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VICTORIA

I wake up with a knot in my stomach that even my favorite tea can’t fix. In my small rented apartment, I check how I look one last time. I’ve picked my outfit carefully—black leggings that let me move freely without showing too much, and a loose top that looks professional but covers enough of my lumps and bumps that I feel shielded. My hair is pulled back in its usual tight bun without a single strand out of place.

Today feels important. Not just because it’s my first real class with the team, but because it’s another chance to prove what I’ve been fighting to show my whole career. That ballet isn’t just for thin bodies.

And then there’s Declan O’Rielly, with his shameless staring and that smile that probably works on every woman in Sugar City. I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t attractive—the man looks like he was carved from marble by someone with a very generous chisel. But I’ve seen his type before. Guys like him flirt with women like me as practice, or worse, as some kind of joke among their friends. I won’t be his punchline, no matter how good his arms look in a training shirt. I’m just not that interested in rejection anymore.

I close my eyes against the thought. Rejection . A flood of the rejection letters I’ve received go flashing through my mind. I was seventeen when the first one came, eighteen when the second arrived, nineteen for the third. Each one hurt more than the last.

‘While your dancing skills are impressive, we do not believe your body type fits our company’s look.’

‘Despite your great talent, we must think about how our dancers look together.’

‘Sadly, your body type does not match what professional ballet requires.’

They all meant ‘too fat,’ of course—as if they couldn’t afford the extra ink to just write that. Each rejection sliced deeper than the last, until I finally toughened up and decided if they wouldn’t make space for my body, I’d build my own damn dance floor.

Now I run a studio where every body is welcome, where dance is about joy and expression rather than fitting some impossible ideal. It’s my mission, my purpose, waiting for me back in Peach Springs when this short Sugar City adventure ends.

With a deep breath, I gather my notes and head to the arena. The drive passes in a blur of mental rehearsal—positions, basic stretches, exercises tailored specifically for hockey players’ needs. By the time I push through the training room doors, my teaching persona has fully taken over, pushing personal doubts aside.

Twenty pairs of doubtful eyes greet me. The training room has been transformed into a simple dance studio with barres and mirrors installed against one wall. The hockey players stand in awkward rows, some looking amused, others visibly uncomfortable in their new surroundings. Coach Belanger gives me an encouraging nod from the back of the room.

Stepping to the center, I straighten my spine. “Gentlemen, let’s begin. This is first position.” I demonstrate, bringing my heels together with toes pointed out. “Your turnout should come from the hip, not the knee or ankle. Think of rotating from your sit bones, not your knees.”

They stand like statues, twenty hulking hockey players suddenly transformed into awkward teenagers at their first dance. Calvin shifts his weight, looking like he might topple into the mirror.

“Come on,” Coach barks. “This isn’t optional.”

The men shuffle into awkward attempts at first position, looking like penguins trying to walk on hot coals. Their massive bodies, so graceful on skates, seem suddenly alien and unsure.

“Shoulders back. Spines straight,” I instruct, moving through the room to make corrections. “Your core should be engaged—that means tightening your abdominal muscles.”

I tap a player’s stomach as I pass. “Like you’re bracing for a hit.”

His eyes widen with understanding, and his posture instantly improves.

“Better,” I nod, continuing through the rows. “Now, second position.”

I demonstrate the wider stance, and the players follow, some more successfully than others. As I approach the back row, I find Declan O’Rielly watching me with that half-smile that seems permanently affixed to his face.

“How’s my form, Ms. Fletcher?” His voice sounds like honey, and my traitorous body responds with a flush of heat that I ruthlessly squash down. Behind him, one of his teammates nearly topples into the mirror like a felled redwood. I pretend not to notice.

“Wider stance,” I instruct, keeping my voice neutral despite the sudden dryness in my mouth. “Now turn from the hip joint.”

I show him with my own body, trying not to notice how his eyes drink in my movement. When he tries to copy me, his form gets a little better.

“Better.” I nod before moving on, ignoring the lingering warmth where his gaze touched my skin.

The class moves through basic positions, stretches made just for hockey players, and simple exercises to improve balance and core strength. Despite their early resistance, I’m impressed by how quickly they adapt. These are top athletes, after all.

“Hockey players tend to develop stronger on one side,” I explain as I show a stretch. “You’re stronger on your dominant side, which leaves you open to injuries. These exercises will help fix that.”

By the end of the hour, sweat darkens their training shirts, and I hear the controlled but ragged breathing of professional athletes discovering muscles they never knew existed. Their expressions cycle between concentration, disbelief, and the specific kind of humility that comes from realizing ballet isn’t just ‘twirling in tutus.’

“That’s all for today, gentlemen,” I announce, checking my watch. “We’ll meet again on Wednesday. I’ve prepared handouts with some stretches you should do daily.”

