ANOTHER SKY

by Jayne Frost

  I had Emily, whom I paid. Which meant I could dismiss her anytime I wanted. Same for Trinity.

  Shit.

  I looked up to find Reber studying me carefully. But not in the way he used to, like I might break if he applied enough pressure. I hated that look. But this one wasn’t much better. Expectations. That’s what I saw in his eyes. How long had it been since anyone expected anything from me?

  Releasing a tremulous breath, I eased back in my seat. “I’m listening.”

  Gelsey

  I sat perfectly still as Doug, the trainer at Volkov Repertory palpitated my knee. I’d spent the last eighteen hours on my couch with a bag of frozen peas on the injury, and the swelling was practically gone.

  “I told you I was fine.” I flicked my gaze to his face to gauge his reaction, but he didn’t look up.

  “When do you go for the MRI?”

  “Next week. It’s just a precaution. Reber says it’s tendonitis. And it’s almost gone now. See?” I flexed my foot, smiling. “No pain.” He dug his thumb into the little knot, and I winced. “Unless you aggravate it.”

  Oblivious to my scowl, Doug’s fingers moved to my calf, then my ankle, and even my toes. Satisfied when I didn’t flinch at any of his probing, he let go of my leg. “I tend to agree with Reber. But make sure you get that MRI. And remember to ice. Twenty minutes on and twenty minutes off. You don’t want to take any chances.”

  Nodding like I hadn’t heard the spiel a million times, I eased to my feet. “So, I’m good then?”

  Doug added a couple of reminders about rest and elevation as he pulled a roll of KT tape from his smock.

  I took a step back when he motioned for me to get on the table. “You know I can’t.”

  There was no such thing as “modified” practice at Ivan Volkov’s dance company. You had to be one hundred percent or nothing. And today of all days, I couldn’t risk being excluded.

  We stared at each other for a long moment, only breaking eye contact when music floated in from the studio. Doug shifted his focus to the door, and I held my breath. He had the authority to sideline me with only a word. I prayed he wouldn’t exercise that power.

  “Promise me you’ll stop if you feel anything,” he finally said, resignation written all over his face. “It’s not worth risking a permanent injury. I mean it, Gels.”

  Normally, I’d agree with him. But it wasn’t every day that Ivan invited guests from other dance companies into his kingdom. The scouts were here for Sydney, his latest prodigy. So my chances of getting noticed were slim to none. But still, I had to try.

  “I promise.”

  Doug jerked his chin to the door. “Go.”

  Beaming, I grabbed my bag and rushed out of the room before he changed his mind.

  The music stopped, and I slowly let my arms fall to my sides, my weight shifting from my toes to the balls of my feet, and finally, my heels. Careful not to slouch, my attention ping-ponged between Ivan and Sydney.

  Technically, she’d executed every move flawlessly. But something was off. There was no sparkle. No excitement. And even now, she couldn’t be bothered to hold her stance. Toeing the floor with her pointe shoe, she crossed her arms over her chest…and sighed.

  My mouth dropped open.

  At twenty-two, I might risk the small rebellion if Ivan pissed me off enough. Maybe. But at eighteen, Sydney’s age, I would’ve cut my foot off before disrespecting him like that.

  The woman at Ivan’s side, a scout from the New York City Ballet, cringed and dropped her gaze to the floor.

  You could’ve heard a pin drop as Ivan stalked toward Sydney. Mouth set in a grim line and murder in his eyes, he leaned forward into her space. “Are we keeping you from something, malysh?”

  Expecting Sydney to buckle under the weight of his formidable stare, I was shocked when she lifted her chin. “I have a date.”

  A murmur rose in the studio. Quickly silenced when Ivan’s lips parted. Wincing, I braced for the fallout, certain he was going to blow the roof off the place. Instead, his steely blue glare shifted to the group, assessing us one by one, before falling on me. And he smiled.

  “Gelsey, come here, please.” He pointed to a spot beside Micha, who looked ready to swallow his tongue. As the male lead for our company, Micha’s fate was inexplicably tied to Sydney’s. Just as it once had been tied to mine.

