Chapter 32
CECILIA
“Sandra, I understand that, but we can’t confirm anything until after—”
I stop mid-sentence, the words slipping out of my mouth without fully connecting to anything, my attention snagging somewhere else entirely as I find myself staring at the same minuscule crack in the ceiling I’ve been looking at for the last thirty minutes without actually seeing it.
“Ceci?”
“Perdón, I’m here,” I say quickly, pushing myself upright on the bed and dragging a hand down my face like it’ll physically put me back into the conversation. “Sorry. You were saying something about travel?”
On the other end of the line, Sandra exhales in that measured, patient way she’s perfected over the years. It carries just enough weight to remind me she knows exactly when I’m not fully present.
“I was saying that if we’re going straight to Europe in September, we need to lock in the dates now,” she says. “Flights and hotels especially, but also ice time and dryland training. It’s not something we can leave until the last minute.”
“Right,” I murmur, nodding to myself like that somehow counts as engagement. I reach to the nightstand to grab my laptop but give up halfway, and instead, Rodrigo’s lazy form on the couch catches my attention.
“Cecilia.”
“I know,” I say, forcing myself to stay with her. “We can go straight from here. Colorado to… where is it again?”
“Jesus, what is wrong with you?” she blurts out, and that patient tone is nowhere to be found. “Linz. Austria.”
“Cierto.”
God. I repeat it under my breath, as if anchoring the word might help me stay in the conversation instead of slipping out of it again.
“We’ll need a few extra days of ice before that,” she continues. “Transitioning from the program there to competition training won’t be as—”
“I’ll handle that,” I interrupt, the answer coming automatically, instinctively.
There’s a pause.
“You already did,” she says.
“I did?” I question, because I have no idea what she’s talking about. Competition training for Rodrigo means a tighter nutrition plan, a few extra hours of ice time, and daily cardio sessions that we haven’t planned for yet.
“Cecilia, ?qué te pasa?”
I hesitate, because any answer I give her will sound like bullshit.
“Sorry, I’m distracted today.”
Another pause, this one quieter, more deliberate.
“Isabella sent over his transition plan yesterday,” she continues. Sandra knows me well enough to hear what I’m not saying, but she lets it go anyway, moving on seamlessly to an all-business conversation. “You should have a copy in your email.”
“Perfect. Gracias.”
“Cecilia—”
There’s a knock at the door, and Rodrigo groans from the shared living area. He’s been in the same position scrolling on his phone for at least two hours, probably exhausted from the step sequence he started today.
“I’ll call you back,” I say quickly, already crossing the room before she can respond, ending the call mid-breath as I reach for the handle.
I pull the door open. Isabella is standing there, normal-looking. A short, sparkly dress under a thick, black parka. Her hair is styled to perfection, and her cheeks are a rosy color I don’t think I’ve ever seen on her.
“Hi,” she says.
I blink at her, the shift from one reality to another so abrupt it almost feels disorienting. “Hi.”
There’s a brightness in her expression that immediately sets me on edge in the best possible way, tightly contained and dangerously appealing and it makes my belly swoop. Her eyes shine like she’s holding on to a secret she fully intends to share.
Behind me, the couch creaks.
Rodrigo sits up, his phone still loosely in his hand, his attention snapping into place the second he registers what’s happening.
“Oh,” he says, his entire face lighting up. “This is interesting.”
“Don’t,” I mutter, not even turning around.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, clearly delighted, “you never get visitors.”
“I have visitors.”
“Not like this.”
I close my eyes briefly, already exhausted.
Isabella’s smile widens, and I can see she’s enjoying the way Rodrigo is messing with me. “Are you busy?” she asks.
“Yes,” I answer automatically.
“No, you’re not,” Rodrigo cuts in immediately. “You’ve been staring at the ceiling in your room for the past thirty minutes.”
“Have you ever heard of the expression snitches get stitches?” I say it in English, just to make a point, and he chuckles. “You’re not helping.”
He shrugs. “I’m helping myself.”
Isabella laughs softly, the sound low and warm, and my fucking chest tightens. It’s a feeling that has become both familiar and increasingly difficult to ignore, especially as time passes.
“Come on,” she says, reaching for my wrist. “Rodri, throw me her coat.”
I don’t move. “Come on where?”
“You’ll see.”
