Page 10 of Ice Princesses
Of course there’s a reception.
Awelcomesomething. A networking event with sponsors and officials and media people who talk about skating like it’s a product and not kids throwing themselves into the air and hoping their blades find the ice again.
Rodrigo reads the line out loud, eyes shining. “Coaches and athletes welcome.”
I stare at the words and feel my stomach tighten.
He looks up at me. “We have to go, right?”
“We don’t have to, no,” I say automatically.
He waits. He’s good at waiting when he cares.
I exhale through my nose. He wants this, so much. He wants to be seen and he wants the sport to know his name and he wants that shiny gold medal in less than a year because he did an amazing job representing his country.
And this sport won’t give him anything unless we step into the rooms where people decide things and makeourselves visible to them. I glance down the hall. Isabella is still there, nodding along to someone wearing a crisp, stiff suit. Laughing once, short and controlled. Professional. She tilts her head in that old familiar way, like she’s listening but also measuring with that polite smile on her face.
“Ceci,” Rodrigo says as he follows my eyes and practically vibrates. “She’s looking at us.”
“She’s looking at you,” I say.
Rodrigo beams. “That’s insane.”
“Okay,” I say finally. “We’ll go.”
Rodrigo’s whole face changes. Relief. Excitement. Something like hope.
“Really?” he asks, like he doesn’t trust it.
“Yes,” I say. “But you can’t call her Princess.”
His grin falters. “Why?”
“Because it’s stupid,” I say, and when he opens his mouth to argue, I add, “Because it makes people feel like they can own her. And no one owns us.”
Rodrigo’s expression shifts, thoughtful now. He nods slowly, as if he’s filing that away the way I’ve taught him to file away corrections that aren’t about jumps.
“Okay,” he says. “No Ice Princess.”
CHAPTER 4
ISABELLA
Nina standsbeside me with her phone unlocked and a neutral expression that reads professional to strangers and threatening to anyone who knows her.
“You’re glowing,” she murmurs without looking at me, eyes scanning the room to make sure we’re three steps ahead of anything that could happen tonight.
“I’m sweating,” I reply, adjusting the cuff of the wildly unnecessary coat I’m wearing, even though I know it doesn’t need adjusting. “Why did I let you convince me to wear this fucking thing? It’s obnoxious and way too much, and it’shot.”
Nina scoffs and goes back to her phone, but there’s a sneaky smile on her lips, because she’s amused at my expense.
The conference room at Lake Jasper smells faintly of burnt coffee and fresh ice, just like the rest of the rink. Through the glass wall behind us, one of the training sheets gleams under the fluorescent lights. Skaters glide throughtheir routines, their blades carving familiar patterns into a surface that, from up here, looks almost forgiving.
This is probably the least fancy event that has ever been attached to my last name in the history of my family being elite athletes. There are no step-and-repeats, no photographers circling for the best angle of my face, and neither of my parents posted somewhere expecting people to come up to them and shower them in praise.
This is folding tables with paper name tags, trays of store-bought sandwiches and cookies, and a cluster of coaches pretending not to size each other up.
Across the room, Armand Paulsen stands near the windows overlooking the rink, hands folded in front of him, smile calibrated to polite interest. He spots me almost immediately. His gaze holds for half a second too long before he starts walking in our direction.
