Chapter 21
ISABELLA
“I don’t curl,” Cecilia says flatly.
She doesn’t even look up from the stack of annotated program sheets she’s reviewing in my office.
The overhead lights are off today, and instead the warm light of my lamp is on, catching the edges of the paper and the sharp angle of her jaw.
The mug she brought with her is mine; she probably found in the staff lounge where it was drying.
“You’ve never curled,” I correct gently.
“That’s because I don’t curl.”
I lean back in my chair and study her for a moment, the way she sits with one ankle hooked over the opposite knee, pen tapping lightly against her thigh while she thinks. She looks comfortable in my space now. That realization does something subtle and dangerous to my chest.
“I’m not asking you to take it up professionally, Ceci,” I say. “It’s one evening. The kids are enjoying themselves tonight and apparently it’s very fun. Nina says so.”
Cecilia snorts despite herself.
“That sounds like something she would say.”
“It absolutely is.” I pause. “She also said I’m not allowed to show up alone because we are playing doubles.”
Now she looks at me.
“That sounds even more like something she would say.”
I tilt my head slightly. “She thinks I need hobbies.”
“You do need hobbies, Princess.”
“You need hobbies, too.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. She doesn’t realize she’s smiling yet.
I let a beat stretch, then add lightly, “Rafe will be there.”
She frowns. “Who the hell is Rafe?”
“I don’t know. But Nina keeps bringing him up and calling him the next big thing in curling, so he must be important.”
Cecilia raises an eyebrow. “So we’re basing this evening on Nina’s hype?”
“That’s generally how my life operates, to be honest,” I reply.
She huffs a quiet laugh.
“C’mon. I heard he’s very competitive, terrible at losing. I suspect you’ll enjoy arguing with him.”
That earns me a full glance now. Evaluating.
“Is this a trap?” she asks.
“No,” I say honestly. “It’s me asking you to come on a date with me somewhere that isn’t a rink.”
Silence settles between us, not tense, just thoughtful.
“I don’t know anyone there,” she says finally.
“You know me.”
I stand, walking around the desk slowly enough that she can see every step. I don’t touch her or crowd her. I just exist closer.
“It’s one night,” I continue. “You can hate it. You can mock the scoring system and the antiquated style, and call it a stupid sport if you want. Question its athletic legitimacy. I’ll drive you back home after.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re insufferable.”
Cecilia tilts her chin up automatically, like she already knows what I’m about to do.
I lean down and kiss her—soft, slow, unhurried. Not rushed and just enough to make the air between us feel charged and private, even with the office door still open behind us.
Her hand comes up to rest lightly at my wrist, steadying rather than stopping me.
When I pull back, her eyes stay on my mouth for a second longer than necessary.
“You’re dangerous, Princess,” she says quietly.
“Probably.”
A small pause.
“What time?” she asks.
The local curling club smells exactly like the rink—that same sharp, mineral cold of real ice and metal—but underneath, there’s something my sport would never allow.
Beer soaked into old wood. Fried food lingering in the air.
A faint sweetness from spilled cider that’s been mopped but not erased.
The ice is still there, clean and bright, but it shares space with something warmer, looser.
Fun.
Cecilia stops just inside the entrance and surveys the room with the focused stillness she usually reserves for competition venues. Her warm brown eyes move across the ice sheets, the painted circles, the clusters of people in bright jackets holding brooms and murmuring against each other.
“This,” she says slowly, “is what you Americans do for fun?” Cecilia stays close to me without realizing. Or maybe she does.
I grin. “You haven’t seen the brooms yet.”
She exhales through her nose, unimpressed but curious. “I’ve never been to a curling club in my life.”
“That sounds so dramatic.”
“It’s not,” she replies. “The Games I went to, our events overlapped with curling. I was never able to see the matches live.” She gestures vaguely in the direction of the ice. “This is my first time in the wild.”
Cecilia steps farther inside, the cold air hitting us properly now. Her nose wrinkles lightly.
“Izzy!” Nina spots us immediately and waves both arms over her head. She’s standing towards the back of the space, right by a cluster of middle-aged people who are watching her like she personally invented this sport. “You brought her!”
Cecilia slows beside me.
“Izzy?” she repeats under her breath, tasting it out loud. Then she turns her head slightly towards me. “Can I call you that?”
“No,” I say immediately, shooting her a look.
Her mouth curves.
“Firm boundary?”
“Very.”
