Page 58 of Ice Princesses
He exhales through his nose, pushes off without arguing further, and circles back to his mark at center ice for the third time this morning.
The rink is mostly empty at this hour. A pair of junior skaters are working footwork patterns on the far side with another coach, their music leaking faintly through the speakers in distorted bursts. The smell of coffee and breakfast food drifts from the small kiosk near the entrance, mixing with the metallic scent of resurfaced ice. It’s ordinary and predictable.
I grip the top of the boards and watch him set up for the jump again, forcing my focus into the mechanics of it—knee bend, shoulder alignment, timing on the toe pick—because it’s easier to live inside those details than inside the memory of last night.
He launches. Rotates and lands cleanly, and that smug little smile returns to his face.
“¡Mejor!”
Not perfect, but better.
“Okay,” I call out, and this time I let the approval sit in my tone. “Hold that entry edge longer.”
He nods once, already pushing into the next sequence.
I become aware of her in the way I sometimes become aware of a draft in a closed room—subtle at first, then undeniable once your body clocks it fully and the chill is running down your spine with urgency.
Isabella stands near the technical table along the boards, a laptop open in front of her, speaking quietly to one of the staff. She’s dressed simply, dark leggings anda fitted zip-up, hair pulled back in a low bun that exposes the lean line of her neck.
Nothing designed to draw attention, but magnetic nonetheless. And I feel it immediately—the pull of her, not as a presence in the room, but as something my body already knows how to respond to.
She looks up mid-sentence, almost absentmindedly, and our eyes meet.
There is no performance in it. No secrecy, either. Just a small shift in her expression, something softer than what she normally offers the rest of the room. It doesn’t linger long enough to be obvious, but it’s long enough for me to recognize it.
It’s for me. And she doesn’t look away as she should.
My chest tightens, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with what happened last night.
It has to do with the way she said my name when the lights were off. With how easily I let myself stay. With waking before dawn and watching her sleep for longer than I should have, knowing I needed to be here before Rodrigo even stepped into the building.
I left quietly, petting Natalie Portman a few times and silently walking out the door, trying to regain some of the control she seems to strip from me without trying.
And now she’s standing across the ice, looking at me like nothing about last night was a mistake.
That’s the part that unsettles me.
Not the sex, god, no.
The certainty.
I look away first before she catches me smiling.
Rodrigo finishes the combination and glides to the boards, stopping close enough that I can see the flush in his cheeks.
“See?” he says, breath uneven and triumphant. “Quieter.”
I study him, letting a beat stretch out before I nod. “Hmmm, yes. Closer.”
He grins, pleased that I didn’t argue.
Isabella stands from her seat, and Rodrigo follows my line of sight without meaning to. His gaze tracks past me, towards the technical table and the royalty occupying it, then back.
“You’re in a good mood,” he says, casual but not careless.
“I’m always in a good mood, Rodri,” which is such an obvious lie that he actually laughs at me.
“Okay,” he says, shaking his head.
