Page 19

VICTORIA

“ A nd that’s when I realized I needed to create a space where everyone could dance, regardless of size or shape,” I explain, trying to ignore the nerves bouncing about in my stomach. “Ballet isn’t just for one body type. It’s for anyone willing to put in the work.”

Briar Knightley nods, her green eyes bright behind oversized glasses as she scribbles in her notebook. There’s something immediately disarming about the woman—perhaps the wayward auburn curls escaping her messy bun, or the way she wears her curves with such unabashed confidence. Her vintage-inspired blue dress is complemented by Nighthawks earrings dangling from her ears, and a well-worn blue and silver scarf draped around her neck.

“That’s exactly the kind of perspective I want to highlight,” she says, pushing her glasses up her nose. “So many girls abandon activities they love because they don’t fit some arbitrary physical ideal.”

When Briar reached out requesting an interview, my first instinct had been to decline. Another reporter wanting to capitalize on the viral kiss. But something in her message caught my attention—a passionate paragraph about body positivity that resonated with everything I stand for.

A quick search revealed her blog, ‘Blue Line Poetry,’ had over half a million followers known for insightful analysis and fierce advocacy for inclusion in sports. The comments section was heavily moderated—no trolls allowed. So, saying yes felt like taking back control.

“Do you mind if we also get some photos?” Briar asks, gesturing to her photographer setting up in the corner.

“Not at all. My afternoon class will be arriving soon, so you’ll see what we actually do here.”

“Perfect,” Briar says, leaning forward. “So… let’s address the elephant in the room. The hockey world exploded three days ago when Declan O’Rielly kissed you. The internet reaction was frankly appalling.”

I take a deep breath. “It was.”

“And yet, here you are—studio open, classes running, fighting back. That takes courage.”

I shake my head. “It wasn’t courage at first. It was survival. When I saw what was happening to my studio’s reputation, my first instinct was to hide. To run.” I glance around at the space I’ve built. “But then I remembered why I started this place. If I let them win, what message would that send to my students?”

Briar nods. “That’s precisely why your story matters. It’s not just about a viral moment or a hockey player’s girlfriend—it’s about standing your ground in a world that constantly tells certain bodies they don’t belong.”

His girlfriend … I react uncomfortably at the words. In these three days apart, I’ve realized that ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend’ feel too small and trivial for what we’ve become. I miss him in a way that feels like I’m missing part of myself during this time apart.

“I don’t regret any of it,” I tell her. “The hardest part was letting Declan go when I knew how much it would hurt both of us. But I had to protect this place, protect my students.”

“And now?” Briar presses.

“Now I’m realizing I shouldn’t have to choose. Declan and I should be able to be part of each other’s lives without it costing everything I’ve worked for.”

Our conversation shifts to the ballet program I developed for the Nighthawks. Briar asks insightful questions, surprising me with her knowledge of both ballet terminology and hockey statistics.

“I’ve analyzed every Nighthawks game for the past seven years,” she explains. “And I did ballet until I was sixteen, when a teacher told me I’d ‘never be a swan with those thunder thighs.’“ She rolls her eyes. “As if swans don’t need powerful legs to swim.”

The studio door opens, and my afternoon teen class filters in. They pause when they spot Briar and her photographer.

“Everyone, this is Briar Knightley,” I explain quickly. “She’s interviewing me about our studio’s approach to inclusive dance. She’ll be observing class.”

Teagan, my seventeen-year-old student who’s been with me since I opened the studio, immediately perks up. “Are you going to write about what happened with Mr. O’Rielly?”

“Teagan,” I warn.

“Yes,” Briar answers smoothly. “But more importantly, I’m writing about this studio and what it means to create spaces where all bodies are celebrated.”

“Good,” Teagan says firmly. “Because Ms. Fletcher has changed my life, and people should know that instead of reading stupid comments online.”

My throat tightens at her loyalty. “All right, ladies. Places for warm-up.”

The class proceeds, my students performing with extra precision for their audience. During a water break, I overhear Briar asking Teagan how she found the studio.

“My old teacher said I was too tall and too muscular for ballet,” Teagan explains. “My mom found Ms. Fletcher online. First thing she told me was that Misty Copeland faced the same criticism, and look where she is now.”

We’re halfway through center combinations when a distant, rhythmic thumping sound gradually grows louder. Several students glance toward the windows.

“Is that a helicopter?” someone asks.

Before I can answer, the studio door flies open. Shelby bursts in, cheeks flushed, phone clutched in her hand. “Victoria! You need to see this right now!”