She hums thoughtfully, pretending to consider alternatives. “So what can I call you?”
I don’t break stride. “Princess.”
She laughs, low and warm, stepping closer so our shoulders brush as we walk. Her eyes flick down to my mouth for half a second before she looks away again, smile lingering.
“Are you two coming or what?” Nina shouts, moving hurriedly to grab some brooms that are propped against the wall.
Cecilia winces slightly. “I regret this already.”
“You say that now,” I murmur, leaning closer than necessary, but enjoying the warmth of her body. “Give it ten minutes.”
A man appears beside Nina, and she elbows him sharply in the ribs. He straightens with exaggerated dignity, rubbing the spot she hit, and I recognize him a split second before he fully turns towards us.
“Rafa?”
He looks older, obviously. Broader through the shoulders, jaw more defined, hair trimmed shorter than the last time I saw him—but the expression is the same. Slightly amused. Slightly competitive. As if the entire world is a game he intends to win.
“Well,” he says, voice carrying easily across the room. “They let you out of your ice castle, I see.”
Nina smacks him again.
Cecilia shifts subtly beside me, taking him in the way she assesses everyone new: posture, tone, confidence.
I fold my arms loosely. “They let you grow up.”
“Debatable,” Nina mutters, swatting his arm again before turning to us with theatrical impatience. “Introductions.” She claps her hands twice, doing a remarkable job of looking like a summer camp counselor. “And then beers.”
She hooks her thumb towards Rafael. “Rafe and I basically grew up together. His older brother was a junior hockey golden boy and trained here every off-season. My sister was on the ice, obviously. So while the siblings were chasing their dreams, we were the neglected younger children eating vending machine dinners and causing problems.”
Rafael nods solemnly. “Character building, I call it.”
“Delinquency,” Nina corrects. Then she gestures towards Cecilia. “Ceci used to compete against Izzy, but now she coaches and she does an incredible job at it.”
Cecilia shifts slightly beside me, clearly not thrilled with being introduced like a resume.
“Retired,” she says simply. There’s a neutral expression on her face that I can’t quite decipher. “And the jury’s still out on the incredible part.”
“It’s not,” I say before I can stop myself. “Her skater placed in the top five at Worlds.”
Her head turns to me, just a fraction, and there’s something in her expression—surprised, maybe, or pleased—that feels more intimate than anything Nina just said. I don’t take it back.
“Oh,” Nina adds, with another clap. “And you guys are both from Argentina!”
“Really?” Rafael says, eyebrows lifting.
Cecilia’s eyes snap to mine before she answers, something bright and quick flashing across her face.
“And you curl?” she asks him, amused.
Rafael chuckles under his breath and shrugs, and it almost feels the same way it does when Nina answers—trying to look and sound casual, but deep down they probably enjoy it a lot.
Not just for the bit, like Nina says, but for the adrenaline of competing at something you are good at. I can relate to that feeling.
“Mostly by accident,” he finally replies.
Nina rolls her eyes. “Ignore him. He’s the highest ranked in the United States right now.”
Cecilia’s brows lift slowly. “Accidentally?”
Rafael shrugs again, but this time there’s something smug under it. “I accidentally tripped into nationals and won. Very embarrassing.”
“You’re insufferable,” Nina says flatly. “Ignore him. He’s been like this all week because he thinks he finally figured out strategy.”
“I did figure out strategy,” Rafael protests. He nudges Nina aside with his hip, reaching for the tallest broom on the equipment rack and lifting one of the stones from the floor with an ease that suggests this is not, in fact, accidental.
“You watched one video.”
“It was a very good video, Skip.”
Nina snorts. “Stop calling me that.”
“No. You’re the boss here.”
“I just give clear direction.” She steps into his space without hesitation, chin tipped up, daring him to keep going. “You’d be lost without me.”
Rafael’s grin shifts—less showy, more certain. “Probably,” he says, and the honesty of it feels different to the rest of the teasing.
From where I’m standing, I feel the air change between them, subtle but unmistakable.
It isn’t just banter. It’s a rhythm that built over years of shared history and unspoken understanding.
They move around each other without friction; Nina swatting at his arm, Rafael steadying the stone before it slips, their bodies calibrating automatically.
“Alright,” I say, rolling my shoulders back and stepping towards the edge of the ice, the familiar cold biting through the thin sole of my shoes. “Enough flirting, you two. Show me how this works.”