As the players leave, getting their things and heading for the showers, I start organizing my notes. The class went better than I’d hoped. There were the expected jokes and eye-rolls, but by the end, most of them seemed to be taking it seriously.

“So, what’s the verdict? Are we hopeless?”

I look up to find Declan still there, leaning against the barre with a natural grace that suggests he might actually have some talent for this. My heart does a little skip that I quickly try to ignore.

“Not entirely hopeless.” Stay professional, Victoria . “Though some of you have more work to do than others.”

“And me? Where do I rank on your ballet potential scale?”

I study him for a moment, trying not to notice how his t-shirt clings to his broad shoulders or how his blue eyes are two pools of warmth when he smiles. His form had actually been surprisingly good once he stopped joking around. “You have decent natural coordination. With practice, you could be quite good.”

His smile widens. “High praise from the ballet teacher.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I say. “But you did better than I expected.”

“I’m full of surprises.” There’s a heat in his eyes that makes me look away. “Maybe I could get some extra coaching? I’ve got this spin move I’m trying to perfect, and I think your ballet magic might be just what I need.”

I pause, my heart rate picking up traitorously. Every professional instinct tells me to keep my distance from the charming hockey player with the devastating smile. But my body has other ideas, practically humming at the thought of seeing him one-on-one. This is exactly the type of involvement I should avoid—private lessons with a man who clearly flirts as easily as he breathes. The last time I mixed business with attraction, I ended up changing my entire zip code. I can’t afford that kind of complacency again.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.” My voice comes out firmer than I intended, but I need to establish boundaries early. Professional ones. Clear ones.

“Oh, come on.” His smile doesn’t falter. “It would be strictly professional. Coach is always telling me I need to work on my edges and balance. Your ballet expertise could be exactly what I need.”

I narrow my eyes, trying to determine if this is just another line. “There are twenty-two other players on your team who could benefit from the same thing.”

He shrugs those impressive shoulders. “Maybe. But I’m the one asking.”

“Mr. O’Rielly?—”

“Declan,” he interrupts. “Mr. O’Rielly is my father, and trust me, you don’t want to confuse us.”

Something in his tone catches my attention. A slight edge that suggests there’s more to that statement than simple preference. But it’s none of my business.

“Declan,” I correct myself, “I’m only contracted to work with the team as a group. Private lessons would be...” Dangerous. Tempting. A terrible idea. “...outside my scope.”

He takes a step closer, and I catch the subtle scent of his cologne—something woodsy and clean that makes me want to lean in closer, which is precisely why I take a step back.

“I’m just saying, if you’re serious about helping us improve, some of us might need more help than others.” His eyes hold mine, surprisingly earnest beneath the flirtation. “And I’m serious about getting better.”

I study him for a moment, trying to read the sincerity behind those blue eyes. Part of me—the professional part—is already forming a firm rejection. But another part, the dancer in me, recognizes something in his request that feels genuine.

“Why?” I ask simply, crossing my arms.

His easy smile falters slightly, replaced by something more thoughtful. “Because I’ve been playing hockey since I was four years old, and I’ve never found anything that challenges me the way that first hour just did.” He gestures toward the barre. “I’ve been doing the same training routines for years. I know them like I know my own reflection. But this...” He shakes his head. “This made me feel like a rookie again.”

The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. I expected another flirtatious comment, not this flash of vulnerability.

“Plus,” he continues, his smile returning, “I wasn’t kidding about my spin-o-rama. It could use some serious work.”

I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me. “A spin-o-rama isn’t exactly a pirouette.”

“Exactly why I need help.” He steps closer, and this time I don’t step back. “So what do you say? One session. If I’m hopeless, I’ll never ask again.”

I should say no. I have a million reasons to say no. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at me, like he genuinely wants to learn, that makes my resolve waver.

“This would be strictly professional,” I say, crossing my arms. “No magical fixes, just hard work. And if you make one bad ‘Swan Lake’ joke, I’ll make you hold plié position until your thighs catch fire.”

“Understood.” He nods, looking surprisingly serious. “I want to improve. If this can help my game, I want to get it right.”

“OK, then. Tomorrow. 6 AM. Don’t be late.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

As I watch him walk away, I can’t ignore the warmth spreading through me, settling low in my belly. This is dangerous territory. Men like Declan O’Rielly—charming athletes who can have any woman they want—aren’t interested in curvy ballet teachers of a passing curiosity. I’ve seen that look before on handsome men. That flirtatious smile that means nothing but leads to heartbreak for women who take it seriously. Especially women like me, who are often used as ego boosters instead of real relationship prospects. I won’t be fooled again. I’ve marked that lesson in permanent ink on my heart, right next to ‘Never eat gas station sushi’ and ‘Always double-knot your pointe shoes.’ Some mistakes you only make once.