It took barely more than a glance to let Asya know that the dancer across the room was none other than Maksim Novgorodsky himself. A top-ranked principal dancer with the Bolshoi and a heartthrob to many a young ballerina, Maksim was a living legend as far as ballet personalities went both in and outside Russia.
She watched, unblinking, as he shook hands with Roman and said something that vaguely sounded like a greeting. Maksim was a titan of industry, known for his technical proficiency and larger-than-life stage presence, and had a decorated career with the Bolshoi to show for it. What swept him into the arms of mainstream fame, however, was a documentary about his early days as a principal dancer navigating company politics and the pressures of being a performing artist. The documentary won several awards and gained critical acclaim for its intimate portrayal of life in the Russian ballet, and since then, Maksim had far transcended the confines of ballet stardom and done work in both film and television alike.
Despite what most would've assumed, however, it wasn't Maksim's sheer recognizability that had Asya easily able to pick out his dark blond hair and strong features from where they were sitting across the room. No, that was because he'd become a familiar face a few days prior when a certain verified Instagram account started following her.
She'd been sat on her livingroom couch with Julian one evening, and after showing him the notification to make sure she wasn't hallucinating, her best friend practically wet his pants with excitement. They'd collectively gone on a humiliatingly long scroll down his socials, and even with her insisting that the account was probably run by a management team and not Maksim himself, it felt a little surreal knowing that he was aware of her existence at all.
She'd written it off as a coincidence, or perhaps a stroke of algorithmic luck, but that was before he turned up in all his glory at the Royal Opera House for a last minute guesting. Thanks to the fact that she was spending her nights having dinner with a former Bolshoi principal dancer, she was well-aware of the whole guest artist fiasco and that Roman had gotten saddled with making some calls to find a replacement for James. She didn't know who she'd expected him to invite, but god knows only Roman would be able to get a name like Maksim Novogorodsky to London on New Year's Eve with such short notice.
She knew she was staring, and that Julian probably looked even more ridiculous than she did, but good god it was Maksim Novgorodsky. He was the balletic equivalent of an A-lister or a pop star, quite possibly both, and evidently, she wasn't above being a little starstruck. She watched as he fell into conversation with Roman like the two were old friends, and began warming up.
'Incoming.' Julian whispered from next to her, jerking his head in the direction of the swing doors.
Surprisingly early going by his usual habits, Ivan had come trudging in for company class. And, despite desperately trying to look like he was busy with his phone, was nervously glancing around the room like a man with a target on his back. She couldn't help but wonder if his skittish demeanour had something to do with the still-fading bruise on his jaw, and if it did, Ivan had every reason to be paranoid.
'I'm not dealing with him this early.' she groaned to Julian, crouching in front of the wall mirror to touch up her lip gloss.
With a final pout she smoothed out the fabric of her leotard, feeling decidedly pleased with herself for opting to dress up a little that morning on the off chance that she got cleared to dance. Her big comeback felt like an occasion enough to debut the pretty light grey leotard she'd bought a few weeks prior, which she'd paired with a pair of trackpants to keep the finicky hip snug.
'You better run.' Julian cooed.
'On it.' she grinned, spinning on heel to make for the two Bolshoi principals on the other side of the room. So much for uneventful, she said to herself. She slid up to Roman's side, folding her arms over her chest. If there was one place Ivan wouldn't dare bother her, it was next to him.
'Hi, hi.' she purred. 'Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?'
She grinned up at the newcomer, remarking that he was even taller up close. Short-shaven dark blond hair, pale blue eyes, and the outline of a crucifix faintly visible from under his shirt, Maksim's heartthrob status was well-deserved. He was staring down at her with a cool, even expression, like he too was piecing her together.
'Max,' Roman said with a sidelong glance at her, 'this is Nastasia.'
'I know.' he replied, never taking his eyes off her. 'Youngest soloist in company history and the only exciting thing to happen to this place since Guillem. Radzevich, isn't it?'
She felt color rushing into her cheeks at his compliment and extended her hand to him, matching it with the heart-stopping stage smile she'd spent years perfecting. He had that same, gorgeously slow Russian accent Roman had, rolling out the intonations in her surname with the ease of a native speaker.
'It's an honour to meet you, Maksim.'
To her surprise he didn't shake her hand but lifted it to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss against her knuckles. 'Call me Max.'
'Then you better call me Asya.' she drawled back.
She saw Roman shift out of the corner of her eye. 'Max was just saying he's hoping you'll come tonight.'
She raised her eyebrows. 'Well, Max will be happy to know Julian is performing, so yes, I am coming.' she grinned, glancing to where her best friend sat in his straddle splits. Upon realizing he'd become a topic of conversation, Julian let his elbow slip and smacked his forehead into the floor like an ostrich burying its head in the sand.
Max looked pleased with her answer and responded with a simple, 'We'll make plans for after.'
She smiled innocently, glancing from Max to Roman and back again. 'We?'
'My call time is at five, and this one,' Max grinned in the direction of his former colleague, 'is on press duty.'
