I pressed my feet into the toe box of my shoes and rolled up into relevé, a superstitious tick I always did before performing en pointe. If the shank was going to break or a ribbon come untucked, now was the time to find that out.
Grant’s clamminess graduated into a full-on sweat. I grabbed a tissue from a dispenser nearby and dabbed at his forehead. “Hey,” I said, hushed and only for him. “We’ve got this. I’d say you’re going to be amazing, but . . . you already are.”
There was applause as the tap dancer left the stage, drowning out whatever Grant wanted to say. But his eyes spoke loudly. They said he believed me.
“You’re on,” the assistant announced. “Good luck!”
Oh, Jesus. I grabbed the metal folding chair, my palms slippery with nervous sweat, and glanced at Grant. He looked surprising calm and ready, and gestured with his bow, wordlessly saying, “After you.”
I compartmentalized everything into tasks, so I could tackle them one at a time.
First, I strode to the center of the stage and placed the “prop” chair where I wanted Grant to sit. He took his seat, and our gazes connected for a second, just long enough to smile and mouth, “Good luck.”
Second, I walked to my mark, front and center, and took in the view. The house was full other than the front seats, where the judges’ panel on the platform obstructed the view. My gaze moved to Hugh, who wore his signature black-framed glasses and a colorful pocket square peeked out of his suit coat pocket. Then I drifted on to Rita, the ballroom dance specialist. She had on a bright red dress, heavy eye makeup, and a huge smile. She was considerably older than I was, but she still had it going on.
Shonda was a Tony and Emmy winning choreographer. Direct, but fair, she was the one I was most excited to hear feedback from. She wore her hair in long braids, which was a change from last season, and it looked beautiful on her.
The final judge—
Oh, no.
I swallowed hard, and my knees threatened to knock together as a tremble roared up my legs.
“Hello, darling,” Hugh said in his posh British accent. “What’s your name?”
I channeled all my fear into a bright smile. “Tara Vannett.”
“May I ask what’s happening here?” He pointed to Grant.
“He’ll be playing my audition music.”
Rita straightened in her seat and flashed a saucy smile. “Oh, getting some live music, are we?”
She gazed longingly at Grant. Rita was a dirty old woman, always making provocative comments, and I adored that about her. Her question seemed to be rhetorical, and everyone turned their attention back to Hugh, the showrunner. This was his call, and they wanted to know if he was going to allow it.
He didn’t seem to mind. “All right, dear. Where are you from, and what style will you be performing for us today?”
“I’m from Chicago, and I’ll be dancing contemporary ballet.”
“Oh?” He glanced down the panel of judges. “Then you probably know Michael Carlisle, the director of the Chicago Ballet Company.”
Emotion swirled inside me, but I hoped none of it showed. I kept my tone upbeat and light. “Yes, I’ve auditioned for him a few times.”
There was no point not addressing it. Rita picked up what this meant right away. “Ruh roh,” she said under her breath.
Hugh was just as quick, and I could see the wheels turning in his head. I’d auditioned several times and not been accepted into the CBC, so he was skeptical about how good I could be.
My heart sank. It looked like the interview was over, and I’d already been written off.
“Well, let’s get to it, then, shall we?” He gave a cursory, hollow smile. “Off you go.”
I nodded and hurried to my place behind Grant. Could he feel the tremors in my hands as I placed them on his shoulders? Was his heart a war drum in his chest like mine? I rode the heavy rise and fall of his deep breath, and with the connection to him, something in me snapped.
Maybe the judges had already written me off, but fuck that. I didn’t come here to get rejected. I came to win the whole goddamn thing, and the fact that Michael Carlisle was a judge? It was icing on the cake. I’d show him how wrong he’d been about me.
“And . . . cue music,” Hugh announced into his microphone.
The piano intro drifted from the speakers, and Grant’s shoulder tensed, the muscle in his arm flexing to draw his bow across the strings. He was a flurry of activity, and I took off, matching his intensity.