Page 74 of Ice Princesses
“We are absolutely not doing this today,” she announces, already pushing open another door that leads into a narrower service hallway. “Hopefully never.”
I should stop her and remind her that it’s insane. That I’m her athlete’s coach. That this building is full of people who know exactly who she is and the optics of this would be terrible.
Instead, I let her pull me.
We slip into a different hallway just as voices echo closer behind us and the door swings shut.
And then we’re running. My laugh catches somewhere between my throat and my chest before it breaks loose, sharp and surprised.
“Princess,” I manage in between breaths, “are you serious right now?”
“Yes,” she says, breathlessly, still holding my hand as she turns another corner without slowing down. “Very.”
“This is your plan?”
“My plan is not to have that conversation right now,” she replies. “So unless you’d like to stay and explain yourself to my mother?—”
“Absolutely not.”
“Great,” she says, glancing back at me with a grin that feels wildly out of place on her. “Then keep up, Coach.”
We cut through another corridor, past a stack of equipment bins and a door marked STAFF ONLY.
Somewhere behind us, voices drift and fade, but we don’t stop until the noise of the rink swallows everything again.
She finally slows near a side exit, her grip loosening but not letting go.
For a second, neither of us says anything. We’re both a little out of breath.
Standing too close to each other and still holding hands.
“Do you do this often?” I shake my head, laughing under my breath. “That was incredibly unprofessional.”
She leans back against the wall, smiling and flushed. A few tendrils of hair have slipped loose from her updo, softening everything that usually feels so precise about her.
I reach for them without thinking. My fingers brush her temples as I tuck the strand behind her ear, slower than it needs to be. She stills under the touch and lets it happen.
I should drop my hand, I know that.
“Probably,” she says.
Her eyes drop briefly to our linked hands before following the movement of my other one as it drifts lightly along her cheek instead, tracing the warmth there, the faint flush I know I had something to do with. Isabella’s breath shifts, just a fraction, and her eyes drop to my mouth before coming back up.
There’s a beat where neither of us moves.
Then I close the distance.
It’s not rushed or urgent this time, like back at her office. She exhales into the kiss, one hand coming up to my wrist, holding me there instead of stopping me.
Her lips meet mine softly at first, a brief press that lingers just long enough to make my stomach swoop. She exhales into it, warm and steady, and I feel the shift immediately—the way she relaxes into the contact instead of pulling back.
For a second, the world narrows down to just that.
“Shit,” she breathes. Her forehead rests briefly against mine, both of us still catching our breath. “I have to go back to the commentating booth.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. You do.”
But I don’t move. I’m unable to. Her hand lingers at my wrist for a second longer, thumb brushing once like she’s committing something to memory, then she lets go.
