Page 111 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

One. Two. Three.The silent, measured counts steadied my breathing and calmed my heart rate. By the time I finished, the churn of anxiety had slowed to a crawl.

Tamara clapped her hands. “Okay, let’s start from the top!” she said when everyone was in place.

The music started, and I didn’t have time to overthink anymore.

It was move or die, so I moved.

The good thing aboutLorenawas that its choreography played to my strengths as a dancer. I hadn’t performed in five years, but I’d lived and breathed ballet for sixteen years before that. My body remembered what it felt like.

After a hesitant start, I gradually flowed into the movements. Pirouettes, arabesques, grand battements…it was like saying hello to old friends I hadn’t seen in a long time.

If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine I was at Westbury, dancing for an opening-night audience.

This isn’t so bad. You can do this. You?—

The sudden screech of the auditorium doors opening pierced through the music. It sounded like metal screaming.

Metal. Blood. Smoke.

My veins flooded with adrenaline. My head instinctively snapped toward the entrance, ruining my choreography, but instead of the newcomer, my vision swarmed with snippets from the past.

Punctured lungs, broken ribs, shattered pelvis…

With long-term, consistent physical therapy, she’ll regain normal use of her legs, but I’m afraid professional ballet is no longer a viable option…

I strongly encourage surgery. Without it, she might never dance again. Not even recreationally.

I stumbled. Sweat beaded my forehead, and the air thinned in my lungs. The stage lights were sohot,I couldn’t think properly.

What was the next part of the choreography? Was I supposed to go left or right? How long until this damn dance was over?

My temples pounded with tension.

“Scarlett? Scarlett!”

I lifted my head, my breaths shallow.

Shit.The rest of the cast had stopped rehearsing and were staring at me, their faces painted with varying shades of concern, annoyance, and judgment.

Humiliation crawled over my skin like fire ants over broken soil.

“Are you okay?” Tamara asked. She was the one who’d called my name, and her brow pinched with worry as she ran her eyes over me. “If you’re not feeling well?—”

“No. I’m fine.” I straightened and swallowed the bile in my throat. “I didn’t hydrate enough and got dizzy, but I can finish rehearsals. I promise.”

I wasnotgoing to quit practice. I refused to run away with my tail tucked between my legs after one misstep, and I’d never willingly quit anything I’d committed to in my life. I wasn’t going to start now.

Tamara appeared dubious, but she didn’t argue. We were already behind, and the other staff members looked restless.

The music started again. Thankfully, the choreography came back to me, but I never recovered from my first mistake. I either missed my cues or I was off by half a count, which threw the others offtheircounts. It was a disaster, and by the time rehearsals ended, I wanted to cry.

I slunk off the stage, my head down, but I caught snippets of my colleagues’ whispered conversations.

“What a waste of an afternoon.”

“I hope Yvette doesn’t get injured before the showcase, or the performance will be a nightmare.”

“Why did Lavinia make her an understudy? She didn’t even audition.”

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