“She’d probably run up on stage so she could curl up near your feet the way she does at home.”
I smiled, heart bursting as I looked at him — my husband. We had a family. We had a past, and a present, and a future.
We had each other.
“See you out there?” I asked, pressing up onto my toes to kiss him one last time.
“I’ll be the loud one in the front row.”
And I knew it to be true, without a single doubt in my mind. He wouldn’t just be loud, he’d be the loudest. He would be there after the show, whether I crushed it or completely bombed. Forever my number-one fan.
Forever my number one. Period.
And I still didn’t understand it, how we had somehow found each other in a world with billions of people, billions of lost, searching souls, trying to find the missing piece. Somehow, against all odds, we had come together. We had fought the demons of our past, and faced the challenges of our future — together. We had a million reasons why we shouldn’t have worked, and yet, we did. We just did.
Maybe I would never understand it fully, I realized, as my husband smiled at me over his shoulder, closing the door behind him and leaving me alone in my dressing room. Maybe I would never see the full map, the roads that had led us to each other, the one road we traveled together now — as a team, as a unit.
But that was okay.
I didn’t need to see the plan, didn’t need insurance of any kind to know that this was it. Reese wasn’t just my for now. He wasn’t just a lesson, or a role played in my life when I needed someone to help me walk through the darkness.
He was my forever.
And what a beautiful forever it was.
I couldn’t stop smiling as I warmed up my wrists, my hands, my fingers, playing a little of the songs I knew and loved on the piano set up in my dressing room. When the twenty-minute warning was given, my hands started playing the song I’d written for Reese, and I smiled when the little eggplant-sized human in my belly danced with joy at the sound.
“You like that one, huh?” I asked, smiling as I finished the melody. Then, I stood, smoothing my hands over my dress as I faced the mirror one last time.
And for the first time that night, I saw it.
It really was me — the hair, the skin, the wide eyes, the long, silky black dress, the dazzling crystal shoes. It was me, standing backstage at Carnegie Hall. It was me, reaching up to hold the crystal that hung around my neck.
“I feel you here,” I whispered. “I hope you’re as proud as I am.”
My daughter danced again, as if she was speaking on behalf of her grandfather, and I laughed, placing the hand not on my crystal over my belly, instead.
“Alright, Mallory,” I said, testing out the name. I hadn’t told Reese yet, that I wanted to name our daughter after his sister. But when I said her name in that moment, a smile split my face.
Because everything about it felt right.
“Let’s go knock ‘em dead, shall we?” I said, squeezing my crystal and patting my belly one last time.
My eyes found the woman’s eyes who stared back at me, and my heart kicked to life in my chest.
This is it.
This is what you’ve worked for.
And seemingly before I even did, that reflection smiled back at me, pointing her finger directly at my chest. She and I, we were survivors — warriors who had fought one hell of a battle. Despite the losses that had broken us. Despite the injuries that had hindered us. Despite the enemies who had tried to take us out.
We were still here. We were still fighting.
And this was our victory dance.
As I turned out the lights, making my way through the hallway and down the stairs that led to the stage, I couldn’t help but count the biggest blessing of all: that I had the best dance partner in the world to celebrate with.
When the lights went out, when I stepped onto that stage to the tune of a thunderous applause, it was his eyes I found.
It was his smile that made my heart stop.
It was him I had in my heart as I played.
And it was him I would have in my heart always.
THE END
Keep reading for a sneak peek inside Kandi Steiner’s bestselling sports romance: The Wrong Game — available in Kindle Unlimited.
I find myself struggling to find the right words for this note, so much so that I’m actually pulling a little of it from a book I previously wrote — the second season of Palm South University: Anchor. In that book, and in this one, I tackled writing about something that is a trigger for many women (and men) and that, I think, should be a topic of conversation.
The sexual assault of Sarah was not easy to write about, and my stomach hurts just thinking about putting myself in her shoes. Unfortunately, I know many women in my life who have been through what Sarah endured. And, even I, myself, have battled various levels of sexual abuse in my life. Sadly, I believe it’s a part of life when you are a woman, and whether it affects you in the same way it affected Sarah or not, it’s still something that changes you in some way.
While it was important for THIS particular character and story, for Sarah, to go down the path she did, I want you to understand as my reader that if you ever do or ever have found yourself in this terrifying situation or one similar to it, you have options.
If you become a victim of sexual assault, call 911 or RAINN at 1-800-656-HOPE immediately. Just like in Sarah’s situation, four out of five rapes are committed by someone known by the victim. Similarly, 68% of rapes are not reported to the police, and 98% of rapists never spend a day in jail or prison.
This was a big reason why I chose to tackle Sarah’s situation the way I did. I wanted to be real, to be raw, to steer away from the easy, happy ever ending and touch on the horrible reality that sometimes, even when you do everything right, justice is not served. It breaks my heart that we see this happen so often — to strangers in the news, to our friends, to our family — but even so, we must still fight against sexual assaulters and the injustices in our system.
If you’re like Sarah, you may feel that it’s useless to tell anyone — especially if the first person you trust to tell doesn’t handle it appropriately. It may feel embarrassing, or you may worry no one will believe you, or, even if they do, that the abuser will end up winning in the end, anyway. But, no matter what, what I hope you will understand is that it is not your fault and there is help available.
Maybe it won’t all turn out perfectly. Maybe it won’t be the justice you want. But, it will be a fight, it will be a spotlight on that person who hurt you, and it will be you not sitting back and letting it all go. You are a human, a person, a living, breathing being — and you deserve to be treated like one. Fight for justice. Fight for yourself.
I hope you never find yourself in this situation and that you never have in the past, but if you’re reading this and you feel isolated and alone, please, reach out to someone. Reach out to a friend, a family member — hell, reach out to me. You can email me at [email protected]. I am always here, and I care about you — every single one of you.