・・・
Asya sank deep into her preparatory leg, savoring the range of motion the physio had loosened out of her hip over the past week. Drawing her arms up to a soft fifth position, she hopped onto the ball of her foot and spun around for a triple pirouette. She came down with only a slight corrective wobble, straightening out her torso for the next set.
'And tombé, pas de bourrées.' Debbie called sharply from the front of the class, tilting her head to the side to mimic the direction of the combination. 'Coup de pied, and around, stay up, up, up.'
It might have been the last day of the year and the tail end of Nutcracker season, but it would be a frosty day in hell before Deborah Stratford cut anyone some slack in company class. Asya couldn't resist a small, private smile over her hand as she pulled her leg across her vision and brought it back to the floor.
Seeing Debbie clad in her usual three-quarter black leggings and a zip-up puffer vest, Julian dancing in her peripheral vision, and the familiar view of the grey London skyline, felt familiar. Even if her body was full of little disobedient knots, her center of gravity was all over the place, and the muscles that had sat dormant for over a month were taking their sweet time awakening from their hibernation, her soul felt at home in a way it hadn't in a long time.
It felt like she'd spent six weeks churning in frustration and relief had finally come pouring in from every pore in her body. That was what ballet did to her. Ever since she was little, there was an itch in her body and mind, an obsession over movement and precision that nothing could ever quite satiate. But ballet, ballet scratched that itch.
She stuck to Julian's side like glue as the class split in two for turns on diagonal, watching as the two Bolshoi-trained principals took to the front. It was her first day back and even she could acknowledge that she needed to take it slow, with the added bonus being she could scope out the action in front.
Like Roman when he first arrived, Max was attracting several looks and whispers from the class. A few people had even gone up to introduce themselves, although Julian had yet to work up the courage. She reminded him that he was going to have to get his ducks in a row eventually, and preferably before he took to the stage that evening.
Between Max and Roman, they'd clearly thrown respecting anyone's turf out the window. The two men were front and center marking out the combination Debbie had set, showing off every square inch of their impeccable Russian training.
Among ballet companies, the Bolshoi proudly stood as the crown jewel of conservatism and tradition, clinging to its age-old practices and standards even in an age of modernization and representation. The Academy's entrance requirements mandated a physical exam that assessed a child's natural turnout, flexibility in their spine, hips and ankles, all while a panel of experts set out to estimate how tall the children will grow, if they'd struggle to control their weight, if their joints could tolerate the strain of the Vaganova training method. While such practices hadn't helped the company's image, it had allowed them to produce generations and generations of physically astounding athletes.
Watching Roman and Max at work, she was staring down the striking evidence of that rigorous standard in its purest form. They were built almost identically, the same trademark towering height and long lean limbs, tied together with the beautifully balanced proportions their theatre was known for. Their Russian training showed in their hands and footwork, the way they transitioned between steps and angled their eyeline.
She watched, fascinated, as the two icons wove through the combination's intricate steps and directional changes. Despite having had the same schooling and teachers, there were distinct differences in the way they moved. Max was a veteran as far as Bolshoi principals went: big, bold technique and his characteristic fierceness and bravado, the very attributes that had once made him famous. Make no mistake, she'd seen Roman throwing his weight around enough times to know he too had a taste for typically male arrogance. But to her, he was more of an artist than a performer. His technique was subtler, full of detail, there was a deeper knot between body and soul and a quality to his movement that commanded a room. It was the bond he'd once allowed her to hear him describe, the bond that underscored his success and had him juggling the chains of notoriety at a tender twenty-four.
Following a turn combination that left a sizable chunk of the class quietly gaping after them, the two men walked off to the side of the room, dancers parting like the Red Sea to let them pass. If the glares from Phillip and the other male principals were any indication, there was already blood in the water. He was trying his best not to look fazed, but even the reigning King of the English ballet seemed to realize he was out of his depth.
Truth be told, she had no idea what Max meant by making plans or how she'd become part of that particular 'we' equation. She definitely wanted to find out, he was Maksim Novgorodsky for goodness sake, a formidable industry connection if wanted to book Russian galas or guestings. And if he did know Roman from his Bolshoi days, maybe she could lure some secrets out of him to feed her curiosity on the subject.
She hadn't known that Roman was on press duty, but she assumed that he was being sent in either to distract from the last-minute casting change or simply to make his first public appearance since the scandal and start his transition back to the stage. Not to mention that it was New Year's Eve, and if Max's definition of 'plans' meant painting the streets of London red, she wasn't about to turn him down.
As if he could overhear her thoughts, Max's gaze flicked over to where she was standing. Roman had his back to her, saying something to his former colleague in what looked to be a hushed conversation. Max nodded, and slipped her a devilish grin.
Yeah, that account wasn't run by a management team, she thought to herself.
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Hi everyone! Whenever I introduce you all to a new character I'm always so curious what your first impressions are, so feel free to drop your thoughts and opinions on King Max in the comments🖤. Also, let me know what's on Max's instagram feed👀. As always, thank you so much for spending your time with this story, here's a cookie and hot beverage from me to you☕🍪.