Rodrigo leans back into the couch like he’s settling in for a show. “I think you should go, Ceci. This feels important. I don’t think the Ice Princess does house calls for everyone.”
“Jesus, Rodrigo, where did you learn to speak like that?”
He lifts his eyebrows and grins. “This is the most interesting thing that’s happened to you all week, you know?”
Isabella’s grip tightens just slightly, not enough to force, but enough to insist.
“Ceci,” she says, softer now.
That’s enough. I exhale slowly, already giving in to something I haven’t fully decided to accept.
“Fine,” I mutter. “If I die, it’s on both of you.”
“Worth it,” Rodrigo says without hesitation. He throws me my jacket from the coat closet, and I let Isabella pull me into the hallway before I can reconsider.
“You have keys,” I say as we step out into the night and in the direction of the rink. The air changed a few nights ago, and it has suddenly felt cooler and quieter in this town. “We don’t need to sneak in.”
“I know,” she replies, lifting one shoulder casually.
“Then why are we sneaking in?”
She glances at me, her eyes bright with restrained excitement. “Because it’s more fun, and I really want to see if I can get the Zamboni going. I’ve never driven one.”
“Isabella, you run the place.” I sigh, a little dramatically for my taste, but her smile widens at the nagging. “I’m sure you can tell Gertrude to let you try.”
“That’s no fun.” She stops in front of the large entry doors and hums, considering her next move. “Let’s go.”
We move around the back of the building instead of heading for the staff door at the side, the lights inside dimmed to their minimum.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I whisper in her ear, and she stops. Her hand finds mine and she laces our fingers together, then drags me again as we walk slowly, trying to not make a sound.
“I never got to do this,” she whispers back, and there’s something in her tone that shifts the weight of the moment just slightly.
“Break into buildings you work at?”
She laughs softly. “Sneak out. Do something I wasn’t supposed to do just because I wanted to.”
She finagles with the door, shimmying it a little until it finally gives. “A-ha!” she exhales, then covers her mouth with her free hand and looks back at me over her shoulder.
“Ready?”
“For what?”
She pushes the door open, and we find ourselves practically on the ice in the practice rink, only a small stretch of rubber mats in front of us.
Of course the rink is empty. It reminds me of the first day here—when we got in early just to take a look around, try to get our bearings. Except that this time, it’s completely silent, save for the faint hum of the lights overhead and the sound of what I think might be the refrigeration system.
Isabella steps onto the ice like she’s been waiting for this moment all day, her movement loose and unstructured even with her fancy patent shoes on.
“Come on,” she calls, already gliding in the direction of the Zamboni garage.
“Shit, are you seriously going to get on the Zamboni?”
I follow more slowly, adjusting to the quiet and the dim lights, to the way this particular rink feels completely different without anyone else in it.
She moves in wide, lazy circles, not performing, just… gliding. It’s the only word I can use to describe it.
And there’s no tension in her body, none of the sharp precision I’ve gotten used to watching from the boards. Just movement for the sake of it, full of joy, like she’s rediscovering something she’s abandoned along the way.
“Are you coming?” she calls, glancing back at me over her shoulder, already halfway to the far end of the rink. “Or are you chicken?”
“I am coming,” I reply, taking a few tentative steps and immediately regretting it as my shoes slide on the cold surface. “This feels like a terrible idea. We can go get our skates.”
“Where’s the fun in that, Ceci?” she asks, not slowing down in the slightest. “You’ll be fine.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Princess.”
She laughs, the sound echoing softly in the empty space, and by the time I catch up to her, she’s already leaning into the Zamboni garage, scanning the driver’s seat and the controls on the dashboard.
“Isabella—”
“Tell me you’ve never wanted to drive one of these.”
“I have literally never thought about it.”
“That’s such a lie,” she says with a laugh, and hops onto the seat.
“It’s not.”
She putzes around for a bit, then hops off and heads to a small desk in the corner. She opens one drawer, then another, growing visibly more annoyed when nothing turns up.
“They have to be here somewhere,” she mutters.
“Or,” I offer, leaning against the doorway, “they’re stored somewhere secure because you run a professional facility.”
She ignores me, checks one last spot, then exhales.
“Okay. Fine. We abandon this plan.”
“Tragic.”
There’s a beat, the quiet settling back in around us.
“Let’s go raid the concession stand.”