Chapter 12
CECILIA
“What can I get you, honey?”
I don’t like the way he says it. The bartender is older than I expected, thick forearms braced on the counter as he leans in too close, eyes lingering where they don’t belong before dragging themselves back up to my face.
His smile is practiced, casual enough I assume he gets away with it, but I let it slide because I just want to have a drink and food that doesn’t come from a cafeteria.
“Beer,” I say flatly. “Whatever’s local and on tap. And maybe the steak salad?”
He hums, still looking, taking an extra second before straightening. “You got it.”
I track his movement in the mirror behind the bar as he walks away, irritation tightening low in my chest, rooted less in him personally and more in how often this sort of thing happens when women are alone in places like this.
Normally, I would say something, but today I’m tired and I don’t feel like expending energy reminding strangers that I’m not scenery.
I adjust myself on the chair and angle my body slightly away from the counter, more out of habit than fear, then glance down at my phone and pretend I’m busy while I wait.
Rodrigo texted earlier to say they’d all decided on pizza somewhere else, and I acted like it didn’t bother me as much as it did. I like having him around. I like knowing where he is. But I tell myself this is healthy independence, especially for a coach-athlete relationship.
My food and drink arrive and I eat slowly, one hand around my glass, watching the bartender move with naturality. This is the part of this program that no one warned me about—the hours between responsibilities, when the adrenaline drains out and leaves you with yourself and your whirring thoughts.
I don’t expect to see Isabella. Which is probably why I notice her immediately.
She’s at a table near the back with Nina and those same federation reps from this morning, jackets draped over chairs, menus spread out and drinks already condensing on the tabletop.
She looks different outside the training center grounds, less formal but no less composed, a dark, long-sleeved dress hugging her lithe body.
Her posture is relaxed, but there’s still that unmistakable tension through her core, the same I see in skaters who have had to learn how to control every muscle in their bodies because the sport asks them to.
I look away before she can catch me.
I finish half my salad and most of my drink, and I can hear how the conversation at her table is growing louder and more animated. Isabella and Nina are laughing, leaning back in their chairs with their eyes closed.
A few minutes pass, then a few more. I catch up on messages from back home—pictures of a meet they had at our local rink, some excitement around the possibility of a Lutz workshop with an Uruguayan coach in August. Business as usual that doesn’t feel that way for me as much anymore.
“Hi,” Isabella says, taking a seat on the stool next to mine. She sets her glass down and turns her body towards me, her bare knee touching the outside of my thigh.
“Hello,” I answer, blinking at her a few times. I’m immediately aware of how little space there is between us, how visible we are from the rest of the room, and how easily this could be misread by anyone who cared to look closely.
Which means she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“How was your evening?” she asks.
“Quiet,” I say. “The kids went feral, and I hope they’re not terrorizing the town.”
She smiles. “Meh, it’ll be fine.”
“You’re supposed to be having dinner,” I add, glancing over my shoulder in the direction of her table. Nina is holding the other two people’s attention, and the conversation looks way more serious than just a few minutes ago.
“We just ordered,” she says easily. “They’ll survive without me for fifteen minutes.”
I take a sip of my drink, giving myself a moment to think through whether I want to ask what she’s doing or pretend it isn’t obvious.
She saves me the trouble by leaning in just slightly, close enough that her voice drops without effort. Her long brown hair drapes around her face and the tip of a strand drags ever so lightly over my forearm, and my body reacts before I can stop it.
“I wanted to see you.”
I let out a slow breath through my nose.
“You are not being subtle.”
She laughs loudly, full body shaking and her eyes closed. “I’m not aiming for subtle at all, Cecilia.”
I turn then and look at her. At how calm she seems now, how intentional this all feels compared to the locker room and the way she’d startled and pulled back the second reality intruded.
My knee is still touching hers. She adjusts in her seat, leaning in closer and moving her knees in a way that is way too intimate for this public setting.
“You know people are watching,” I say, low and for her ears only. Her gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then back up to my eyes, and the awareness travels down my spine, sharp and immediate, settling somewhere low and incredibly difficult to ignore.
“Yes.”
“And you came over anyway.”
She exhales, something like a laugh caught halfway out. “I can sit wherever the fuck I want.”
“With federation reps behind you.”
She glances back at the table, then returns her attention to me, eyes sharp now.
“Especially with them here.”
I feel it low in my stomach, the awareness that she isn’t pretending this is neutral, that she’s choosing the risk instead of tripping into it.
“You like to be a bad girl, Isabella?”
Her reaction is immediate.
She straightens in her seat like she’s been burned, shoulders drawing back, breath hitching once before she manages to steady it, and this time, her eyes don’t just shift to my mouth but they linger there, slow and unguarded, before sliding back up to meet mine with something darkened and alert in them.
She clears her throat, but her jaw tightens and one hand shifts on the bar, fingers curling around the edge like she needs something solid to hold on to.
“Pretending I don’t want to be near you feels worse than whatever this is.”
I stare at my glass for a beat longer than necessary, letting the words settle.
“Isabella—”
Her knee presses into mine, just a fraction more, and I’m so, so aware of how carefully she’s calibrated all of this, how she hasn’t touched me with her hands or leaned in too close or even given anyone else in the room a clear story to tell.
She’s letting me decide what this is.
Which is unfair in a completely different way.
“You’re very good at this,” I say, watching her.
“Well,” she replies, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly, “you make it easy.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
She watches my face closely and doesn’t answer right away. Her smile deepens, slow and unapologetic. Across the room, Nina glances over and raises an eyebrow, clearly clocking the proximity. Isabella doesn’t look back.
“I mean,” she says quietly, eyes moving to my mouth again. She licks her lips, and something flutters deep in my core. “You’re sitting here pretending you don’t know exactly what effect you have on me.”
I take a deep breath and let that settle, and I don’t move an inch of my body.
We sit there for another minute, knees still pressed together, conversation drifting back to safer ground without ever fully leaving the dangerous part behind.
Eventually, Isabella glances back at her table, where Nina is now very obviously watching her.
“I should go,” she says.
I nod. “Probably, yeah.”
She stands, letting her knee slide away from mine slowly, deliberately, like she’s making a point of the loss.
Before she turns, she leans in just enough that only I can hear her.
“I’m not confused about this,” she declares. “I’m just careful.”
Then she’s gone, back to her table, back to her world.
I sit at the bar for another minute and finish my too-warm drink. I signal for the check, and the whole time I’m aware how the fine line I thought I was skirting has already been crossed.