“Oscar? You’re alive!”

As soon as he stepped into the dressing room, his half-naked colleagues swarmed around him, and the speech on his lips died.

He’d spent the morning rehearsing what he was going to say—how disappointed he felt that nobody but Jef had wanted to hang out with him since brunch ages ago, and how he hoped this wasn’t going to affect how they treated him when he recovered.

Not if, but when.

But these were sincere smiles and greetings.

“H-Hi,” he answered after a moment, too confused to know what to do as pats to his shoulder and claps on his back welcomed him into the fold. He didn’t see Jef immediately. The way the room was constructed, he could have easily been in the showers or water fountain, out of view.

Or putting in extra practice toward his fucking leading role.

“Oscar?” Raj offered a warm smile as he approached, glancing down—unmistakably, at his knee. “Can I have a word?”

It would be mean-spirited to say no, so Oscar nodded despite the most pressing issue on his mind, then caught himself. When had he started caring more about social approval than his career? Keep it together, Oscar, he scolded himself.

Raj guided him to a bench in the hallway and sat next to him. “How’s recovery going? Three weeks in, right?”

He genuinely cared about Oscar—his career and his life—and it put him at ease to be honest. “Slower than I hoped. Stiff and sore a lot. It’s getting easier to walk, and I can drive okay now. Maybe by the time you get back from this tour…”

Raj looked skeptical for a moment. “Are you keeping limber? You know eating for recovery isn’t the same as eating for performance…”

“I know,” Oscar sighed. The protein intake he required was equally high, but he was exercising less. Most dancers were terrified of gaining fat and losing muscle while their exercise regimen was lessened. “I’m eating right. More or less. More junk food,” he admitted.

Raj smiled. “I expected that. Have you been thinking about the future, if you’re sure you want to come back?”

“I can’t go out on this,” Oscar immediately defended, his hackles rising. Getting so close to his life’s goal that he’d almost tasted it, and then unceremoniously dumped? No. “No, no, no,” he mumbled.

Raj gripped his shoulder. “I understand. But you wouldn’t be going out in a blaze of glory. You can stay in the industry—”

“And remember what I lost?” Oscar’s voice was sharper, more bitter, than he’d even expected himself. The corners of his eyes pricked with heat but he held it in like any injury, kept his back straight and toes pointed even as he sat.

Raj silently gazed at him, and the compassionate understanding in his expression made Oscar wince.

He knew Raj’s own past: lead dancer until he’d gracefully bowed out to join a small company as an artistic director, then larger companies, and finally their very own. But how graceful had that exit been? Rumors swirled, but he’d never asked.

“Sorry,” Oscar mumbled, looking down. “I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

“It’s to be expected, darling. I just wanted you to think about the other options. There is no shame in what you’ve done. You might not have taken leads, but you’ve gotten good reviews. I’ve admired your work for years. Your directors have all praised how easy you are to work with. You have real talent, and vision. You understand why behind the choreography, you don’t just do what you’re told.”

Oscar glanced at him, startled and pleased and—for the first time in three weeks—glowing with pride.

“If prone to dramatics occasionally,” Raj added with a teasing wink.

Oscar was not about to admit that he’d spend a day rehearsing a speech about how nobody cared about him anymore. His cheeks flushed and he cleared his throat, folding his arms.

“Go hang out with the other guys.” Raj laughed. “They’ve been missing you.”

“Really?”

Raj looked startled. “Yeah. Of course. I think they’re going out to eat. You should come.” They had a few favorite choice restaurants within walking distance that could cater to their very specific post-workout dietary needs. By now, the chefs probably pulled two dozen plain chicken breasts out of the freezer the moment they walked in.

“I… yeah.” Still dazed, Oscar made his way to the dressing room as his friends emerged in twos and threes with cheerful smiles and anecdotes from the last few weeks.

Jef skillfully avoided him by being mysteriously engaged in deep conversation with another dancer as he left the dressing room and headed for those cursed front steps.

Oscar wondered how long it would take before any of them had the courage to ask.

As it turned out, it took until the restaurant. Over lunch, Matt glanced at him. “So, you gonna keep in touch, or do we have to drag you out?”

“I… what?” He’d expected a question about his recovery time, not socializing. “Of course I don’t wanna lose touch.”

There was a moment of silence at the table, and though they clearly tried not to look his way, several of them glanced at Jef.

“Why’d you think that?” Oscar asked Matt directly. It was kind of cheating; Matt couldn’t lie to his face—or anyone’s. He was a terrible liar, and everyone knew it.

“Uh.” Matt stuttered, then cleared his throat.

The table was entirely silent, and Oscar was aware of Jef’s gaze fixed on Matt, too. He’d better not be getting between Matt and that cute new fiancé of his, Oscar thought darkly.

Since nobody rescued him, Matt finally said, “Jef said you might want some space now.”

Oscar let his eyebrows rise as he turned his head and tilted it slightly, looking down the table at Jef. “Oh? And why would he think to say that?”

“It was in your best interests,” Jef defended himself with a touch of unnecessary aggression.

Oscar snorted. “To lose touch with my friends while I’m down and out? My best interests, or yours?”

“I figured the reminder would hurt. Remembering what you lost.” His own words thrown back at him—of course Jef had been listening in, the fucking creep. And worst of all, it might be a little true.

Oscar was going to cry if he stayed here a moment later, and he’d be damned if he’d give Jef the satisfaction. Instead, he rose to his feet, hiding the internal wince. He grabbed his wallet and pulled out enough to cover his meal and the drink, then a few ones for the tip, and slammed them on the table.

“Don’t you dare speak for me again,” he told Jef, his voice quiet but carrying over the rest of the suddenly quiet restaurant.

The graceful exit—storming out, turning his back on the fucking asshole trying to add insult and isolation to injury—was undermined slightly since he had to hobble. At least he did that at the fastest pace he could manage, which was speedy indeed.

When the restaurant door finally closed after him, he didn’t linger and look back. A smile did finally crack his lips, even if his eyes misted over at the same time. He knew the way back to the studio and his parked car by heart, so he could hang his head and stare at the sidewalk as he tried to compose himself.

Prone to dramatics. Roman is gonna laugh his ass off. Whenever he gets his ass home.

He had to hope his friends—the real friends he had there, if any—would straighten Jef out. But Oscar wasn’t sticking around to find out. He wasn’t sure he could stand one more disappointment.