Page 24 of Ice Princesses
I wait a minute before joining her.
When I do approach, she looks up quickly, surprised.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hi,” she answers, after a beat.
I pull out the chair across from her and sit. Around us, conversation swells and recedes. Someone laughs loudly two tables over as a server is trying to squeeze past them with a tray of glasses.
“You came,” I say, lightly.
“So did you,” she replies.
There’s something guarded in her tone, but not closed. I recognize the difference.
“It’s my job,” I say, lifting one shoulder and hoping to god it looks casual.
Cecilia studies me for a moment, like she’s deciding whether to call my bluff or not.
“Is it?” she asks.
I smile, because that’s easier than answering directly. “Depends who you ask, honestly. Nina keeps everything running. I’m just…”
She waits for me to finish my thought. For me to say that I’m just the pretty face behind it. She’s good at that—at letting silence do the work instead of rushing to fill it. Just like with her coaching.
“I float,” I say finally. “That’s the easiest way to explain it.”
She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.
“I mean it,” I add. “Sometimes I’m here, helping out at the rink in whatever way I can. Other weeks I’m in a booth, pretending I have something insightful to say about edge quality to people who already know what they’re looking at.”
“The commentating,” she says.
“Among other things.” I pause. “I’m mostly doing panels and appearances during the season. I go to way too many meetings where everyone uses the wordlegacytoo many times.”
That earns the faintest curve of her mouth.
“And coaching?” she asks. I can’t quite interpret her expression. It’s almost as if she’s terrified of my answer.
“No.” I shake my head. “That part of my life is done.”
She glances down at her plate, then back up at me. In the dim light, her brown eyes look lighter. “Do you miss it?”
The question catches me off guard.
“I miss parts of it,” I say carefully. “The skating and the ice, definitely. I don’t miss feeling like the only thing people wanted from me was to stay who I’d already been.”
She nods once, like that makes sense.
“I thought I’d know what came next,” I continue, keepingmy voice low. “That it would feel clearer by now. Instead it’s… a bunch of little things I’m good at.”
“And none of them feel like they’re yours,” she says.
The accuracy of her statement startles me.
I laugh, softly, more in surprise than humor. “Something like that.”
She looks at me then, and for the first time that evening, I feel the shift happen from her side. Her attention isn’t purely defensive anymore.
