Page 23 of Ice Princesses
“I didn’t ask forthis.”
“We’ve been talking about more access for him for at least three years,” she corrects. “This is the version of it you get, unfortunately for you but fortunately for him.”
I lean back and lie flat on the bed, looking at the textured ceiling. The paint is pristine white, as if the walls were painted the minute before we got here, in preparation for my star athlete.
“Escuchame,” she continues, voice steady. “You don’t have to trust the system. You just have to decide how close you’re willing to stand to it.”
My gaze drifts to the window.
“I’m not building his career on someone else’s attention,” I say.
“Then don’t,” she replies simply.
I take a deep breath, centering myself again. There’s a long pause, and I hear the snick of a door, a set of keys locking up.
“How does she look?”
“Sanchi,” I warn, and I can immediately picture the smile forming on her face. It’s sneaky, tilted, and every bit mischievous. But I sigh, ready to give in to my best friend. “Fucking amazing. It’s like time has done nothing to her.”
“Oh, boy.”
I groan. “I know.”
“Reminds me of Worlds in Nice.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, too fastfor my liking. I close my eyes and internally cringe, because I absolutely do. That was before she said what she said, before she minimized my technical prowess with just a few careless words.
Sandra huffs a quiet laugh.
“You were obsessed with her.”
I open my eyes. “I was not.”
“Cecilia.”
“She’s an excellent skater,” I say, pushing myself up and sitting at the edge of the bed again. “I was trying to pick up things from her jumps.”
“Okay.” My friend laughs. “Whatever you say.”
“Please, Sandra, don’t get it twisted.” I shake my head once, and I laugh with her.
We end the call, and I sit there for a second, pressing my palms into my knees, steadying myself before I have to move to her orbit again.
CHAPTER 8
ISABELLA
The dinner endsup being louder and rowdier than I expected.
Maybe rowdy is not exactly the word… but it has everyone moving around, chatting with each other, being active.
The restaurant has pushed together four long tables near the back, each seating six, and no one seems inclined to stay in one place for very long. People stand to greet each other, drift between tables, lean over chairs to finish a thought or join in on parallel conversations. Wine glasses are moving freely and the food arrives in uneven waves.
It feels more social than the rink ever does, especially the closer it gets to competing.
I circulate at first out of habit, stopping to exchange a few words with a few coaches I haven’t seen in years, nodding through updates I’ll need to remember later. I’m aware, in the background, of Cecilia’s presence before I actually seeher. A familiar alertness settles in my body, the same one I get when something matters more than I’m willing to admit.
She’s seated at the far table, half-turned towards a coach I don’t recognize, listening carefully. She looks tired, though she’s doing a good job of disguising it. Her shoulders are tight, and, somehow, her attention feels split, like she’s holding the day together piece by piece. Her hair is loose today, and her blonde strands are shorter than they appear when she’s at the rink.
