Chapter 34
CECILIA
“Your coffee is wrong.”
I look up from the training notes spread across the small table in the lobby and find Isabella standing in front of me with two cups in her hands, one brow lifted in obvious judgment.
“It’s coffee,” I say. I lean back in my chair, and I can’t quite stop the grin that pulls at my mouth, the one that shows up before I can remind myself that we are in a very public place and that I am supposed to be a serious person with a job and responsibilities, not someone who looks like she’s about to melt because the Ice Princess brought her coffee.
“It’s not, babe.”
I drop my gaze quickly, busying myself with straightening a stack of papers that absolutely does not need straightening, and take a second to look around the lobby without making it obvious that I’m looking to confirm that no one is paying us any real attention.
“You brought me coffee?”
“Duh.”
“Princess, are you obsessed with me?”
Isabella winks.
“I’m exactly like the other girls, Ceci,” she replies, setting the cups down on the table like this is a perfectly normal exchange. “You should know that by now.”
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head as I reach for the cup she slid in my direction. “Right. Classic.”
“Textbook behavior,” she adds, already sliding into the chair across from me like this is part of our routine and not something that has developed over the span of a few weeks and we’ve avoided naming.
“I’m a little terrified, to be honest,” I say, lifting the cup to my lips.
“You should be, Coach,” she replies, watching me too closely as I take a sip. “I’ve been studying.”
“What, exactly?”
She shrugs, one shoulder lifting lazily. “You.”
I roll my eyes, but I can feel that fucking smile threatening again, pulling at the corners of my mouth in a completely-out-of-control way at this point.
Three days ago, we were lying on towels in the middle of an empty rink while she called it a date like it was the most natural thing in the world, and now she’s in front of me with coffee she knows I’ll like, looking at me like she already knows what I’m going to say before I say it.
I don’t know what to do with that.
Isabella reaches across the table and taps one of my notes with a manicured finger. “He’s still struggling with this?”
“Sometimes.”
“Not as much as last week, though.”
“You’re right.” I look at the page, grateful for the safer topic. “He’s correcting faster, more naturally.”
She nods, and a smile immediately blooms on her face.
It reaches her icy blue eyes, crinkling them at the corners, and I can see the pride there.
Quiet and careful, maybe a little restrained, but there nonetheless.
I don’t know when I started noticing those small shifts in her expressions, the difference between her public persona and the private one, but now that I do, I can’t seem to stop.
Rodrigo is on the far side of the lobby with two other skaters, laughing too loudly over something on his phone.
He looks lighter this week, even though we leave for Internationals in just over ten days.
He’s more settled since his conversation with Nina and Isabella, and even though he hasn’t shared his decision with me, it feels as if something in him has organized itself.
I hate it as much as I love it. I’m proud of him, and I’m scared. Both things are true at the same time. My brain keeps telling me they shouldn’t coexist, yet they totally do.
“He looks so good,” Isabella says, following my gaze. “Stop trying to correct his posture with your mind.”
Her foot brushes mine under the table. Maybe accidental. Probably not.
I look back at her. She’s trying to appear innocent, which is one of her worst skills.
“Behave,” I murmur.
Her eyes brighten. “I’m just having coffee with my girlf—”
I go still.
“Fireblade.” Rodrigo appears out of nowhere, drops the word and keeps walking without breaking stride.
There’s a beat. Then he looks over his shoulder and winks at me. Isabella turns to me slowly, one perfect brow lifting in question.
I lose it.
A full, unfiltered laugh escapes before I can stop it, and I drop my gaze to the table, shaking my head. “Don’t worry about it.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, not buying it for a second. “I’m very worried about it.”
She studies me for a second longer, then lets it go, though the curiosity doesn’t leave her face entirely, and I can see she wants to push.
“When do you leave?” Isabella finally asks. There’s sound and movement all around us, but her question makes me feel like time is frozen and we are the only ones moving.
“August twentieth,” I reply. “Sandra said there was no reason for us to fly back to Argentina, and she arranged ice time over there ahead of the competition.”
“That makes sense.”
I glance up.
Her expression hasn’t changed much, but I know her better now than I did three months ago. Maybe even better than I should. There’s a stillness around her mouth, a pause in the way she reaches for her cup.
“It’s not that long,” I say, which is a stupid thing to say because we are nothing and I shouldn’t be reassuring her about the thing we are not at all.
Her gaze lifts to mine.
“No,” she says. “It’s not.”
But she doesn’t sound convinced. Hell, I’m not convinced.
I clear my throat and shift one of the papers closer to me. “We’ll see each other there.”
“In Austria, you mean?”
“Yes. You can wear your fur coats.”
For a second, I think she might say something else.
Something closer to the thing neither of us has said.
What happens after Linz. After I go back to Argentina and get back to my life, and to my boring accountant job, and to skating on awful ice.
When this stops being contained to summer and turns into real life with flights and schedules and federations and people who will ask questions we haven’t answered for ourselves.
And after this summer, after Rodrigo is finished with this program, we will forever be tied together in name: Rodrigo Higuera, first skater trained by Isabella Pierce’s Ascend program.
Rodrigo appears at the edge of the table with his backpack hanging off one shoulder.
“Are we doing video today?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say too quickly.
His eyes flick between us once, then his mouth twitches.
“Alright, Fireblade,” Isabella says as she stands to her full height, already pulling herself back together. She smiles, and I feel the tension loosen enough that I can breathe again.
This is what we do now, apparently. Step up to the edge of something honest, look down, then make a joke before either of us has to admit how far the drop is.
I stand, gathering my notebook and coffee. Isabella lingers, and for a moment we’re too close for the middle of a lobby. Not touching, but close enough that I can see the faint freckles across her nose, the way her lashes lower when she looks at my mouth and catches herself.
“I’ll see you later?” she asks.
It’s trying to be casual, but it doesn’t quite get there.
“Yeah,” I say. “You will.”
The small, private smile is back, and I feel myself blush as I walk away, trying to avoid doing something completely unprofessional like professing my love in the lobby of Isabella’s work establishment.
“So,” Rodrigo says, falling into step beside me as we head into the video room.
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Do you think I can’t read your mind after all these years?”
He grins. “Please, don’t flatter yourself.”
“You’re such a little shit, you know that?” I shove my notebook lightly against his arm, and he laughs as we head towards the stairs.
Behind me, I don’t look back.
I don’t have to.
Because I can feel her there anyway. Just like the day I stepped into this rink three months ago.