Spiral (Off the Ice Book 2)
Spiral: Chapter 43

FINDING MY GIRLFRIEND on my bedroom floor with a lighter and a shoe might be a weird situation for anyone else, but I’m dating a ballerina.

Sage singes the ends of the ribbons on her pointe shoes with the flame while mumbling something to herself.

“Starting another fire?” I ask.

Sage startles. She rolls her eyes and chucks one of her shoes at me. I catch it before joining her on the floor.

Watching me, she finally laughs, and I realize I’ve missed the sound. She’s been so in her head about her big performance that we haven’t been able to just relax.

“Did you sleep?” I ask. My nightmares have been less intense, and I owe it to Sage. But I know her insomnia isn’t getting better with the stress from rehearsals. The tired creases under her eyes confirm that much.

“I feel rested. But I probably shouldn’t have gotten used to sleeping with you,” she says.

I don’t like that. The long distance is inevitable for us, but its reminder isn’t welcome. “It’s only for a year.”

She glances at me. “But after that I’ll have other productions. The schedule is relentless.”

I give her the pointe shoe, brushing my hand over hers. “We’ll figure it out.”

Sage focuses on cutting the ribbons on her other shoe, singing off the ends. She doesn’t speak for a long time, and then she sighs. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

Her words crash in my ears, and I don’t know if I heard her correctly. “Do what?”

“The production.”

My head rears in shock. Those words never would have come out of her mouth a month ago. I fucked up by letting her get lost in this world. She needs to find a balance. It’s the first thing we learn in hockey.

“What are you saying?”

“My whole life, I’ve been running. From people, from my past, and from my reality.” Her voice is shaking. “But now, with you, I don’t feel the need to run. I’m okay with staying right where I am. I think I wanted to join the NBT because it gave me another reason to keep running. I’m chasing this perfect version of myself, and it feels like I have been for years.”

This isn’t the reason she gave me on our first date, and I know that one was the truth. It’s the one thing that’s given her purpose. You don’t give up on that because of one setback.

“You were never meant to keep running, Sage. You were meant to grow, and you have. The Sage who told me her goal was to become as good as Misty Copeland isn’t the same Sage saying she’ll let go of her dream because of one bad day.”

“But it’s not just one bad day,” she argues. “That Sage didn’t see her entire career flash before her eyes when she almost injured her ankle during a rehearsal for the biggest show in her career. My scene partner dropped me for the first time, and I think it was on purpose. I know they don’t want me there and they’re hoping I crumble under the pressure. I’m risking everything to be the principal ballerina, but it’s like there’s a target on my back.”

“What do you mean he dropped you on purpose?” Disbelief runs a line of fire down my back. After I picked up a limping Sage from her last rehearsal, I was worried. It took some icing and rest, and some self-care nights to help the soreness. Knowing someone may have dropped her on purpose lights a rage inside me. “We have to talk to the director. That’s unacceptable.”

She dismisses the notion. “That’s not how it works. I’m not going to accuse them of something without any proof. I’ve been training for weeks, and something always goes wrong. Zimmerman can see that, and he doesn’t accept anything but the best.”

Slowly, the real reason behind her decision becomes clear. She’s never wanted to quit, she’s just afraid she won’t be good enough. “They’re not going to give up on you, Sage.”

She drops her shoes and stands to walk over to the window. “What if they already have?” she whispers.

I follow her. “Did the league give up on me?”

“No, but that’s because you proved yourself.”

“And you don’t think you can do the same?” She doesn’t answer, so I push. “Did you believe in me, Sage?”

This time she turns with a new fire in her. “I’ve always believed in you.”

“And did you wait for me?”

She stares at the floor and murmurs, “Very patiently.”

I hold her waist and press a light kiss to her temple. “So patiently. And look where that got us.”

“In a great roommate arrangement?”

When I nip her ear she chuckles. “It got us something we never thought we’d have.”

I reach for her hand, flipping it over to kiss the inside of her wrist. Her pulse gives away her feelings. I linger—one, two, three kisses in a row.

“If anyone gets it, it’s me. You don’t have to pretend that you’re okay, but I’ll never let you doubt yourself. There’s nothing that can dim your light, and if you think there is, I’d crush it before it ever touched you.”

She turns in my arms to face me. “But I’m serious about not running anymore, Elias. I want to stay with you, and with Sean. I don’t need any of that other stuff.”

I caress the smoothness of her cheek with my palm. “That’s the thing about having your people. We’ll always be right where you left us. Still loving you, and still cheering you on.”

“But I would be happy with you and with teaching at the studio,” she urges. “There’s nothing I want more than to show you exactly how much by staying.”

“If I could handcuff you to myself, I would. But you’re a star, Sage Beaumont, and you’re too precious to be kept a secret.” A stray tear slips down her cheek, but I wipe it away. “The studio will be here when you get back, but right now, you know what your heart wants.”