  As far as anyone knew, we’d merely been partners. But our relationship had run much deeper. Micha was my first kiss. My first love. My first everything. And because I had as much to lose as he did if anyone ever found out, I’d suffered in silence when he’d dumped me.

  After a moment’s hesitation, I swallowed my pride, taking my spot in front of Micha.

  “Places everyone,” Ivan bellowed.

  In my periphery, I caught a glimpse of Sydney, eyes wide and full of shock. I had no illusions. Tomorrow or the next day or the next week, she’d earn back Ivan’s favor. But for now, she was on the outside looking in. Where I’d been so many times. She stumbled backward with the rest of the crowd, looking like she was ready to cry.

  And for a moment, I felt bad for her. Until I sensed Ivan at my back. Palms molding my hips, he adjusted my stance as the first strains of Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty Waltz filled the air. A second before my cue, he dipped his head and smiled against the shell of my ear. “Make me proud, dorogaya moya.”

  Precious one.

  Ivan hadn’t called me that in years. And the fact that he probably didn’t mean it now, that he was only using me to prove a point, didn’t matter. I was ten years old again, dancing for the very first time on the big stage. Before the injuries. Or the expectations. Or the failures.

  And I just wanted the moment to last.

  Of course, it didn’t, and before I knew it, the song ended, and Micha was holding me above his head in our final pose. It took a second for my brain to engage. And then, as gracefully as possible, I slid down his body, landing on the tips of my toes.

  Perfection.

  I could feel it. Apparently, I wasn’t alone, because applause rang out from someone in the crowd. Loud, enthusiastic applause. I cringed inwardly. Because Ivan’s rules were quite clear on the subject of praise inside the studio.

  Would you clap for the man who serves your food or bags your groceries? This is your job. Nothing more.

  My focus shifted to the rule-breaker, who I assumed was one of the visitors. But it was Ivan himself, standing straight, a small smile pinned to his lips. My heart squeezed painfully, and on instinct, I dropped into a deep curtsey, my chin falling to my chest. Also forbidden. But I didn’t care. Ivan was my teacher, my mentor, and he deserved the respect.

  Linking my fingers with Micha’s when he didn’t move, I gave his hand a sharp tug. “Bow,” I hissed, and for once he did as he was told.

  We held our positions—only breaking character when Ivan turned back to his guests. Curving a hand around my elbow, Micha pulled me to my feet. Instead of the scowl I expected to find for telling him what to do, he smiled down at me the way he used to. Only now, the blinders were off, and I saw him for what he was. An opportunist. A user. And a liar.

  Micha’s palm skimmed higher, coming to rest on my nape. “Damn, Gels. That was awesome. Have you been practicing?”

  Fire ignited in my blood. Because I hadn’t missed a rehearsal in months. Which only proved I didn’t exist in Micha’s world. Not as a dancer. Or a person.

  “Every day.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the three scouts heading our way. Micha saw them too, and his arm fell to his side. Walking backward with a stupid grin spreading across his face, he said, “You were great today, Gels. Thanks for helping out.” He glanced me over with renewed interest. “We should have dinner sometime.”

  Before I could tell him I’d rather eat dirt, he turned on his heel and sauntered toward the scouts. Burying my disappointment when not one of them looked my way, I held my chin high and turned for the door. By the time I got to the dress
ing room, the adrenaline rush had faded, leaving only shaky hands and wobbly legs.

  Dropping onto the bench in front of my locker, I rubbed my knee, fighting back tears.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Whipping my gaze to the door, I blinked at the woman from the New York City Ballet.

  “Uh…yeah. I’m fine.” Hauling to my feet, I forced a smile. “Can I help you find something?”

  “No.” She glanced me over, astute blue eyes lingering on my knee. “You are injured?”

  She spoke with the same Russian accent as Ivan, and I straightened, despite myself. “Just a little tendonitis.”

  Stepping closer, she took in every inch of the dressing room. “Katya had weak knees as well.”

  Surprised by the familiarity in her tone, I blurted, “You knew my mom?”

