Page 2 of Glitz & Goals

I nod, swallowing hard, trying to keep it together. I’ve seen enough careers end in this room to know what’s coming. I don’t need to hear the specifics right now.

The door swings open, and in walks Larisse, heels clicking against the floor as if this is any other day. My ballerina wife’s face is set in a tight mask of indifference, her eyes scanning me like I’m another problem she needs to deal with. Not a husband she’s worried about, not a man whose world is crashing down around him.

It guts me in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

I remember the first time I saw her—gliding into a frat party like she was walking onto a stage, ethereal and untouchable. The kind of woman who made a jock like me forget how to breathe. I was twenty, starry-eyed, and convinced she hung the damn moon. She was elegance, refinement, everything I wasn’t, and I worshipped the ground she walked on.

I wanted her more than anything. And I didn’t stop until she was mine.

Now she looks at me like she can’t stand the sight of me. Like I’m the thing ruining her perfect life. And the worst part? I didn’t even do anything wrong.

“Larisse,” I mutter, trying to sit up a little, but the weight of the brace keeps me pinned.

When I could use a kind word, or even an empathetic expression, my fuckingwifebarely looks at me, used to dealing with injuries herself. I don’t think a single day has gone by that she hasn’t had some physical pain. But she dances anyway. We’re athletes. It’s just what we do.

“The MRI is scheduled?” she asks the doc, as if I’m not even in the room.

He nods. “We’ll have the results within the hour. But he’s going to need surgery.”

Larisse crosses her arms, shifting her weight onto one leg. “Fine. I’ll start making arrangements.”

There’s no softness, no concern in her voice. Just cold, practical efficiency. No hug. No gentle kiss to my sweaty brow. It’s like she’s already checked out, moving on to whatever comes next, as if my career being over is just a logistical issue that needs to be handled. She doesn’t even ask me how I’m feeling. Doesn’t meet my eyes.

The trainers finish strapping me up, and it’s Mick who gives me that pat on my shoulder, muttering something about follow-ups and specialists. I nod, my mind a fog of pain and disbelief.

But all I can think about, as Larisse turns her back to make a call, is how alone I feel.

Once they’ve done everything they can do to see to my comfort, the trainers pass me off to Larisse, with Doc’s assurance that there will be follow-ups in my future.

“I already called the orthopedic center. They can squeeze you in for a meeting with the surgeon tomorrow morning at ten. For tonight, elevate, ice, and rest. Got it?”

I nod as Doc leans down and says, “Let’s see what the specialist says.”

As if we don’t both know that this is devastating. To my career. To my fucking soul.

“You’ll get through this, Metcalfe,” he says as they load me into the passenger seat of my wife’s luxury sedan. Larisse hovers behind them, her narrow face pale and pinched, as the trainers manhandle me and stuff my crutches in the back along with the rest of my crap. “Don’t give up yet. Stranger things have happened, and no matter what, you’ve still got a future in the game.”

I wouldn’t say that I’ve given up, but I’ve certainly turned my attention to other topics. Like, how am I going to get in the house when I’m back? Larisse is a dancer, which meansshe’s strong, but she’s also petite. And our house isn’t exactly accessible for person with a knee injury, given the steps out front, so how am I supposed to get inside? This brace feels like it weighs a million pounds.

And I’m already tired. So fucking tired.

Larisse won’t even look at me.

At last, my wife climbs into the driver’s seat, graceful and poised as ever, like she’s floating instead of walking. She’s all long limbs and elegance, every movement controlled, refined—exactly what you’d expect from a prima ballerina who’s been dancing on the world’s greatest stages since she was sixteen. Even now, in jeans and a fitted jacket, her hair slicked back in that perfect bun she’s famous for, she looks like she’s about to perform a pas de deux instead of driving me home from what might be the worst night of my life.

I used to worship her. Larisse was everything I wasn’t—grace, refinement, beauty wrapped up in this untouchable, otherworldly package. She walked into a room, and people held their breath. And me? I was just a dumb puck monkey, all brute force and instinct, crashing into life with no finesse. I didn’t belong in her world of standing ovations and crystal chandeliers, but somehow, I convinced myself I did. I thought loving her would make me better—more than the scrappy kid who clawed his way out of nowhere to put on an NHL jersey. But now, watching her stare straight ahead, distant and cold, I feel the weight of everything falling apart.

I wish she’d say something. Anything. We’ve talked about the possibility of serious injuries before, and we’ve each had a few scares over the years, but this feels like our first big test. And maybe it’s stupid, but I’ve always thought if something like this ever happened, Larisse would be there, offering comfort in that quiet, effortless way she moves through life, giving me hope that I might not deserve.

Well, maybe the second big test. Given that we’re still waiting for the results from the fertility clinic.

I try to think of something to say, but as we pull away from the stadium, she breaks the silence first.

“I’ll start talking to home care companies first thing tomorrow,” she announces, in the same tone she uses for business discussions. I’m used to hearing it when she’s on the phone with her company director, or during interviews, but she never used to use it with me. Lately, I’ve realized that it’s the voice she uses when she’s turning her emotions off.

“Home care?” I repeat.

She scoffs and catches my eyes in the rearview mirror. “I can’t cancel my season to take care of you, Grady. Just because yours is over doesn’t mean mine is.”

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