Chapter 23
CECILIA
“I’m not going to rush the toe,” Rodrigo says, completely unprompted. He’s very nervous today, despite running his whole program back to back impeccably for seven days straight. “I promise.”
I bump his shoulder lightly, and he sighs a little dramatically. I can see him flex his right hand open and closed a few times in a row, almost like he’s trying to get all his nervous energy out of the way now before we reach the rink.
“It’s only a showcase, Rodri,” I say with as much calmness as I can muster. I’m nervous for him, too, because this is an amazing opportunity for his career. “Just have fun.”
“I know.”
The walk from the apartment to the rink barely counts as a commute and it’s a perfect activity for this morning—the way we are enveloped in the kind of quiet Lake Jasper does so well before nine a.m., the mountains still heaving with shadow, the air sharp enough to sting the inside of my lungs.
It forces him to breathe. It forces me to breathe.
Rodrigo shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket and tips his head back for a second, staring up at the pale sky as if he can will himself into calm.
“It’s not only a showcase,” he mutters.
I glance at him. “It is, though.”
The automatic doors slide open and the air changes immediately.
Banners hang along the boards advertising college programs in clean block lettering.
Recruitment booths are set up along the far wall, staffed by men and women in branded quarter-zips holding clipboards and stainless steel coffee tumblers.
Rodrigo goes quiet.
“Everyone will be looking at me,” he says, and for a fraction of a second he’s back to being the twelve-year-old boy I started coaching. Who blushed when I gave him a compliment on his jumps and got teary-eyed if someone was too harsh with their feedback.
“Rodrigo,” I say, stopping him right in the middle of the foyer. His eyes are shiny with unshed tears. The pressure of this whole program is finally catching up to him.
“Everyone has been watching you since Worlds. You’ve already put Argentina on the map, my boy. I don’t care what happens today. Because you are already heading to the Olympic Games, remember?”
He nods and blinks a few times, but his breathing stays shallow.
“You are doing something no one from our country has done in decades,” I continue. “Today, a few more people are going to watch you skate. That’s it. Like you do every day. Then maybe they’ll come talk to you.”
“You did it,” he mumbles under his breath, averting my eyes.
I nudge his shoulder. “Not the same thing, and you know it.” And I want to explain that yes, I did it, against all odds. But instead I leave it there, because anything more would turn this into pressure he doesn’t need right now.
“Just enjoy it, Rodri. Being watched like this is the best part.”
I see the change happen in real time; his body’s shift from wired to calibrated. His shoulders loosen. His eyes scan the lobby of the building we’ve been training in for weeks. He’s growing into himself in ways that feel both satisfying and unsettling.
And every step forward he takes means I’ll have to decide what comes next for me, too.
Inside the rink, warm-up ice has already started. Blades cut steady arcs into the surface, the scrape echoing up into the rafters. I take my usual position at the boards, leaning my forearms against the cool barrier. The ice looks different under competition lighting. Sharper, less forgiving.
Rodrigo steps onto it with the confidence of someone who has rehearsed this moment a hundred times. His first pass is clean—triple, smooth exit, controlled glide. He doesn’t look at me at all after he lands his jump. He doesn’t need to anymore.
A coach I recognize from Worlds drifts closer, arms folded.
“He’s peaking at the right time,” she says, not looking at me.
“He’s been very consistent, yes,” I reply.
She nods once. A pause. Then, almost casually, “Must be nice having momentum around him this season.”
I turn my head slightly. “Momentum?”
“You know.” A small shrug. “Visibility.”
I keep my gaze on the ice, but the word lodges somewhere unpleasant in my chest. It makes it sound harmless, like good lighting in a photograph.
But in skating circles it rarely means what people pretend it means.
What she is saying is that she knows that someone important noticed Rodrigo, and that they decided he was worth the attention.
Rodrigo has earned every jump he’s landing out there. Every clean exit. Every edge he’s learned to trust.
Still, I can already feel the narrative forming around him, even though there’s nothing sharp in her voice. No accusation, simply an observation of my skater, his ability, and the access we’ve gotten.
I nod as if I understand exactly what she means.
On the far side of the rink, elevated slightly above the boards, the commentary desk is already set up. I see her before I mean to.
Isabella stands with a headset around her neck, one hand resting lightly on the table as she listens to someone off to the side.
She’s dressed for the broadcast—structured blazer, clean lines, hair pulled back so that it looks effortless when it definitely isn’t.
She laughs at something the producer says, head tipping back just so, and the movement is so familiar it almost knocks the air out of me.
It’s annoying how attractive it is watching her be good at this.
She doesn’t look towards me. Not once.
Rodrigo sets up for his combination, and I drag my focus back to the ice, counting rotations in my head, tracking his axis, his timing, the precise second his blade bites. He lands it solidly, a fraction tighter than yesterday but controlled. I exhale without realizing I was holding my breath.
“Bien,” I murmur, though he can’t hear me from this distance.
The warm-ups end and skaters file off. The stands fill in slowly, parents and recruiters and a handful of local spectators settling into seats with paper programs folded neatly in their laps.
Rodrigo bumps his shoulder lightly against mine on his way to the bench.
“I’ve got this,” he says.
“Absolutely you do.”
I adjust the collar of his jacket anyway, smoothing fabric that doesn’t need smoothing. A grounding touch. For him. For me.
When his name is called, he steps onto the ice like it belongs to him.
There’s a specific type of quiet that falls over any rink when things are going well.
It’s not silence. It’s attention. The first jump is clean, the landing cushioned and sure.
The combination snaps into place with the kind of timing that is not taught but cultivated instead.
His step sequence is sharper than it was a month ago, transitions deeper, edges more deliberate.
He’s claiming this, despite his doubts.
I track everything—the way his free leg extends on the spin, the micro-adjustment before the flip, the control in his exit. By the time he hits his final pose, the applause is already building.
He doesn’t look at the stands first.
He looks at me.
Not for validation. For confirmation.
I nod once.
As he steps off the ice, flushed and breathing hard, a man in a navy jacket with a college logo stitched over the chest approaches before I can intercept.
“Coach,” he says, offering his hand. “Ian Taylor, University of Michigan. Impressive skate.”
“Thank you.”
He glances towards Rodrigo, who is laughing with another skater, then back at me.
“We’ve been tracking his development. There’s been… buzz.”
“Buzz,” I repeat.
He smiles faintly. “Sometimes media attention doesn’t hurt. Visibility at this stage can accelerate things.”
There it is again. Visibility.
I keep my expression neutral. “He’s been working hard, and he earned it.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Ian says quickly. “Talent speaks first. The rest just amplifies.”
Amplifies.
“Anyway,” he continues, looking at the screens as the next skater takes the ice, “would love to chat with you and Rodrigo this week if you have a moment. Here is my card.”
I thank him politely and promise to follow up.
When he walks away, I let my gaze drift back up to the commentary desk.
Isabella is mid-sentence now, composed, analytical, her voice likely steady and precise through the speakers. She gestures lightly with one hand as she speaks, emphasizing something technical. From here, she looks untouchable.
Powerful.
For the first time all morning, a thin thread of unease slides beneath my ribs.
Rodrigo earned that skate, and whatever conversations are going to happen because of it.
But the world is already attaching other meanings to it.
I fold my arms against the barrier again and keep my eyes on the ice, even as I feel the weight of everything that isn’t being said hang quietly between the boards.