  Smiling, she glided over to me with a dancer’s grace, her four-inch heels barely skimming the tile. “Da.” She motioned for me to sit, then eased down beside me. “I’m Tatiana. Katya and I danced together. Well, mostly I watched. She was the star.”

  “You trained at the Joffrey?”

  Wistful brown eyes swept the room once again. “No. I trained in St. Petersburg. With Ivan. In a studio very much like this one.” She brushed perfectly manicured fingertips over one of the lockers before turning back to me. “Ty govorish’ po-russki?”

  “Oh, no.” I shook my head. “I mean, nyet. I don’t speak Russian.”

  “Neither did Katya. She butchered the language, actually. I just thought, with all the time you’ve spent with Ivan…” She patted my leg. “Never mind. Now tell me about your troubles.”

  “My what?”

  “Your knee. How bad is it?”

  My gaze slid to the door to see if Ivan was lurking in the hallway. But who was I kidding? Ivan didn’t lurk.

  “Why do you want to know about my injuries?” When I realized what I’d just admitted, my throat tightened. “Not that I have any.”

  She laughed. “Nonsense. We all have injuries. I just want to know the severity of yours. Do you have your medical records?”

  “Wait…what?” I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Tatiana. I don’t mean to be rude. But why would I possibly share that information with you?”

  She folded her hands in her lap, all traces of humor gone. “I thought you understood—that Ivan told you—I’m here on behalf of the New York City Ballet. Before I can recommend you for an apprentice position in the company, I need to know exactly what we are dealing with.”

  If her face weren’t so serious, I’d think she was joking. She had to be.

  “But…I’m twenty-two,” I sputtered.

  Past my prime. Not a has-been. A never-was. And that was worse.

  She tilted her head. “Da. So?”

  The hope blooming in my chest shrank against the harsh light of the truth. My truth. Because once I answered her question, she wouldn’t be smiling anymore.

  As if she could sense my inner turmoil, Tatiana took my hand. “In Russia, we have a saying. I do not really know how to translate. But basically, it means we do not feed our devils.” When my brows drew together, she sighed. “It’s more like a superstition. We do not talk about the things that can hurt us. We do not…give them life. Perhaps you are more Russian than you think?”

  Curling my free hand around the edge of the bench, I dug my nails into the wood. Should I tell her? Trust her with my secret?

  “My knee is not the problem,” I began hesitantly. “It’s my back. I was born with a… defect. In my lower spine. It’s a stress fracture that will never heal.” Expecting her to wish me luck and walk out, I was surprised when she merely nodded. “It’s permanent,” I added, in case I wasn’t clear. “Forever.”

  She contemplated for a moment. “Have you sought treatment?”

  Recalling every hour I’d spent on the exam table or with the strength coach or in the pool, I nodded. “Extensively. This is as good as it gets.”

  “Well, it never held Katya back. So I think it will not be a problem.” My mouth fell open and she gave me the oddest look. “You did not know your mother suffered from the same ailment?” I shook my head, and it was Tatiana’s turn to sigh. “Katya was very guarded about her secret, so I am not surprised. Very few people knew.”

  Bits and pieces of my mother’s most notable performances lit the corners of my mind. The Black Swan in Swan Lake. Aurora in Sleeping Beauty. Clara in the Nutcracker Suite. I’d seen the footage a thousand times on YouTube. The way her body bent, so effortlessly.

  “Of course, you will have to take more precautions, the way your mama did,” Tatiana continued as she pushed to her feet. “Listen to your body. Rest is essential. But I see no reason I should withhold my recommendation. Unless…” Her shrewd gaze raked me over once more. “What is it you are not telling me?”

  I felt the flush rise from my chest. “I don’t…I mean…I haven’t…” Just say it. Lifting my chin, I looked her in the eyes. “I don’t have any money. So I don’t think New York will be an option for me.”

  She waved a dismissive hand like she was swatting away a fly. “The company will put you up in an apartment. Shared, of course. And you would earn a small wage. Should you land a bigger role, your salary would increase. All you need is spending money for a time. After that, the patrons will follow.”

