Page 84 of Ice Princesses
That’s what they understand.
Control. Structure. And recognition that follows a straight path into one singular direction.
“Not everything needs to lead there,” I say finally, my voice quieter than theirs but steady.
“To where, exactly?” my father asks with a kind of genuine interest that makes the question harder to dismiss.
I glance back at him.
“The association. Leadership. Titles.” I pause, choosing the next part more carefully. “Visibility for the sake of it.”
My mother tilts her head to the left, studying me. It feels like she’s trying to understand not just what I’m saying, but why.
“It’s not for the sake of it,” she says. And now her tone is sharper, a little more agitated. “It’s influence. It’s the ability to shape the sport in a meaningful way.”
I almost smile. Because that’s the version of influence they believe in. Just like Armand, and all the other officers in the International Skating Association and in some of the more influential federations. It’s the version that is sanctioned by people like them: structured and measurable.
“I am shaping it,” I reply.
“From the outside,” my father says.
“From where it actually matters, Dad.”
My mother’s fingers still against the glass. She watches me for a long moment, something quieter moving behind her expression now, something that looks less like disagreement and more like recalibration.
“You’ve always had a tendency,” she says slowly, “to move laterally when others move forward.”
There’s no judgment in her words, I don’t think. But this feels personal.
I let out a small sigh, my shoulders settling back against the chair. “Maybe forward isn’t always the right direction.”
My father leans back, his gaze drifting briefly towards my mom before returning to me.
“And this project, Princess,” he says after a moment, the dismissal of its importance right there in his words, “you believe it’s worth that deviation.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway.
“Yes.”
“Dinner will be ready shortly,” my mother says, pushing her chair back. She studies me for another moment after she stands, then nods once, almost imperceptibly, acknowledging something she doesn’t agree with.
She doesn’t move away immediately. Her hand rests lightly on the back of her chair, fingers tapping once against the polished wood while she decides how much further to take this.
“When you step outside of a structure like the association,” she says, her voice back to even and controlled, “you’re also stepping outside of the support that comes with it.”
I don’t say anything because I don’t needclarification.
“Introductions,” she continues. “Funding, access.” A small pause. “Protection.”
Each word is placed carefully, because she’s laying out an understanding that has been implicit and assumed but never explicitly stated.
My father doesn’t interrupt her. He doesn’t offer to soften her words, either.
“We’ve always made sure your work is positioned correctly,” he adds after a beat, his tone almost conversational. “That the right people are paying attention. That doors open for you when they should.”
I look between them, something tight and quiet settling in my chest.
“And if I keep going in this direction?” I ask.
