Chapter 29
CECILIA
Practice runs long, then short, then somewhere in between, and by the time we step off the ice, Rodrigo is restless in that specific way he gets when an element almost clicks and he doesn’t want to ruin it by overworking it.
It’s a skill he learned back home, but has definitely honed here, watching all the other skaters do the same.
So, when he says, almost offhand, that he wants to go get ice cream with me, I don’t argue.
The walk down Main Street is quiet, and the only sounds we hear are those of the town itself, the slow roll of the cars up and down the street, the leaves swaying in the wind.
The mountain air feels different outside the rink, and for a few minutes I let myself exist in its organic state without running through checklists in my head.
The shop is small and unremarkable, and I know I would have missed it if it weren’t for the fact that Rodrigo has probably looked for all the sweet treat places in town since we got here.
We take our cups outside because there’s nowhere else to go, settling onto the edge of the sidewalk where the concrete dips towards the street.
For a while, we stay close to what’s safe.
The session. The combination that finally held for him. The spin that still needs work. I talk through it slowly, not because he needs the breakdown, but because I do. It gives structure to feelings that otherwise still feel unstable.
He listens to me talk, but not how he listens to me at the rink. There’s less urgency right now, less of that immediate translation from words to muscle memory. He nods, asks a question or two, but mostly just lets it exist between us.
At some point the conversation loosens. It stops being about what needs fixing and starts circling closer to us.
He’s the one who shifts it, and I can see it coming before he even utters a word.
It’s small and almost imperceptible: Rodrigo’s shoulder pulls up slightly, like he’s bracing against something.
His fingers start tapping against his thigh—not in rhythm like when he’s counting through his head, but uneven, distracted.
“I… umm…” he starts, then stops.
I don’t look at him. Because if I do, he’ll either push through it too quickly or drop it entirely, and I’m not sure which is worse.
He exhales, quieter this time, and tries again.
“I talked to someone earlier,” he says.
There’s a hesitation in it that wasn’t there a minute ago. I nod once, still focused on my melting ice cream, even though I’m not really paying attention to it anymore.
“Okay.”
“A coach,” he adds, like he needs to clarify. “And—there was a scout on the call, too. From Michigan. I think? Or something like that. Maybe Minnesota.”
He huffs a small breath, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t do anything to calm him.
“I don’t know,” he says. “There were a few people.”
Now I look at him.
He’s not looking back. His gaze is fixed somewhere out on the street, but it’s not really there. I’ve seen that look before—right before a program, right after a mistake, or in the quiet seconds where he’s deciding what something means for him.
“That’s really wonderful, Rodri,” I say.
He nods. “Yeah.”
There’s a beat, and it takes him a full minute to turn to me.
“I didn’t think that would happen to me,” he says, softer now.
My first instinct is to recoil. Because I’ve been watching it happen. The way people have started lingering a little longer after his sessions. The way other athletes bring him up consistently. The shift from potential to something that feels closer to expectation. Something that is earned.
“It makes sense,” I say.
He lets out a small breath, his fingers stilling briefly before starting again.
“Maybe,” he says and shakes his head slightly. “I just—”
I lean back slightly, letting my weight settle into the concrete, giving myself a second before I respond.
“I thought I’d have more time before I had to figure anything out.”
“You don’t have to make any decisions now,” I say. “You first have to get to the Olympics.”
Rodrigo lets out a laugh—short at first, almost surprised, like it slipped out before he could stop it. Then it builds, his shoulders loosening as his head drops forward.
“Right,” he says, dragging a hand down his face, still smiling. “Just that. Easy.”
“I mean,” I say with a smile on my face. “You’re practically there.”
He huffs another laugh at that, shaking his head like he doesn’t quite believe that this is his life. “And you?” he asks.
It’s quiet and careful. There’s a furrow in his brow, and suddenly this seventeen-year-old boy is all man.
“I’ll figure it out.”
It’s the same answer I’ve given before. I can hear it, even as I say it, how practiced it sounds. He doesn’t push immediately, which almost makes it worse.
“That’s a problem for future me,” I say. “I need to get to the Olympics first, remember?”
Rodrigo laughs and finishes his ice cream.
We sit in silence for a while longer, and the moment is full of the questions he wants to ask but is probably too scared to say out loud.
I’m about to add something—to soften the hard edges of this tense moment, or maybe to clarify that he shouldn’t be concerned about me at all—when something presses lightly against my leg.
At first, I think it’s nothing. A little of that cool summer breeze that makes the fabric of my pants hit my leg in an uncomfortable way.