  Patrons…

  When I was young, I had a few donors who saw the potential in my dancing. Maybe because I was Katya’s daughter, they considered me a good bet to fill her shoes. But they all disappeared as my injuries piled up. Leaving only Ivan. He covered the cost of my essentials. Shoes and clothes and any trips.

  “What about Ivan?” I asked. “Is he aware…I mean, does he know…about this?”

  “Do you think your mentor a stupid man?”

  Amusement flashed in Tatiana’s eyes, and I smiled in response. “No.”

  “Out of all the young women out there, he chose you.”

  “But, Sydney—”

  “Is a willful child,” she interjected. “Spoiled. And Ivan knows this. He was not surprised by today’s outcome.” Straightening to her full height—no more than five foot four without the sky-high heels—she looked down at me. “Have you ever played chess with Ivan?” I shook my head. “You should. Then you will realize he never makes a move without knowing what his next one will be. Money aside, are you interested in coming to New York?”

  I glanced over the framed photos lining the walls. Fonteyn and Pavlova and Baryshnikov. Ivan. My mother. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted,” I said softly.

  As if the matter were settled, Tatiana took my hands and gave my fingers a squeeze. “Good. Then I will make the arrangements. All you need to do is prepare your solo piece. Ivan will help.” With that, she headed to the door. “See you soon, Gelsey.”

  Miles

  The YMCA. Seriously? This was where my miraculous recovery was supposed to take place? At the Y?

  Peeking out the window of the swinging door in the men’s dressing room, I scanned the pool area. I’d done the whole physical therapy thing before. Briefly. Blue-haired old ladies with bad hips in orthopedic shoes. And one dude who was older than my granddaddy.

  But this was not that.

  This crowd was comprised of mostly twenty- to thirty-somethings. Fit. Tanned.

  My gaze lingered on a woman in a red one-piece, gathering equipment from a bin by the metal bleachers. Long blond hair and barely there curves. She looked more like a high school student than a therapist. Hell, maybe she was in high school.

  Stop staring at her then, you perv.

  But something about her was familiar, and I couldn’t look away. She turned, and the light pouring in from the glass ceiling shone directly on her face.

  Fuck. My. Life.

  It was the angry little mouse I’d sparred with in Reber’s office. Her golden locks cascaded down her back, landing just short of her ass. She was so small. Slender to the point I could see a hint of her ribs.

&nbs
p; This is who Reber tasked with teaching me the miracle moves to restore my range of motion and get me out of pain?

  I banged my forehead against the glass insert in the door, groaning.

  Behind me, Daryl cleared his throat. And I wanted to punch him. “You got a cold or something, bud?” Scowling, I met his gaze in the reflection of the glass. “And just so you know—you look like a douche wearing sunglasses inside.”

  A smile curled his lip. Not the self-deprecating kind. Dude was smirking. At me. My desire to punch him intensified.

  “Maybe so,” he said blandly. “But I figure I got about three minutes before you bolt. So I’m good.”

  I whipped my head around. “What makes you think I’m going to bolt?”

  He shrugged, pushing off the wall, and I had to wonder if he was the one with the bad leg. Fucker was always leaning against something.

  Sidling up next to me, he surveyed the pool area over the top of his aviators. “There’s a lot of people out there.”

  I side-eyed him, snorting. “You think I’m afraid of people?”

  As if to answer my own question, my hand crept to my thigh. My loose-fitting board shorts covered the worst of the devastation. But I could feel every peak. And every valley. Every scar that stretched over my skin like a roadmap.

  Another shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you know, then?”

  It was meant to be a put-down. A way to shut him up. But Daryl slowly turned to me, unflinching. “You’ve been hiding behind this door for ten minutes. Either you’re afraid or you don’t want to put in the work.”

  You never really tried.

  Reber’s accusation from a couple of days ago filtered through the static in my brain. I’d take it from him. But not this douchebag.

  “You don’t fucking know me, dude.” Shoving my gym bag at his chest, I smiled when he let out a little omph. Daryl was the size of a small mountain, with thickly muscled arms and tree trunks for legs. But I was no slouch. And at six five, I was the one looking down at him. Just barely. But it was enough. “Stay in your lane.”