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Page 203 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

A tiny smile peeked past her nerves. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I returned her smile. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve found that even when the mind is anxious, the body remembers. The minute I got onstage, my worries melted away because Iletthem. I didn’t try to hold on to the fear. I just let go and allowed the muscle memory to take over.”

“That makes sense.” Emma blew out a sigh. She didn’t seem fully convinced, but she looked less anxious than she had at the start of our conversation. “I’ve done it before, but the stakes haven’t been this high, you know?”

“I know. They’ll keep getting higher, but your experience and resilience will grow alongside them.”

“Growth, not stagnation.”

“Exactly.”

“Thank you, Ms. DuBois.” She shifted her weight again, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry I keep bothering you after class, but this was really helpful. Truly. I’m glad I’m not alone in feeling those things.”

“Trust me, you’re never alone, and you aren’t bothering me.” I meant it. I’d been in her shoes, and I understood that pressure. “I’m always here if you want to talk, whether it’s about the performance or business aspect of ballet.”

Emma beamed her thanks, her face positively glowing.

After she left, I cleaned up the studio, my mind scattered across a dozen different topics.

We were less than two months away from both the student and staff showcases. I hadn’t joined the latter expecting it to affect my views of the former, but it had.

Sometime between getting my understudy role and my conversation with Emma today, my jealousy toward her star turn inTheNutcrackerhad gradually faded. Maybe it was because my own rehearsals reminded me of how physically and mentally taxing the lead role could be, or maybe it was because I finally had an outlet for the restlessness that’d plagued me since my accident. Whatever it was, it was liberating to be free from those particular ugly feelings.

It helped that practice had gone smoothly since my hospitalization. I took care of myself the best I could, both at home and at work. Tamara and I also collaborated on a modified rehearsal process that included time limits, frequent breaks, and a more moderate pace. Thankfully, the rest of the staff were fully on board, and I hadn’t had any major flare-ups since the modifications were made.

Looking back, I was embarrassed that I’d pushed myself to the point where I had to go to the hospital. My desire for perfection and the unrealistic standard I held myself to nearly destroyed me. I’d been too reckless with my body, and I?—

I froze as the words reverberated through my head.

Too reckless.

My heart twisted.

I’d done such a good job ofnotthinking about Asher today. Since I woke up that morning, he’d only crossed my mind five times, which was leagues better than the days when he consumed my thoughts entirely from dawn until dusk.

However, the echo of my earlier self-reflection yanked him back to the forefront of my mind—the sight of him standing in the studio doorway, the torment in his voice when I broke up with him, the sound of his footsteps disappearing into the distance.

The memories tugged on the knot in my chest, yanking it tighter.

Too reckless.

I’d accused Asher of being too reckless and endangering himself, but hadn’t I done the same when I refused to listen to my body’s demands? Granted, my situation was less likely to culminate in an immediate, fiery death, but the principle was the same.

Unease filtered through my veins.

Was I being a hypocrite and punishing him for something that I myself was guilty of?

It’s notreallythe same,a pragmatic voice in my head reasoned.You didn’t make any promises to him regarding dance. You don’t have a history of endangering yourself or others. You pushed yourself too hard, that’s all.

Maybe the situations aren’t the same, but the principle is,another voice countered.

Oh, shut up.

You shut up.

My head pounded from the internal squabble raging inside me. Hearing voices was a bad sign, and hearing them bicker was even worse.

I really needed to call my old therapist again. I’d already been contemplating it after my hospitalization, but the past few weekshad cinched the decision for me. I thought I’d gotten to a good place after years of weekly sessions with her, but obviously, I still had work to do—for both my professional life and personal life.




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