“Shelby, I’m in the middle of class,” I remind her, embarrassed by the interruption. “And my interview…”

“I know. And I know exactly who she is,” Shelby says, nodding toward Briar. “And trust me, she’s going to want to see this, too. It’s Declan. He just held a press conference.”

My heart stutters. “What?”

“He’s refusing to play,” Shelby continues, eyes wide. “Says he won’t set foot on the ice until all the negative reviews on your studio page are taken down and the trolls stop harassing you.”

The studio falls silent. I stare at Shelby, certain I’ve misheard. “That’s ridiculous. He can’t just?—”

“He did,” Shelby insists, thrusting her phone toward me. “It’s all over social media. He stood up in front of reporters and said he loves you.”

I take the phone with trembling hands, watching as Declan’s face fills the screen. He looks exhausted, but oh so wonderful.

“Victoria Fletcher is the woman I love,” he declares from the small speaker. “And I’ve been sitting by while internet trolls tear her apart for nothing more than being kissed by me.”

“Oh my god,” I whisper, my legs suddenly unsteady.

“Until every single one of those negative reviews on the Fletcher Dance Academy’s page is removed, I won’t be stepping onto the ice.”

“He didn’t,” I breathe, looking up at Shelby. “Tell me he didn’t just risk his career for me.”

“He absolutely did,” Briar confirms, typing furiously on her phone. “And he’s not alone. My sources say the entire team is backing him. Calvin Barrett, Luc Bouchard, even Callum Sinclair spoke up.” Her voice rises with excitement on the last name, something beyond professional interest crossing her face.

“Callum spoke at a press conference?” I ask, knowing how significant that is.

The helicopter sound grows deafening. Several students rush to the windows.

“There’s a helicopter in the community center parking lot!” Teagan calls out, eyes wide.

“Ms. Fletcher, this is amazing!” another student exclaims. “He’s like your knight in shining hockey pads!”

The analogy startles a laugh out of me. “This is insane. He can’t throw away everything he’s worked for?—”

Before I can finish, the studio door bursts open again, and there he is. Declan O’Rielly, slightly out of breath, his hair windblown, his eyes scanning the room until they land on me.

The studio falls silent, everyone watching this moment unfold.

“Victoria,” he says, and just my name on his lips sends a shiver down my spine, my body recognizing his voice before my brain fully processes that he’s actually here.

I rise on unsteady legs. “What are you doing here? How did you?—”

“Helicopter,” he explains with a rueful smile. “Turns out when you tell the entire hockey world won’t play because you’re in love with someone, management will panic and arrange immediate transportation. Who knew?” He drops his bag and takes a step toward me. “I couldn’t wait another minute. Not after these past three days without you.”

“Declan,” I begin, acutely aware of our audience. “You can’t just announce to the world that you’re—that we’re?—”

“In love?” he finishes, closing the distance between us. “I think I just did.”

“Your career?—”

“Will still be there,” he interrupts gently. “But I need you to understand something, Victoria Fletcher.” He takes my hands in his, his gaze never leaving mine. “Hockey has been my entire life. But you? You’re more important than all of it.”

A collective sigh rises from my students. All I can see is Declan, his earnest blue eyes, the determined set of his jaw.

“Did you mean it?” I whisper, needing to hear it again, just for me. “What you said at the press conference?”

He tugs me closer. “Every word. I love you, Victoria. I’ve loved you since you first stepped on that ice like a badass. Then I fell even harder when you corrected my form and called me Mr. O’Rielly in that stern teacher voice that drives me absolutely crazy.” His smile makes my heart skip. “I love your strength, your passion, your incredible heart. I love how you’ve created this safe haven for these girls. I love how you see the potential in everyone—even a joker hockey player who couldn’t do a proper plié to save his life.”

A laugh escapes me, sounding suspiciously like a sob. “Your plié form has improved significantly, actually.”

His smile widens. “See? You make me better. You make everything better.” His expression turns serious. “I know you’re scared. I know you’ve been hurt before. But I’m not Anton Petrov, Victoria. I will never be ashamed to love you. I will never hide you away or pretend what we have isn’t real.”

“I know,” I whisper, and I realize with startling clarity that I do know. Declan has never once made me feel like I should hide or change. “It was me who was hiding all along. And I’m done.” My voice grows stronger. “I’m done pretending I can live without you.”

Declan grins, that reckless smile that makes my insides flip, and he kisses me. It’s the kind of kiss that says everything—passion and love and promise. I’m vaguely aware of cheers erupting around us, but it all feels distant compared to how close we are, how right this feels.