“Wow, you really want to get rid of me, huh?” Sage jokes.

“Go be a star, Sage.” I hold her face in my palms. “I’ll still be here when you get back.”

TEACHING MY GIRLFRIEND how to cook is harder than I anticipated. Sage is talented in a lot of things, but she needs to stay far away from the kitchen.

After Sage prepped her shoes for tomorrow, she let me practice a few lifts with her because she was worried she may be too heavy for her partner, Adam. Fucking ridiculous. I offered to remind Adam there are consequences for dropping my girlfriend, but she refused. Our practice session quickly turned into a Dirty Dancing reenactment. We nailed it on the first try.

Now, we’re on our second attempt to cook tonight’s chicken dinner because the test piece I gave her burned. She says she’s too impatient to cook.

When I hear a sizzle, I look at the pan to see a cloud of smoke. “Too hot!” Rushing over, I take a tea towel and pull the pan away from the heat. “When it smokes like that, it means the oil is burning,” I explain.

“Isn’t it supposed to be hot?” Sage pouts, holding the tongs in her hand. “I’m not good at this, Elias. The last time I cooked, I reheated a frozen lasagna, and it lit on fire,” she admits.

I flick off the stove heat and stop her from burning the chicken again.

“It’s a work in progress, and I like teaching you. But you don’t have to learn how to cook, baby. I can cook for us.” That would be for the benefit of everyone in this building. Or the firefighters’ biggest nightmare won’t just be her candles.

“No, I want to learn. I’ll cook the next time your friends come over.”

I give her a tight nod. There are worse things than food poisoning.

Then the front door bursts open, and Aiden barrels into the kitchen. “Living room, now.”

His hair is disheveled like he just ran up the stairs rather than taking the elevator. I glance at Sage before we follow him to the living room, where he turns on Sportsnet.

That’s when I see my face. Well, my biological father’s face.

“What is he doing?” Sage asks.

Elias Johnson stumbles onto the screen. His eyes are glazed over with intoxication, his white button-up is stained and wrinkled, and his hair is long and greasy. He’s drunk out of his mind, and it’s obvious from the way he sways at the podium.

I should have expected this—I did expect this. However, seeing him on television makes my fist tighten. He’s using this platform to smear my name, and I find it ridiculous that this outlet would even allow it.

This just solidifies that the media only sees us as monkeys that are expected to perform. Aiden stands by the TV, his jaw clenched in anger. I move to sit on the couch, and Sage sits next to me, pressing her hand into my palm. I hold it tight.

“I can’t fucking believe he’s actually doing it.”

My phone rings somewhere in the apartment, but I don’t go to answer it.

Aiden’s phone rings next. “It’s Mason,” he informs before placing it on speaker.

Mason’s voice is level with a hint of suppressed panic. “Eli, I am so sorry, I wasn’t aware of any of this. It’s unacceptable. We’re trying to cut the broadcast, but—”

“Mason, let him talk. If not now, he’ll find another way.”

“Eli—”

“It’s long overdue.”

“My son isn’t who you think he is,” Elias Johnson starts. The word son from his mouth makes my blood bubble with rage. “Those rich folks you all know as the Westbrooks. The ones he’s calling his parents. Yeah, they hid his scandal—” He stops talking abruptly, leaning forward on the shaking podium with a grunt.

The reporters throw out questions behind the camera as he pulls himself together. There’s a sheen of sweat covering his pale face, and his hands are shaking as he readjusts the mics.

“It started at world juniors. They hid Elias’s habits and he paid me off,” he continues, his speech disjointed and erratic. “I’ve seen it all with my own eyes, and as his father, I worry. My son is using dr—”

I wait for the lies to spill from his mouth and poison the airwaves with his drunken accusations. None of this makes me fearful, but knowing my parents will have to relive it and feel guilty angers me. But then, just as quickly as he started to speak, he clutches his chest and falls forward. His legs must give way beneath him because he tips off the stage and crashes into the reporters in front of him.

“Did he just …” Sage wonders aloud.

Aiden scoffs. “I think he passed out.”

For a moment, there’s stunned silence on the screen, then chaos erupts as the reporters scramble to help him up. But I can’t help but feel a sense of grim satisfaction as I watch his pathetic display.

The broadcast suddenly cuts to a commercial break, and Aiden turns off the TV. I expect anger, sadness, resentment—but nothing comes. I’m not sure if he had a heart attack or the alcohol made him tip over, but I don’t think I care to know.

“No one’s going to let him back on TV after that,” Aiden comments.

Sage rubs a hand on my back. “Are you okay?”

I look to Aiden, then at her hand in mine. “I expected it, and if he wants to get on TV again, which I’m sure Mason will do everything to stop, I’ll deal with it.”

“We’ll deal with it,” corrects Aiden.

He’s right, because I know through it all, I have my real family, and nothing anyone does or says can take that away.