Page 18 of The Last Pirouette
“See? You’re doing it,” he said, his smile encouraging. "Loosen up a little. You're so tense you're going to shatter.”
Harper tried to relax, but every instinct in her body was screaming at her to tighten, to control. But as she stared into Liam’s eyes, she felt an odd sense of calm. He was right there, solid and present, a buffer against the unforgiving ice.
Slowly, they began to move, shuffling across the ice like awkward penguins. Then, gradually, their movements became smoother, more fluid. Liam started to pull her gently, guiding her across the rink, his body a counterweight to hers.
“What’s this like for you?” Liam asked, breaking the silence, his voice a soft murmur.
Harper frowned in concentration. “Terrifying. And cold.”
He chuckled. “Besides that. Does it remind you of dancing at all?”
She considered for a moment. "Not really. Ballet is about control, about defying gravity. This is… about the opposite. About surrendering to it."
"Huh," Liam said thoughtfully. "For me, hockey is about controlling the ice, about using it to your advantage. But sometimes," he paused, "sometimes it's about letting go too. About just flying."
Harper looked at him, surprised by the unexpected depth in his words. "Flying?"
"Yeah," he said, his eyes gleaming with a distant memory. "That feeling when you're skating full speed, the wind in your face, the ice blurring beneath you… it's like nothing else. Like you could go anywhere, do anything."
"I think I know what you mean," Harper said softly, remembering the feeling of being airborne during a jump, the brief, exhilarating moment of weightlessness. "But ballet is more about precision. About making it look effortless, even when it’s the hardest thing in the world."
"Yeah, I guess it's the same with hockey," Liam conceded. "All that hard work, all those hours of practice… it's all for that one moment when it looks easy. When you score the goal, or make the perfect pass."
They skated in silence for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts. Harper found herself relaxing, her body loosening, the fear slowly receding. The cold air still nipped at her cheeks, but it didn't feel so harsh anymore.
"Okay, showoff," she said, a playful edge returning to her voice. "If hockey is all about flying, then fly."
Liam grinned. He picked up speed, pulling her along with him. The wind rushed past her ears, and the ice blurred beneath her feet. Harper gasped, her heart leaping into her throat.
“Whoa, Hayes, slow down!” she cried, but she was laughing now, a genuine, unforced sound.
He didn't slow down. Instead, he started to spin, pulling her with him. Harper shrieked, her arms flailing, her body completely out of control.
And then, they both went down.
They landed in a tangled heap of limbs on the cold, hard ice. For a moment, they just lay there, stunned, gasping for breath.
Then, Harper started to laugh. She couldn't help it. It bubbled up from deep inside her, a release of all the tension and fear she had been holding onto for so long.
Liam joined in, his laughter echoing across the empty rink. It was a ridiculous, joyous sound, filling the cavernous space with warmth and light.
“I told you I couldn’t skate,” Harper gasped between peals of laughter.
“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly an Olympic figure skater myself,” Liam retorted, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
They lay there for a long moment, their laughter slowly subsiding, leaving them breathless and flushed. The cold ice seeped into her clothes, but Harper didn't care. She felt…lighter than she had in months.
The echoes of their laughter faded, leaving them sitting close together on the cold ice. The silence returned, but now it felt comfortable, intimate. Under the dim arena lights, Liam brushed a stray piece of hair from Harper's face, their eyes meeting and holding for a long moment, the shared experience and newfound closeness hanging unspoken between them in the chilled air.
Chapter 12
Late night shadows stretched across Harper's bedroom, the only light coming from a desk lamp illuminating a thin layer of dust on her bookshelf. The phantom sensation of a blade gliding on ice still tingled in her feet, a restless energy keeping her from sleep. Her eyes landed on a worn, leather-bound journal tucked away behind a row of classics—a relic from a life she thought was over. The mood was quiet, contemplative, and tinged with a nascent hope she's afraid to acknowledge.
Compelled by a post-ice-skating restlessness, Harper retrieved the old journal from its hiding place. It was heavier than she remembered, the leather cool and smooth beneath her fingertips. She carried it to her desk, the same desk where she had charted her trajectory through the ruthless world of ballet. The desk where she had meticulously planned her every plié, every jeté, every step towards a future that now felt as distant and unreachable as the stars.
She flipped through the stiff pages, the faint scent of old paper and ink filling the air. The precise, disciplined handwriting of her younger self stared back at her, a ghost of the girl she used to be. Schedules filled with grueling practice times, aspirations for the Paris Opéra Ballet bolded and underlined, notes on perfecting her fouetté turns, each one dissected and analyzed with the meticulous eye of a surgeon.
Harper ran a finger across the faded ink, a strange mix of fondness and bitterness swirling within her. She remembered the hours, the sacrifices, the unwavering dedication. Ballet hadn't just been a passion; it had been her entire identity, the air she breathed, the reason she woke up every morning. And now?Now it felt like a cruel joke, a phantom limb that ached with memories of a life she could no longer live.
