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Page 153 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

“Dammit!” The curse slipped out on a bed of frustration.

I stopped, rested my forearms on the barre, and placed my head on them as I tried to reorient myself.

I couldn’t tack on my extra practices to Asher and Vincent’s training for obvious reasons, so I’d rehearsed alone since my brother’s return. Asher offered the use of his private studio in the evenings anyway, but I was too paranoid to sneak over to his house.

I’d been doing so well over the summer. However, without Asher there, I was making more mistakes. Losing focus. Questioning myself.

The noticeable change in the quality of my rehearsals added another layer of anxiety.

What if he was the secret ingredient? Could I perform in front of a crowd without him next to me, encouraging me?

My stomach cramped.

No. As much as I lov—liked Asher, I refused to make my success dependent on another person.

I didn’t care if I was practicing as an understudy and that I’d probably never get the chance to perform onstage. I was going to nail this bloody dance on my own.

I gritted my teeth against the slow creep of exhaustion and forced myself to stand again. I had ten minutes left in the ballet’s final act. I could finish it.

My body might hate me for it later, but I would hate myself more if I gave up now. It was easier to soothe physical pains than it was emotional ones, especially if they were self-inflicted.

My old therapist and doctors said my determination to push myself to my limits was toxic and unhealthy. They were right; itwas, which was why I didn’t advocate my choices to others. I wouldn’t want anyone else to override their body’s warning signs the way I did mine.

But that was them and this was me. I was hard-wired for competition, which included competing against myself.

I had to win, so I pushed.

And it worked.

I restarted from where I’d stumbled and made it through to the end without botching the choreography.

I held the final position for two beats before my legs gave out and I half sank, half collapsed on the floor. Bile rose in my throat; I was either going to throw up, pass out, or both.

My muscles trembled as I tried to breathe through a white-hot blaze of pain. It engulfed my body, scalding my arms, shoulders, and legs and sinking so deep into my bones that every joint ached. A migraine pounded behind my temple, and the room seemed to tilt as I struggled to get my bearings.

Tears prickled my eyes.

I hadn’t had this terrible of a flare-up in a long, long time. I knew it was a likely outcome given how hard I’d exerted myself over the past few weeks, but I hadn’t expected to crumple so suddenly and viciously.

My emergency packet of pain pills beckoned from my bag. They were just out of arm’s reach.

I pulled my legs up to my chest and rested my head on my knees. It helped with the dizziness, but not the pain.

Every muscle screamed, but…but.

I’d finished the choreography. And I’d nailed it the second time around.

Inhale, exhale.

One, two, three, four…

By the time I reached a hundred, my tears had dried. When I reached two hundred, the needle-sharp pain had dulled into a steady ache.

Thank God I didn’t have classes for the rest of the afternoon. I didn’t want my students to walk in and find me curled up on the floor, crying.

I’d purposely scheduled my rehearsals for the end of the day, when I was supposed to be working on my lesson plans, but I could do that at home.

Eventually, the pain and nausea faded enough for me to raise my head. The world returned in bits and pieces, starting with the intermittent buzz of my phone.




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