Page 64 of Blackwood

Dr. Monroe flips the paper slowly, expression unreadable behind his glasses. He lets out a quiet breath, somethingbetween a sigh and a resigned exhale.

“Well, Bella, I see you put a lot of heart into this.”

I cross my arms and kick my legs up on the edge of the couch. “Thought I’d spice it up. Keep things fresh.”

“Of course you did,” he says, calm and clipped. “Start at the top then, let’s talk about Worlds.”

I don’t answer.

He glances up over the rim of his glasses. “Bella.”

Still nothing.

He leans back in his chair. “Look, I’m getting paid whether you sit here and glare at me or sit here and talk to me. It’s your money. Dealer’s choice, remember?”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. I feel like I let them down.”

Dr. Monroe doesn’t respond. Just waits patiently.

“Second fucking place. Trifecta worked our asses off. We gave everything and it still wasn’t enough.”

He nods once like he’s waiting for more.

“Javi keeps saying it’s a huge deal just to get to Worlds. Says Wexley’s never even made it that far before and we should be proud, blah blah rah-rah bullshit.”

I pause. “But, I wanted it. I reallyfucking wanted it.”

Silence.

“I don’t think the girls blame me. But I do. I was center. It was my routine. My choreography. And I couldn’t win us the damn thing.”

Dr. Monroe taps his pen against the clipboard once, then looks up. “Sounds like you’ve got a bit of a savior complex.”

“Oh great, here we go.”

“You choreographed the routine. You lead the team. But you don’t perform alone, Bella. There are three of you. Four, if we’re counting Javi. Hell, six if you count Rico and Knox. And then there’s a panel of biased, probably underpaid international judges you have zero control over.”

I don’t say anything.

“You didn’t lose Worlds,” he says. “You placed secondat the highest level of competitive dance in the world. That’s not failure. That’s pressure distorting your perspective.”

I scoff. “It’s not pressure. It’s expectations.”

“No,” he says, setting the clipboard down with a quiet finality. “It’s grief. In a leotard.”

I just stare at him.

He shrugs. “You’re not mad about second place. You’re mad that something you led didn’t fix what’s broken. You thought winning would make it all make sense. That it would silence everything else.”

I don’t respond.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he says calmly.

I look away and cross my arms. “Rico would shit his pants if we showed up in a leotard.”

Dr. Monroe lifts a brow.

“His designs are way too fashionable,” I add, tone dry. “Think couture mesh, rhinestones, and dramatic back cutouts. Not a single boring-ass leotard in sight.”