The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)

“Can I ask you a question?” Emma lingered after class again, her face stamped with nerves. “It’s not about the student showcase. Not exactly.”

“Of course.” I turned off the music and faced her. Some instructors preferred using a live pianist for their lessons, but I liked the freedom to pause and replay without relying on another person to pick up on my cues. “What is it?”

Emma shifted her weight from foot to foot. I waited patiently, my curiosity pricking its ears up at her long silence. She was usually more direct.

“How did you deal with the pressure of performing?” she finally asked, her cheeks reddening. “I mean, knowing that all eyes will be on you and that people will catch any mistake you make onstage. Did it get inside your head? Make you…make you not want the role anymore?”

Sympathy swam in my chest. “Is this about The Nutcracker?”

She hesitated for a moment before she nodded, her expression miserable. “I know it’s a school showcase and not, like, a performance for the king or anything, but it’s the biggest role I’ve had yet. I don’t want to mess it up. I know I can do it, but the closer we get to opening night, the more I’m dreading it. There are all these voices in my head telling me I’m not good enough to do it justice, and I can’t get them out.” Emma’s chin wobbled. “What if they’re still there on opening night and mess up my performance? All my friends and family will be there. I don’t want to make a muck of things.”

The sympathy deepened and mixed with an iota of shame. She sounded so young and uncertain that it cast my previous, deeply buried feelings of envy toward her in an even uglier light.

I’d had my reasons for feeling the way I had, but I was an adult and she was a teenager—an extremely talented one, but a teenager, nonetheless. I’d been in her shoes once, and I understood exactly where she was coming from.

“It wasn’t easy,” I admitted in response to her question. “There were shows where I was so nervous I wanted to throw up backstage. I don’t think that ever truly goes away. Even the greatest dancers get nervous before a big performance sometimes. It’s normal, so don’t feel like you’re not good enough because you have those feelings. In fact, imposter syndrome is often a sign of greatness.”

Emma frowned. “How?”

“It’s proof you’re setting high standards for yourself and that you’re not satisfied with being simply good enough,” I said. “If we think we’re perfect and there’s nothing we can improve on, we’ll never grow. If there’s no growth, we stagnate. And greatness doesn’t come from stagnation; it comes from progress.”

The words were meant for Emma, but saying them aloud struck a chord deep inside me.

I’d lived in a form of stasis since my accident. Asher had shaken it up and forced me outside my comfort zone, but there was still a part of me that resisted it because I didn’t want to grow. The status quo was stagnation, but it was also predictable. Safe. And that part of me was clinging to the spindly branches of a long-dead tree instead of embracing the seeds of a new beginning.

It was a hard truth, and not one I’d expected to confront on an otherwise ordinary Wednesday afternoon. But it was often the ordinary days that surprised us most.

I took a deep breath and pushed my realization to the side for future reflection. Now wasn’t the time to get in my own head. God knew I’d done that enough the past few weeks.

“As for the performance aspect, you can only do your best,” I said in response to the second part of Emma’s question. “I can’t promise that everything will be perfect. No one can guarantee that. But I’ve seen you perform, and I know how hard you work in class. You are one of my best students, and I have full faith that you’ll do the Sugar Plum Fairy justice.”

A tiny smile peeked past her nerves. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I returned her smile. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve found that even when the mind is anxious, the body remembers. The minute I got onstage, my worries melted away because I let them. I didn’t try to hold on to the fear. I just let go and allowed the muscle memory to take over.”

“That makes sense.” Emma blew out a sigh. She didn’t seem fully convinced, but she looked less anxious than she had at the start of our conversation. “I’ve done it before, but the stakes haven’t been this high, you know?”

“I know. They’ll keep getting higher, but your experience and resilience will grow alongside them.”

“Growth, not stagnation.”

“Exactly.”

“Thank you, Ms. DuBois.” She shifted her weight again, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry I keep bothering you after class, but this was really helpful. Truly. I’m glad I’m not alone in feeling those things.”