When we finally break apart, breathless and grinning, I can’t help but laugh. Shelby and Briar are hugging like we’ve just scored an overtime goal. My students are buzzing with excitement, phones out recording.

“Wait,” I say, placing my hand on his chest. “How in the world are we going to make this work?”

He grins. “However we have to. You can come back to Sugar City with me. Or I can stay here with you in Peach Springs. I don’t care where we are, as long as we’re together.”

“What about hockey?”

“I meant what I said. Until those reviews are gone and the harassment stops, I’m not playing. But,” he adds, “based on what I’m seeing online, that might resolve itself quickly. Apparently, telling off your own fan base gets results.”

“He’s right,” Briar confirms. “Your studio page has gained over a thousand five-star reviews in the past hour. The Nighthawks’ fan clubs have issued statements condemning the harassment—a complete reversal.”

I blink, struggling to process this. “Just like that?”

“Well, it helps when an entire NHL team threatens to boycott games,” Briar says with a grin.

Declan’s eyes never leave my face. “I don’t care about any of that right now. I just need to know one very important thing.” He takes a deep breath. “Victoria. Will you marry me?”

The room goes completely silent. I stare at Declan, sure I’ve misheard.

“What did you just say?” I whisper, my heart thundering.

“I said, will you marry me?” he repeats, his voice steady despite the magnitude of what he’s asking. Then he drops to one knee right there in the middle of my studio, taking my hand in his. “I know it’s fast. I know we have a lot to figure out. But if these past three days have taught me anything, it’s that I never want to be apart from you again.”

Someone—probably Shelby—lets out a strangled noise somewhere between a sob and a squeal.

“Declan,” I start, “we haven’t even discussed—I mean, we just?—”

“I know,” he interrupts, squeezing my hand. “And if you need time, I understand. But I know what I want, Victoria. I want you. I want waking up with you every morning and falling asleep with you every night. I want planning our lives around hockey seasons and dance recitals. I want hearing you tell me my form is wrong for the next fifty years.” His smile turns teasing. “I want you to be my wife.”

“You don’t have a ring,” I point out, fixating on this detail when my mind is spinning.

Declan laughs. “You’re right. I don’t. Because this wasn’t planned. But I’m nothing if not resourceful.” He glances around. “Anyone have a hair tie?”

Teagan immediately pulls a bright pink elastic from her wrist and hands it to him. Declan carefully wraps it around my ring finger.

“There,” he says, his eyes dancing. “It’s not diamonds, but it’s a promise. We can pick out a real one together.”

Tears blur my vision, but I’m smiling so wide my cheeks hurt. I look down at this wonderful, impulsive, loving man kneeling before me with a pink hair tie, and I know with absolute certainty what my answer is.

“Yes,” I whisper, then louder, firmer, “Yes, Declan. I’ll marry you.”

He surges to his feet, lifting me into his arms and spinning me around. The studio spins in a blur of color and sound—cheers and applause fading beneath the thundering of my heart against his. When he sets me down, he kisses me with such tenderness that fresh tears spring to my eyes.

“I love you, Victoria Fletcher,” he murmurs. “Soon to be Victoria O’Rielly… If you want.”

“I love you too,” I reply, my heart so full I can barely contain it. “And yeah, I want to share your name.”

He kisses me again, and when we finally break apart, he rests his forehead against mine. “So… what happens now, twinkle toes?”

The nickname makes me smile. “I don’t know. I need to be here for my students, but you need to be in Sugar City for hockey...”

“We’ll figure it out,” he says with such confidence that I almost believe him. “As long as we’re together.”

“As long as we’re together,” I echo, and for the first time, I let myself imagine what that might look like—a life split between two cities, between hockey seasons and dance recitals. It won’t be easy, but looking into Declan’s eyes, I know with absolute certainty that it will be worth it.

Briar sidles up beside me. “Now that,” she says, adjusting her scarf, “is a love story worth telling.”

I turn to her, suddenly grateful for her presence. “Will you? Tell it, I mean?”

“With honor,” she replies, her green eyes sparkling. “The ballet teacher and the hockey player who proved that real love doesn’t care what package it comes in.”

Declan lets out a laugh. “Leave it to Briar Knightley to spin us into a fairy tale.”

“Hey, it’s a good one,” she says, stepping back as Declan pulls me close and I let the moment soak into my bones.

My students bounce with equal parts joy and impatience, Teagan already orchestrating an impromptu lesson where they do a wedding dance in celebration.

I let out a happy sigh. For the first time in my life, I’m not afraid of taking up space, of being seen, of being loved exactly as I am.

Because Declan O’Rielly loves me. And I love him. We’re going to get married.

Everything else is just details.