can I get a ride?”

It’s obvious he finds this surprising, because I always insist on taking the bus. The less I rely on people, the less I’m let down.

“Sure, but I gotta stop by the arena first,” he says quickly.

I smile. “That’s what I was hoping for.”

He drives to the music playing from some old radio station, and pretty soon I can see the blue and white of the arena illuminating the downtown core.

When he pulls into a spot in the underground staff parking, he turns to me. “You can stay here or come up with me.”

“I’ll come up. It’ll be nice to see some of the staff again.” And a certain hockey player.

We take the elevator up and head straight to my uncle’s office. As he’s studying a file, I pretend to look interested in some of the news articles he has framed on his walls. The Thunder’s Stanley Cup wins, Sean’s youth hockey league articles, and my first ballet review. My uncle turns to his computer, so I inch back toward the door.

“The bathroom is around the corner, right?”

He’s not paying attention when he nods, so I slip out of his office and down the hall.

With determination fueling each step, I head toward the arena dressing room where the guys are changing after practice. The halls are deserted, and I don’t encounter any security. I burst through the doors of the locker room. Not even the sight of naked guys, who startle at my sudden arrival, can throw me off.

Only a handful of the players are in here, and I recognize Socket, the goalie, gawking at me. I don’t bother scanning the room further because it’s not difficult to spot my quarry from the overgrown hair at the base of his neck and the unmistakably broad shoulders. He’s too busy rifling through a gym bag to notice me.

“You.” I’m pointing at Elias’s naked back, but when he turns, I’m not prepared for his wet chest. Water droplets skid down his smooth skin, and in a sort of trance, I watch their descent. They disappear past his happy trail, soaking into the towel he has wrapped around his waist.

Somehow I manage to lift my gaze to a more appropriate destination, like his face, but it’s equally distracting. Inky wet hair sticks to his forehead, neat brows curving gently above his eyes, and the narrow bridge of his nose, which is somehow perfect even though I know it’s rare to play hockey unscathed.

Elias’s gaze melts over me. He only looks away to glance over his shoulder at his half-naked teammates, all staring at the finger I have adamantly pointed at him.

The silence inches toward discomfort.

I finally find my voice again. “Do you make Mason do all your dirty work?”

Dark brows knit together. “What?”

Unbelievable. “Your agent? You put his number in my phone at the auction because you were too scared to just reject me like a decent human being.”

There’s a low sound of disapproval from his teammates, some of whom I’ve met from hanging out at the arena with my uncle or picking up the odd job here.

Seeing Elias’s throat bob brings a cool sense of satisfaction to the fire that burned beneath my ribs earlier. The part of me that worried if he even remembered my name dissipates quickly when he awkwardly brings a hand to rub the back of his neck.

“Can we talk outside?” he says.

I nod, understanding that being half naked with an equally exposed audience isn’t the best time for a confrontation. Though I have no qualms about it.

I head out, pacing the halls and hoping my uncle doesn’t spot me.

When I’m taking a sip of water at the fountain, I hear his words. “You have every right to be angry, Sage.”

I wipe my mouth and watch his approach. He’s dressed in a dark blue Thunder T-shirt that stretches across his chest and biceps, easily snatching my attention and slowing my thoughts before I consciously reel them back.

“You remember my name?”

He stares blankly. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sorry for giving you the wrong number. I was stressed that night, and as you know, I haven’t had the best luck with women trying to come into my life.”

When he pushes back the damp hair that was sticking to his forehead, I find myself mapping the contours of his face. His brown eyes, straight nose, and a bottom lip plumper than the top one blend together effortlessly. He’s impossible not to stare at. It’s a shame they make hockey players wear helmets that obstruct the fans’ view of their faces. Maybe I should start a petition.

“And I’m always extra cautious. Giving out Mason’s number is like second nature now.”

Suddenly, I feel terrible for ripping into him for something that’s a safety precaution. I don’t follow hockey as closely as Sean, who knows everything about the players and their history, so this is past my area of expertise—which isn’t much to begin with.

“I’m not going to stalk you,” I finally say.

“I didn’t think you were, but it’s a habit.” He digs his phone out of the pocket of his sweatpants. “Here. Put your number in and call yourself.”

I’m already backing away. This is so embarrassing. Getting a guy to pity me, then bullying him into giving me his number, is a new low for me. “No need. I get it, I don’t want to intrude.”

“I want your number, and I want to take you on that date.”

That’s what he said last time.

“Are you sure this isn’t a burner phone?”

He doesn’t laugh as he hands me his phone. Snickering, I punch in my number and call my phone.

“Now, don’t go handing that out to just anyone,” I remark. “Unless they’re seriously hot.”

“I thought you weren’t into hockey players.”

“It seems I’ve made an exception.”

He glances up from his phone with an easy smirk. “That makes two of us.”