Then it happens again.
I glance down, and there he is.
For a second, I just stare, like my brain needs time to catch up to what it’s seeing. The black and white fur, the familiar shape of him, completely at ease like this is exactly where he is meant to be. Natalie Portman jumps straight onto my lap.
“Oh my god! What are you doing here?” The laugh comes out of me before I can stop it, surprised and a little incredulous all at once. My hands come to his back automatically, settling around him as he adjusts his weight like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
He blinks at me, slow and unbothered, already purring and closing his eyes.
Rodrigo goes still beside me, but his eyes are shining with amusement. It’s the exact same way he looked at me on the ice a few weeks ago. He knows something is up, but is being a little shit and making me squirm instead.
“You know this cat?” he asks finally. It’s not quite a question. More like a statement of fact, followed by the annoying lift of the corner of his mouth.
I let out a breath, still half caught between amusement and confusion.
“Yes.” There’s no other explanation that makes sense.
He shifts closer, studying the cat more carefully now, then looking back at me. “Did you adopt a cat?”
“When would I have time to adopt a cat?” I say, rolling my eyes. He’s grinning now, and he pumps his eyebrows twice because he knows. “I’m literally with you all the time.”
“Not true. I know you sneak out at night.”
“Yes, to adopt black and white cats named Natalie Portman.”
At that, the cat perks up, lifting his head slightly and looking at me. There’s a moment of confusion that passes between us, but after a second he settles back down on my lap, the purring intensifying.
“That’s a weird name for a cat.” He tilts his head and extends his hand to pet Nat.
“This is Isabella’s cat.”
I don’t look at him when I say it. There’s a small pause in his breathing, a little gasp that is barely audible over the sounds of the town.
When I glance up, Rodrigo’s expression has changed slightly.
Not dramatically, like he normally does, but just enough that I can tell he’s registering more than the words themselves.
“Wait—”
“Nope, absolutely not.”
“This is a little surreal,” he says.
“Oh, yes, I know.”
For a few seconds, that’s all it is. A break in that important conversation.
Then, slowly, the words find themselves back to him. He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees now, his attention back on me.
“I spoke to my parents,” he says, more measured this time. “And to Sandra. About where I go. What I choose.”
I nod, waiting. I haven’t spoken to Sandra more than a few times since we got here, weekly progress report emails so that she knows where we stand, how Rodrigo is progressing, and a quick update on what his prospects are looking like.
“And I keep coming back to the same thing.”
He pauses, like he’s deciding how to phrase it.
“I don’t want to end up somewhere that doesn’t make sense for both of us.”
I still my hand against the cat’s fur.
“Rodrigo,” I say, keeping my voice even. “You cannot make that decision based on me.”
“I’m not making it based on you,” he says, shaking his head. His eyes are closed, and I think it’s because he doesn’t want me to see how his emotions are surfacing. “But you are a big part of it.”
“That’s not how this works,” I reply.
He tilts his head slightly, considering it. His eyes are still closed, and his body is angled towards the street. One of his hands is still on the cat, petting soft circles at the base of the animal’s head, almost absentmindedly.
“Isn’t it?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away.
Because the truth is, I’ve never had to think about it this way before.
My role has always been clear. Defined by what happens on the ice and how I get him there. He’s also the first athlete I’ve coached, so there is no precedent on how to do this, at all. But so far, things have been linear with him and his career.
Now, for the first time, that line feels less stable. I’m not the only one who sees it anymore. There are so many people watching him now. I think briefly of Isabella. Of the way she moves through those conversations like she’s already ten steps ahead of them.
“You need to think about what’s best for you,” I say finally. “Maybe talk to Isabella about it, too.”
That stops him. “What?”
“About your options.” I lift my shoulder in the most casual way I can muster. “She knows how this works from the inside.”
“I—” He watches me for a second, something in his expression tightening just slightly. “I don’t know about that.”
“Your options might not include me, Rodri. And that’s fine.”
“Or they might.”
The simplicity of those words, of the way he sees this, sits heavier than it should.
Isabella’s cat shifts in my lap, stretching, completely indifferent to the direction of the conversation. I focus on that instead, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the grounding weight of him on my legs.
Rodrigo leans back again, quieter now.
“You’ve been saying you’ll figure it out,” he says after a moment. “But it feels like you’re waiting for something to happen instead.”
The words are gentle. The meaning is not.
“I’ve always figured it out,” I say. I look out towards the street, letting the silence stretch between us.
“I know,” he replies. “I’m just not sure that’s the same thing as making a choice.”