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It’s only ninety days, Tati. Only ninety days.
ACT SIX
BACK THEN
TATIANA
Reno, Nevada
“Where the hell did you misplace your brain?” Miss Price pushes my leg off the barre. “Why haven’t you brought it in with you today?”
I catch my balance seconds before face-planting on the wood floor.
“You promised me no distractions this season.” She fumes. “Yet, here you are, looking like a bumbling beginner.”
Standing, I position my leg on the barre again and bite my tongue.
My coach has done nothing except point out mistakes today, critiquing the very way that Ibreathe. At this rate, I’ll never leave the ballet studio and get to the ice.
“I’m not distracted at all, Miss Price,” I say. “I promise I’m focused.”
“Then why are you applying to overseas fashion and business programs behind my back?”
“What?” I feign confusion, but I’ve long hoped she’d never find out about this.
“The director from some Russian school called me for a recommendation this morning.” Her face is redder than ever. “At what point were you planning to tell me about that, Miss Brave?”
Never.
“I have dreams outside of skating,” is all I can say.
“Are these ‘dreams’ the same reason why you’ve shown up late to practice six days in a row?”
“No, I…” I let my sentence die.
I’ve only been late by a few minutes each time, all thanks to talking to Travis on the phone until sunrise, but I don’t dare to mention that. The last time I answered one of her rhetorical questions, she made me run laps until five in the morning.
“I wouldn’t mind a little tardiness here and there,” she says, “but I have to draw the line at having a boyfriend, especially when he decides to randomly show up here like some teenage lover boy.”
“Wait,what?” I shake my head. “What are you talking about?”
“Take the rest of this wasted rehearsal off and come back as the ‘Tatiana Brave’ that I came out of retirement to coach.”
“Miss Price—”
“Out.” She shooed me away. “Now.”
I sigh and grab my bag on the way out of the room.
I head downstairs and make my way to the parking lot, stopping when I see Travis leaning against the hood of his car.
Wearing a black muscle shirt and dark blue jeans, he’s flexing his hands.
He smiles at me as I approach, and my brain instantly short-circuits into fantasies about the way his lips feel against mine.
“Why did you tell the receptionist that you were my boyfriend?” I ask.
“I didn’t.” He sits up. “Is that what I am now?”
