Page 29 of Ice Princesses
“This was a bad idea,” I say, hearing how thin it sounds,even if I actually mean it. Her mouth twitches, something closer to disbelief.
“And yet,” she replies.
I straighten, forcing my body to move out of the way, even though every part of me seems reluctant to give it up. Her eyes are too bright, and her hair is out of place, and I can feel the warmth coming off her body. The simple awareness of her presence hits me all over again, slower this time and far more dangerous.
“I need to—” I begin, and don’t finish because I don’t actually know what that sentence is supposed to end with. I smooth my dress down my legs and take a step to the side, needing space before I do something worse.
Cecilia watches me carefully, like she’s cataloguing my retreat and the way my brain is trying to recalibrate. To go back to that perfectly poised person she has seen for years, the person my parents and the public know me to be. Not this version, a woman reckless enough to kiss pretty girls in ice rink locker rooms.
“Isabella,” she says, low.
“Yes.”
“You started it.” The corner of her lip lifts slightly, another one of those little amused half-smiles.
I don’t argue, of course.
“I know.”
Another voice floats down the corridor, closer now, overlapping with music and laughter and the thud of something hitting the rubber floor.
I glance towards the door again, pulse still running too fast, my breaths unable to catch up with my brain.
“This isn’t over,” she says.
I nod once, because anything else would be dishonest.
And then I reach for the handle, unlocking it with a soft click that feels much louder than it should in the quiet of the room, already bracing for whatever version of myself is going to step back into the hallway first.
CHAPTER 10
CECILIA
Two days later,the altitude is doing strange things to my lungs and my brain, I think.
The field we’re in sits behind the rink, a wide stretch of green grass edged by pine trees and a running track that loops around the perimeter. The mountains in the distance look too calm for the amount of noise happening in front of me—athletic trainers calling intervals, athletes counting reps, equipment being dropped on the turf in a careless way.
Dryland days are supposed to feel easier, because the stakes are lower.
Rodrigo is mid-set, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt as he lunges forward with a weighted bar balanced across his shoulders. His form is clean and controlled, and finally he’s not rushing his body. I watch the angle of his knee, the set of his hips, the way he keeps his chest upright even as fatigue creeps in.
“Otra vez,” I call.
He exhales sharply and resets without complaint.
That part hasn’t changed. What has changed is the way I notice other things while he moves.
The scale of this place keeps announcing itself even when I try not to look at it. Two athletic trainers watching from the sidelines, taking fast notes on clipboards. There’s a physiotherapist stretching with one of the ice dancers nearby. A row of portable tents set up along the edge of the field with foam rollers, water coolers, and protein-heavy snacks laid out in neat, abundant lines.
Infrastructure everywhere. This is exactly what I was telling Sandra about the other night.
Rodrigo finishes his set and drops the bar carefully onto the turf before jogging over.
“How was that?” he asks.
Slowly, he’s been asking the question less like he needs permission and more like he already knows the answer. The confidence was always there, buried under nerves and the weight of what he represents. The first Argentine figure skater with a real shot at this level in decades. That kind of spotlight would crush most athletes. Rodrigo seems to be growing into it.
“Better,” I say. “How are your legs feeling?”
