Chapter 10
CECILIA
Two days later, the altitude is doing strange things to my lungs and my brain, I think.
The field we’re in sits behind the rink, a wide stretch of green grass edged by pine trees and a running track that loops around the perimeter.
The mountains in the distance look too calm for the amount of noise happening in front of me—athletic trainers calling intervals, athletes counting reps, equipment being dropped on the turf in a careless way.
Dryland days are supposed to feel easier, because the stakes are lower.
Rodrigo is mid-set, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt as he lunges forward with a weighted bar balanced across his shoulders.
His form is clean and controlled, and finally he’s not rushing his body.
I watch the angle of his knee, the set of his hips, the way he keeps his chest upright even as fatigue creeps in.
“Otra vez,” I call.
He exhales sharply and resets without complaint.
That part hasn’t changed. What has changed is the way I notice other things while he moves.
The scale of this place keeps announcing itself even when I try not to look at it.
Two athletic trainers watching from the sidelines, taking fast notes on clipboards.
There’s a physiotherapist stretching with one of the ice dancers nearby.
A row of portable tents set up along the edge of the field with foam rollers, water coolers, and protein-heavy snacks laid out in neat, abundant lines.
Infrastructure everywhere. This is exactly what I was telling Sandra about the other night.
Rodrigo finishes his set and drops the bar carefully onto the turf before jogging over.
“How was that?” he asks.
Slowly, he’s been asking the question less like he needs permission and more like he already knows the answer.
The confidence was always there, buried under nerves and the weight of what he represents.
The first Argentine figure skater with a real shot at this level in decades.
That kind of spotlight would crush most athletes. Rodrigo seems to be growing into it.
“Better,” I say. “How are your legs feeling?”
“Like jelly,” he says in English, laughing at the expression he picked up from one of the other skaters.
Katia jogs past us, hair in a high ponytail, throwing him a grin.
“Race you on the sled push,” she says.
He hesitates, looks at me.
“Yes.”
I cross my arms and watch, pretending that I don’t clock the way a few other coaches track him, too, or how easily he has begun to exist inside this environment without shrinking.
That part should make me immensely proud. And it does.
It also makes something in my rib cage stay permanently braced.
I shift my weight, scanning the field to see who else is around. Isabella isn’t hard to find.
She stands near the trainers’ table, coat unzipped and sunglasses pushed up into her hair, talking with Nina and two federation reps whose names I still mix up.
The leggings she’s wearing leave very little to the imagination, outlining legs that are still unmistakably built from years on the ice, powerful through the thighs and steady though the hips.
Her core is taut and slim, and her posture is almost regal.
She isn’t trying to draw attention to herself, which somehow makes it worse. The kind of body that reads as capability before it reads as beauty. And I find myself adjusting to her without meaning to, my body drifting a fraction closer to her before I catch it.
I look away, but a beat too late, and I pray that she can’t see the slight blush that colors my cheeks from where she’s standing.
I haven’t spoken to her since the locker room, not really.
There were logistical exchanges. Nods in hallways after I left a Pilates workshop with some of the other coaches while our athletes were taking a ballet class. One moment near the concessions stand when we were both refilling our water bottles.
None of that counts.
The kiss counts. The way she pulled back counts.
The way she unlocked the door and stepped out first, like she needed to reset the version of herself she’d just broken open, counts even more.
I drag my focus back to the sled lane just in time to see Rodrigo over-extend.
“Rodri,” I call out. Katia snaps her head to me and quirks her lips ever so slightly.
He adjusts immediately.
I don’t look back at Isabella after that. Choosing not to look is its own form of attention.
The day runs smoothly despite my mood, which I refuse to examine too closely. Both Rodrigo and Katia stay sharp through the drills, though they still sneak in moments of chaos with the other athletes.
I’m halfway through taking notes when someone stops beside me.
“You’re managing his training well,” Isabella says.
“Thanks,” I reply, still watching Rodrigo reset for his next run.
She follows my line of sight.
“He’s responding well to the added volume,” she adds.
“He always does.” I feel my tone, clipped and protective, but Isabella doesn’t flinch.
“I meant your restraint,” she says. “You’re not stacking too much on him.”
I glance at her then.
She’s close enough that I can smell citrus on her sweatshirt, close enough that my body reacts before my brain can remind it to behave.
“Most people here would,” I say.
“Yes,” she agrees easily. “They would.”
There’s a pause, and the tone shift is evident. We’re not talking about skating anymore.
“You’re mad at me,” she says, quietly. I’m not entirely sure if she means it as a question or a statement.
I blink without looking at her. “No.”
She tilts her head, clearly unconvinced. I swear I hallucinate the faintest twitch of her lips. And then I shake my head, because it must be the altitude.
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“‘No’ is a full sentence, Isabella,” I say, still not meeting her gaze. “I’m not mad.”
Her mouth curves slightly before she reins it in.
“Cecilia—”
“We shouldn’t talk about this here.”
Her gaze sweeps the field, to the kids, the trainers, the staff drifting in and out of earshot.
“That’s fair.”
We stand there, both pretending we’re focused on athletes.
“I didn’t plan that,” she says, low enough that only I can hear.
“I know.”
“I also don’t regret it.”
I shift my stance, grounding myself through my shoes into the even turf. “That’s not… helping.”
“No,” she agrees. “I figured.”
I finally look at her properly then.
She isn’t smiling, like usual. She looks serious. Careful.
I watch Rodrigo finish his run and signal Katia, my brain doing that infuriating split thing where half of me is coaching and the other half is cataloguing how Isabella hasn’t moved an inch closer, like she’s letting me control the distance.
Which only makes me more aware of it.
“This is risky,” I say.
“Yes.” She scans the field and lifts her head slightly when the therapist catches her eye.
“You’re the boss.”
She exhales. “In a way. But not of you.”
“I don’t like feeling like I walked into something I didn’t agree to,” I add, but internally I’m slapping myself. I have no idea where this conversation is heading, and what the outcome after all these words are said will be.
Her voice stays even and bubbly. “Did you?”
I don’t answer immediately. Because over the course of the past few weeks, that’s the part that has changed.
Two days ago, I would’ve said yes without hesitation.
“I don’t like that I didn’t stop you,” I say instead.
Her icy blue eyes soften a fraction. “I didn’t think you wanted to.”
“I didn’t,” I admit. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t complicate things.”
Across the field, someone whistles for a rotation change. Rodrigo and Katia jog back to me, flushed and smiling.
“Next set?” he asks, and I can almost see the adrenaline coursing through his body.
“In two minutes.”
They both nod and grab their water bottles, lying on the grass and looking up at the sky. They start talking about the plans they have for the evening, maybe heading down into town to have dinner with some of the other kids.
Isabella takes a step back, creating space without being asked.
“I’ll see you later, Cecilia.”
I watch her go with my stopwatch in my hand, annoyed at how much space her absence immediately takes up.