[Transcript]

"I think you've healed my ballet injuries enough for one day," Maddie giggled, smirking. "But I do have one teeny-weeny wittle wound that could use a pounding from your Theragun," she teased.

As their lips were about to meet, the physical therapy office door slammed open. There stood Maddie's father, looking furious. "What the hell is this?"

"Dad, it's not what it looks like," Maddie stammered, her cheeks burning as bright pink as her tutu.

James stood protectively in front of Maddie, his posture tense. "We were just-"

"I know what you are..." Mr. Stevens hissed. He slammed James against the Stairmaster "Balleraggot”

James hadn't heard that word in years. He was brought right back to PT academy, to the hate he had faced simply because of who he couldn't help but love. As his head hit the top step of the Stairmaster, he heard all the other familiar slurs, too: nutcracker, chasse chaser, plié-wad, and even tutu-fucker. He collapsed to the ground.

"And you..." He turned to his daughter, who'd broken into tears.

"Don't think for one fucking second that we didn't know. That's right, your mother knew, may she rest in peace. All those years at performing arts high school... any normal daughter would've healed from the occasional sprain. Imagine the shame you brought onto your chemotherapy mother when she had to explain to the Rotary Club why her daughter spent her entire senior year in PT. Throwing herself at every new physical therapist. Imagine the tears in your chemommy's eyes when we heard you in your bedroom, firing, up your Theragun for the fifth time on one of her last nights with us.”

"Leave your daughter alone, " James bellowed, tears streaming down his face as he slowly stood up.

"She's hardly my daughter now," Mr. Simmons laughed derisively.

"Make me.”

"Oh, I will." James cocked his Theragun.