“Trust me, you’re never alone, and you aren’t bothering me.” I meant it. I’d been in her shoes, and I understood that pressure. “I’m always here if you want to talk, whether it’s about the performance or business aspect of ballet.”

Emma beamed her thanks, her face positively glowing.

After she left, I cleaned up the studio, my mind scattered across a dozen different topics.

We were less than two months away from both the student and staff showcases. I hadn’t joined the latter expecting it to affect my views of the former, but it had.

Sometime between getting my understudy role and my conversation with Emma today, my jealousy toward her star turn in The Nutcracker had gradually faded. Maybe it was because my own rehearsals reminded me of how physically and mentally taxing the lead role could be, or maybe it was because I finally had an outlet for the restlessness that’d plagued me since my accident. Whatever it was, it was liberating to be free from those particular ugly feelings.

It helped that practice had gone smoothly since my hospitalization. I took care of myself the best I could, both at home and at work. Tamara and I also collaborated on a modified rehearsal process that included time limits, frequent breaks, and a more moderate pace. Thankfully, the rest of the staff were fully on board, and I hadn’t had any major flare-ups since the modifications were made.

Looking back, I was embarrassed that I’d pushed myself to the point where I had to go to the hospital. My desire for perfection and the unrealistic standard I held myself to nearly destroyed me. I’d been too reckless with my body, and I⁠—

I froze as the words reverberated through my head.

Too reckless.

My heart twisted.

I’d done such a good job of not thinking about Asher today. Since I woke up that morning, he’d only crossed my mind five times, which was leagues better than the days when he consumed my thoughts entirely from dawn until dusk.

However, the echo of my earlier self-reflection yanked him back to the forefront of my mind—the sight of him standing in the studio doorway, the torment in his voice when I broke up with him, the sound of his footsteps disappearing into the distance.

The memories tugged on the knot in my chest, yanking it tighter.

Too reckless.

I’d accused Asher of being too reckless and endangering himself, but hadn’t I done the same when I refused to listen to my body’s demands? Granted, my situation was less likely to culminate in an immediate, fiery death, but the principle was the same.

Unease filtered through my veins.

Was I being a hypocrite and punishing him for something that I myself was guilty of?

It’s not really the same, a pragmatic voice in my head reasoned. You didn’t make any promises to him regarding dance. You don’t have a history of endangering yourself or others. You pushed yourself too hard, that’s all.

Maybe the situations aren’t the same, but the principle is, another voice countered.

Oh, shut up.

You shut up.

My head pounded from the internal squabble raging inside me. Hearing voices was a bad sign, and hearing them bicker was even worse.

I really needed to call my old therapist again. I’d already been contemplating it after my hospitalization, but the past few weeks had cinched the decision for me. I thought I’d gotten to a good place after years of weekly sessions with her, but obviously, I still had work to do—for both my professional life and personal life.

Two weeks had passed since my breakup with Asher. I thought the bruising ache of his absence would fade, but it only strengthened by the day. I couldn’t turn on the TV or pass by a newsstand without seeing photos of his face plastered everywhere. I couldn’t even walk through my flat without seeing his face or hearing his laugh.

In the short time I’d known him, he’d ingrained himself into my life so thoroughly that I couldn’t imagine living it without him. Trying to do so had been…difficult. And my new concerns about whether I’d unfairly set him up on a pedestal even I couldn’t reach didn’t make it easier.

I finished wiping down the barre and tossed the used wipes into the rubbish bin.

Did it matter if I was being hypocritical? That didn’t change the reality of our situation. It wouldn’t make Asher any less self-destructive or susceptible to danger. Unless he⁠—

“Scarlett.” Carina poked her head into the studio, interrupting my rambling thoughts. Her face was flushed, and her eyes glittered with excitement. “You need to get downstairs right now.”

“Why? Is it the paps again?” They hadn’t caught wind of my breakup with Asher yet, but it was only a matter of time.

Carina shook her head, looking almost awed. “You have to see it for yourself.”