Page 101 of Ice Princesses
There’s a beat. Then he looks over his shoulder and winks at me. Isabella turns to me slowly, one perfect brow lifting in question.
I lose it.
A full, unfiltered laugh escapes before I can stop it, and I drop my gaze to the table, shaking my head. “Don’t worry about it.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, not buying it for a second. “I’m very worried about it.”
She studies me for a second longer, then lets it go, though the curiosity doesn’t leave her face entirely, and I can see she wants to push.
“When do you leave?” Isabella finally asks. There’s sound and movement all around us, but her question makes me feel like time is frozen and we are the only ones moving.
“August twentieth,” I reply. “Sandra said there was no reason for us to fly back to Argentina, and she arranged ice time over there ahead of the competition.”
“That makes sense.”
I glance up.
Her expression hasn’t changed much, but I know her better now than I did three months ago. Maybe even better than I should. There’s a stillness around her mouth, a pause in the way she reaches for her cup.
“It’s not that long,” I say, which is a stupid thing to say because we are nothing and I shouldn’t be reassuring her about the thing we are not at all.
Her gaze lifts to mine.
“No,” she says. “It’s not.”
But she doesn’t sound convinced. Hell, I’m not convinced.
I clear my throat and shift one of the papers closer to me. “We’ll see each other there.”
“In Austria, you mean?”
“Yes. You can wear your fur coats.”
For a second, I think she might say something else. Something closer to the thing neither of us has said. What happens after Linz. After I go back to Argentina and get back to my life, and to my boring accountant job, and to skating on awful ice. When this stops being contained to summer and turns into real life with flights and schedules and federations and people who will ask questions we haven’t answered for ourselves.
And after this summer, after Rodrigo is finished with this program, we will forever be tied together in name: Rodrigo Higuera, first skater trained by Isabella Pierce’s Ascend program.
Rodrigo appears at the edge of the table with his backpack hanging off one shoulder.
“Are we doing video today?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say too quickly.
His eyes flick between us once, then his mouth twitches.
“Alright, Fireblade,” Isabella says as she stands to her full height, already pulling herself back together. She smiles, and I feel the tension loosen enough that I can breathe again.
This is what we do now, apparently. Step up to the edgeof something honest, look down, then make a joke before either of us has to admit how far the drop is.
I stand, gathering my notebook and coffee. Isabella lingers, and for a moment we’re too close for the middle of a lobby. Not touching, but close enough that I can see the faint freckles across her nose, the way her lashes lower when she looks at my mouth and catches herself.
“I’ll see you later?” she asks.
It’s trying to be casual, but it doesn’t quite get there.
“Yeah,” I say. “You will.”
The small, private smile is back, and I feel myself blush as I walk away, trying to avoid doing something completely unprofessional like professing my love in the lobby of Isabella’s work establishment.
